angelica

b a n ks

Chapter One
This is how it is when winter falls. The sun
rises, but a little later than it did yesterday and
a little earlier than it will tomorrow. Each
night is longer, darker and colder than the
onebefore.
Back at the beginning of winter, Vivienne
Small had lined her hammock with fur and
covered herself at night with an extra blanket.
She had collected wood to burn in the potbelly stove on her verandah, and spent the long
evenings sitting close beside it, whispering to
her black rat Ermengarde about the things they
would do when springtime came. But although
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weeks passed, and months too, the winter did not

turn. Instead it grew steadily deeper.
The snow on the Mountains of Margalov crept
lower and lower, and the upper reaches of the
River of Rythwyck turned to ice. The Golden
Valley was no longer golden but white, and the
five Cities of Luminosity were buried beneath
snowdrifts. Plants no longer grew, but instead lay
dormant beneath the frosty earth. Hibernating
animals slept on and on. The birds of the air laid
no eggs; chrysalises never broke open. The creatures of the world were starving, and Vivienne
could do nothing but watch as the world inched
closer to complete and absolute darkness.
On a particularly bitter morning, Vivienne
woke beneath a pile of blankets, a woollen hat
pulled down over her ears. Despite her coverings,
she was cold and the tip of her nose was numb.
The only pool of warmth was at the back of her
neck, where Ermengarde was asleep beneath
Viviennes dark, tangledhair.
Vivienne sat up and opened her wide
blue wings, releasing a shower of ice crystals. Ermengarde emerged briefly, squinted
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dis
approvingly at the morning, and retreated
once again. Vivienne shook the ice off her long
leather boots and pulled them stiffly onto her
feet. She wrapped her arms about herself tightly
as shestood at the railing of her verandah, and
stared out over theangry charcoal waves of the
Restless Sea. The sky above was no friendlier.
The long and terrible winter had begun with
an earthquake that had shaken every tree in the
Peppermint Forest from the depths of their roots
to the tips of their leaves. It had caused giant
waves to crash against the shores, eating away at
cliffs and scouring the sand from beaches. It had
ruptured hills and valleys, and reduced parts of the
City of Clocks to rubble. Then winter had come,
and had not departed. There was speculation
in every wild and tame place, among strangers
and friends, that the world had been shaken so
violently it had come loose from the turning of
its seasons. Many said spring would never come
again, and that the winter would deepen, day
by day, until it had frozen the entire world and
everything in it.

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For a long while, Vivienne had scoffed at such

an idea. But as the weeks unravelled, growing
ever darker and colder, a tiredness had stolen over
her. She had begun to wonder if winter was here
forever, and this truly was the end of the world as
she had known it. She leaned wearily on the railing
and her stomach growled. But there was no point
even looking in her pantry. She and Ermengarde
had shared the last of her final store of nuts and a
remnant of dry cheese two days ago. She had long
since visited her other homes and stores, bringing
any remaining supplies back to the Peppermint
Forest, and now her tree house was completely
empty of anything edible. She shivered.
Its about time we had some sunshine! she
called to the invisible sun, trapped behind layers
of stormy clouds. This cant go on forever!
Forever is a long time, came an eerie, other
worldly voice from behind her. A long, long time.
Vivienne caught the scent of dank earth, but
before she could turn to see who had spoken,
she felt in her shoulder the sharp stab of a dart.
She saw a flash of vibrant green, then her knees
buckled and everything faded to black.
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Chapter Two
Along a rocky stretch of coastline, where cliffs
soared to the sky and seabirds soared even
higher, there stood a lighthouse. Perched on
a grim knuckle of stone, it was the loneliest
of places, lucky to be visited by two or three
ships each year. And yet, on this particular
day, it was surrounded by a flotilla of fishing
boats. Ontheir decks were photographers and
reporters with their camera lenses trained on the
red door of the lighthouse. Right on midday,
it opened.
Out of the lighthouse stepped a woman
dressed in a vivid blue coat and carrying a bucket.
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The buffeting wind made her long red hair fly

about as if in a blender. The long skirts of her
coat flew up, revealing a pair of spectacular red
boots. After waving to the assembly of fishing
boats, the woman made her way along a rough,
sloping path that led to the waters edge where
she crouched to carefully fill her bucket. That
done, she caught up a thick cable of rope and
began to haul on it, hand over hand.
The fishing boats attempted to edge closer, but
the crashing waves and maze of half-submerged
rocks deterred even the most valiant skippers.
Several of the journalists put megaphones to
their mouths and began calling questions over
the wind:
Serendipity, can you tell us what youre
writing?
Serendipity, is Vivienne Small going to feature
in the new series?
Serendipity, when are you coming back to
the city?
Serendipity, do you know that Vivienne
Small and the Final Battle is now the best-selling
childrens novel of all time?
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The Mirage Hotel is keen to have you

back. Theyre asking do you need crme brle
shippedin?
Serendipity, do you have a message for your
young readers?
But Serendipity simply waved, and when
at last the lobster pot she had been hauling in
emerged at the end of the rope, she inspected its
contents. Rolling back her sleeve, she plunged in
her hand and brought out a marvellous orangespeckled lobster, its arms and legs waving like
those of a space monster. She held it aloft for a
moment and imagined the flurry and whirr of
equipment as the media captured this image and
sent it around the world.
Then she lowered the lobster into her waterfilled bucket and clipped on the lid. Walking
more slowly this time, and leaning slightly from
the weight of the bucket, she made her way back
to the lighthouse. At seventeen minutes past
midday, she gave a final wave to the assembled
fleet, then disappeared inside.

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Several of the journalists shook their heads.

We must be able to get onto the island, one
said to the ships captain.
Not likely, the captain replied, shrugging
her shoulders and shaking her head. Its simply
impossible to visit until we can send a rowboat
across, and that is only possible on the lowest
oftides.
Well, when will that happen?
They come once a year. The next ones only
six weeks away.
Six weeks! We cant wait six weeks.
Take it up with the moon, the captain said.
The journalist thought for a moment, stared
up at the dull grey sky that showed neither sun
nor moon, and sighed.
Shes been out here alone for months and
months, he mused, trying a different tack. It
must be hard for her, not having anyone to
talkto.
She speaks to Constanza, by radio, said the
captain, with a wry smile.
Constanza was the proprietor of the only
shop in the tiny village that clung to the
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mainlands cliffs and overlooked the lighthouse.

Itwas Constanza who took Serendipitys weekly
grocery order and organised the helicopter to
make the delivery.
Constanza is hardly a conversationalist, the
reporter said. He had used every tactic imaginable to convince the taciturn Constanza to let
him travel on the helicopter, or at the very least
use the shop radio to contact Serendipity at the
lighthouse. But with no success.
Have you considered that maybe Ms Smith
doesnt want to talk to you? said the captain.
But surely she misses her fans? the reporter
said.
My own mother was a writer, said the
captain, somewhat wistfully. She used to say that
you could never be lonely with your characters
beside you.
So thats it? She wont come out again until
until when?
The captain shrugged.
Theres got to be something we can do, the
journalist said. The whole world is desperate
fornews!
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Well, said the skipper with a sigh, if you

want to, you can pay me and well sit here all
day, every day, watching and waiting. Its your
money. But I assure you, shes gone for today.
And so, one by one, the fishing boats turned
away from the lighthouse and made their way
back to the village in the distance.

On the rocky outcrop the wind continued to

blow, whistling through a narrow crack under the
lighthouse door, and between the windowpanes.
Inside, a red wig lay in a tangle on a table and the
electric blue coat had been hung on a peg. The
red boots had been unlaced and discarded.
At the sink stood Miss Digby in a pair of
sheepskin boots, her usually tidy hair ever so
slightly dishevelled from being tucked up under
the wig. Through the thick glass of the narrow
window, she watched the retreating fishing boats.
Each day, they were edging closer, becoming
bolder. She knew theyd eventually find a way
onto the island. That simply wouldnt do. She
could lock the door, but sooner or later, shed
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have to come out and face their probing lenses

and endless questions.
Miss Digby shuddered at the thought, then
turned her attention to the bucket in the sink.
She removed the lid and was greeted by a host of
coral-coloured claws and legs, all waving.
I am sorry, Gerald, she said as she gingerly
lifted the lobster out of the bucket and lowered
him into a large aquarium tank full of seawater.
I know its inconvenient, but you neednt fear.
We both know the drill.
Gerald landed on the pebbles on the floorof
the tank and scuttled behind a large frond
ofseaweed. There, he would hunker down, in
a mild sulk, until darkness fell and Miss Digby
would pop him back into his bucket, walk down
to the shore and release him into the sea. They
had been through this catch-and-release routine
every few days since the media had discovered
her whereabouts. Miss Digby thought Gerald
would have learned to avoid the lobster pot, but
it seemed that he found her oyster and tuna baits
irresistible. Truth be told, she was grateful for his
company, even if he was given to sulking.
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Miss Digby fixed herself a cup of tea and a

cheese-and-pickled-onion sandwich. She ate, all
the while feeling troubled. When she was done,
she walked a circle around the tiny room, then
slumped into a chair beside the aquarium and
peered into its watery gloom.
Why isnt she answering my calls, Gerald?
Miss Digby said. Gerald? Gerald?
But there was no reply.
Miss Digby sighed and reached for the radio.
Not that she expected to get much more of a
response from the radio than she did from the
moping crustacean. She cleared her throat and,
in her best Serendipity Smith voice, said, Good
afternoon. Constanza, are you there?
S, came a flat voice.
Constanza, I wonder could you try the Brown
Street number again?
S, Senora Smith, said Constanza, pronouncing it Smeet.
Miss Digby could hear the phone ringing.
The ringing went on and on and on. But no one
answered. She sighed.
Ill try again tomorrow, Constanza, said
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MissDigby, trying to not sound too despondent.

Gracias.
Adis, Senora Smeet, said Constanza.
It had been more than three months since
Miss Digby had spoken to the woman she was
impersonating, the worlds most famous author
Serendipity Smith, and longer still since she had
seen her in person. For a year now, Serendipity
had been out of contact with the world.
Although requests continued to pour in from
schools and libraries, bookstores and television
shows, for visits and interviews, everyone who
sought Serendipitys attention received the same
response:
Thank you for contacting Serendipity Smith! At
present, Serendipity is busy creating a new series of
books. She is unable to give any interviews or attend
any public events during this time. She thanks her
readers for their patience and hopes they are continuing
to discover many wonderful stories, both in their own
lives and in the books they read.
As well as impersonating Serendipity, Miss
Digby was managing the famous writers affairs
by correspondence. Each week by helicopter,
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along with groceries, there came a huge pile of

redirected mail carefully packed in cardboard
boxes. From the bank statements, Miss Digby
could tell that Serendipity was hardly leaving the
house. There were sporadic home deliveries of
pizzas, noodles and curries. But there were no
shopping trips or books or movie tickets. Surely
Tuesday had needed shoes when school had
resumed? Had there really been no trips to the
museum, no afternoons of ice-skating or new
winter coats?
Miss Digby thought again of the phone ringing
on and on in the hallway at Brown Street. Once,
that hallway had always smelled of something
freshly baked. With a troubled sigh, she wondered what it smelled of now.

14

Chapter Three
It was winter and the branches of the trees that
lined Brown Street were entirely bare. Although
the sun had been up and about for a few hours,
little patches of the nights frost lingered in the
shadows on the ground. In the middle of Brown
Street, the McGillycuddy place was as tall and
narrow as ever. And yet the house appeared
altered. As if it had lost confidence and no longer
wanted to be seen.
It had the same number of steps leading up
to the front door, the same number of storeys,
and the same number of windows, including the
single large window on the very top floor. Asyou
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know, that large top-floor window looked into

the writing room of the most famous writer
in the world. Very few people knew this fact,
however, because Serendipity Smith preferred
to spend most of her life as an ordinary woman
called Sarah McGillycuddy.
One long year had passed since the last of her
Vivienne Small books had been published, and
it was longer still since Serendipity Smith had
announced that she was starting work on a new
adventure series. The days and weeks and months
had slipped by, but no new book had appeared,
and readers were getting impatient.
Had you been able to peer in through the
window of Serendipitys writing room, you
would have seen very little to reassure you that
the first book in Serendipity Smiths new series
was on its way to your local bookshop. On one
side of Serendipitys desk there was a huge stack
of blank paper. And although there was a page
threaded through Serendipitys big antique typewriter, if you were to look closely, you would see
that it had been there long enough to gather dust,
and that not a single word was written uponit.
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There was also a fine layer of dust on the typewriter keys, on the stack of blank paper, and on
the lid of a little silver box that Serendipity kept
on her desk.
The air in the writing room had a stale smell.
This had to do with the dust and also with a cup
of long-ago tea that had been left back in the
days when it was half full, and not half empty
to slowly moulder on Serendipitys desk. But
the smell had more to do with the fact that no
one had been in the room for a very long time.
For months nobody had sat down in the big red
velvet chair to read, and nobody had selected
a volume from the shelves that were stacked,
floor to ceiling, with books of every imaginable kind. Nobody had sat down at the desk to
stare out the window, no one had thrown the
window wide, and no story had trailed its silver
thread in or out. In that room there had been
no writing: not of the dreaming kind, nor of the
hammering-on-the-keyboard kind, and not even
of the pen-on-paper kind.
And nor would Serendipity Smith do any
writing on this particular Saturday. Though it
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was after ten oclock, she was still in bed. Shewas

quite awake, but lying very still with the covers
pulled right up under her chin. The phone had
been ringing, but she had let it ring out. She
was watching the numbers on her bedside clock
as they slowly ticked over. She should get up
and start the day, she thought, but somehow
she lacked the strength. Five more minutes, she
decided. Yes, just five.
Of course, Serendipity Smith wasnt the only
writer in residence at Brown Street. The other
one was Tuesday McGillycuddy, Serendipitys
daughter. But Tuesday wasnt writing either.
Shewas curled up in the corner of the couch in
the living room, still in her pyjamas. She and her
dog Baxterr were watching television. At least,
they were sitting together staring at a screen upon
which colours changed and people moved, and
from which there came the occasional burst of
fake laughter. If you had asked either girl or dog
what the program was about, they would not
have been able to say.
Upstairs in Tuesdays room, Tuesdays baby
blue typewriter had been moved from its position
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in the middle of her desk and shoved under the

bed. Also under the bed were several scrunchedup items of school uniform, a pair of broken ice
skates and an old suitcase containing all the pages
Tuesday had so far written about her adventures.
This suitcase had not been opened for a longtime.
Even though it was Saturday, and past ten
oclock, there was no sign of breakfast being prepared in the kitchen. The grill of the once spotless
oven was strung with drips of burnt-black cheese.
There were dark splashes of sauce congealed on
the stovetop. The dishwasher had been abandoned after its filter had clogged some months
ago, and the clock on the wall was now perman
ently stopped at a quarter to three, but whether
that was a.m. or p.m. was anybodys guess.
The door to the laundry had not been opened
for weeks. Behind it was a waiting tsunami of
unwashed sheets and towels and tea towels and
socks, poised to overtake the whole house. In
the living room, as well as in the downstairs
bathroom, there were candle stubs and empty
matchboxes lying around, because various light
globes had blown some time ago. It seemed, at
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Brown Street, as if all the regular household activi

ties of cleaning, mending, washing, organising
and tidying up had been suspended indefinitely.
But that wasnt the worst of it. There was also
the fact that the house felt cold, no matter how
much Tuesday turned up the heating. And then
there was the way it sounded. You could listen
at the keyhole all day if you wanted to, and you
still wouldnt hear a giggle or a laugh.
Perhaps youve already guessed why. Its
because there was someone missing. That some
one was Denis McGillycuddy. And he wasnt
ever coming back.

Tuesdays father had died on a Friday in the City

Hospital while Serendipity held one of his hands
and Tuesday held the other. The tumour that had
affected his head the year before had returned,
and no matter how hard they had tried, doctors
had not been able to fix the things that had gone
wrong with Deniss body.
Serendipity and Tuesday knew that Denis
wouldnt have wanted his funeral to be a sad
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affair. So there had been jokes, and poems,

wonderful speeches, several funny songs and
even a tongue-twister competition which had no
clear winner because no one could say the sixth
sick sheiks sixth sheeps sick without stumbling,
although everyone knew that Denis would have
been able to. Everybody had tried to be cheerful,
but of course nobody had succeeded.
For the first few weeks after Denis died, the
phone at Brown Street rang often with people
calling to tell Tuesday and her mother that they
were thinking of them, and to ask if there was
anything they could do, which there wasnt.
Tuesday and Serendipity found casseroles and
soups, banana bread and oatmeal cookies on their
front doorstep, left there by friends, neighbours
and people from Tuesdays school who wanted
to show they cared. During the early weeks
after Denis died, Tuesday ate so much pumpkin
soup that now pumpkin soup, to Tuesday, tasted
oftears.
Then the phone calls and the pumpkin soup
eased off. For a while Miss Digby had taken
care of everything. But it soon became clear
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that MissDigby was also required to dress up as

Serendipity Smith, go out into the world, and
keep up the impression that all was well with the
worlds most famous writer.
This was not, however, a perfect solution,
because although it was easy for Miss Digby to
be Serendipity at a distance, it was impossible
for her to do interviews or television appearances. Anyone with a sharp eye would notice
the many small differences between the two
women, despite all the distractions of glasses and
wigs, coloured contact lenses and fabulous coats.
Miss Digbys voice was a different timbre and
accent to Serendipitys, and her manner could
never quite match the authority that came so
naturally to the real Serendipity Smith. So after
some months, Miss Digby decided it was time for
the public Serendipity to go on a long holiday,
far from the city and the Hotel Mirage and all the
places she usually frequented.
But where will you go? Serendipity had
asked.
The end of the earth seems appropriate,
MissDigby said drily.
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