Wolf Star Rise: The Claidi Journals Book 2

look into rooms, not out at the gulf. Towers piled above.
In darker corners, and behind some windows, there was this light burning, often from a source I didn’t even see. Twice I ran under a great lit hanging lamp – the glow in both of them was as steady as if the light had gone hard.
Of course I didn’t know where I was going, and anyway I got tired. I was emptily hungry too, painfully dry – and scared, fed-up.
Suddenly in front of me reared an arch with a gate of curly wrought iron.
Not able to stop, I ran right into it and it swung gently open.
I burst through on to a broad path laid with bleached gravel.
And then I couldn’t run any more. I was bent almost double crowing for breath. I had a stitch, too.
The pumping of blood in my head made everything zoom in and out. When that went off, I saw I’d come into what looked like a formal, exotic park.
Behind and to either side was the cliff/palace. And far over there, through a cloud of trees, some other tall rocks-or-buildings going up, one with a golden globe on its top, blinding back the afternoon sun. The rest was sloping lawns, blooming shrubs, twenty-foot bamboos.
On the path behind me, by the gate, stood Tearful, also panting for breath. The cat had kept up too. (I think it had found cat short cuts, and jumped over things we’d had to run along.) Another cat, a brown one, now came to join it, also with a curious domed forehead. But they were soon having a completely ordinary cat fight, yowling and kicking and bashing through a rhododendron.
Then Grembilard walked out of some tulip trees.
‘You’re here, then, madam,’ he said. I still couldn’t speak. I scowled at him instead. ‘If you’d stayed in the rooms it would have been easier,’ he had the unbelievable sauce to say.
‘For whom?’ I had to croak.
‘Everyone,’ he patiently moaned.
‘They move,’ I accused. ‘The rooms. The stairs—’
No reply. He was taking my bag again. I let go. We walked down the path, Grembilard at the front, then me, Tearful, and next the cats, falling in behind.

IN THE AIR-HARP GARDENS
There are fireflies in the gardens. Also nightingales. And the harp-things sometimes sing, too.
None of that is important. I’m sorry, maybe it is.
Maybe I’d better tell you about Venn.
I really must try to start at the beginning. All right:
Grembilard led me (us) across this park, which I’ve since been told is called the Air-Harp Gardens. I did notice jungly colossal trees, and pavilions (like at the House, but different). There was a little waterfall that splashed down three or four terraces, to a pool. The thunder of the big fall was softer, away around the side of the Rise.
We reached a lawn with a statue of some sort of spread-winged heron. Here on a table was food, some of it under covers, and another slave – only he turned out to be another doll – waving insects and tiny little birds away from the plates and bottles.
‘I thought you’d never get here,’ he fussed, flapping round us. Though he was mechanical, all the parts of his face moved. He had expressions. ‘Please, do sit down,’ and he seated me, and Tearful, treating us both like royalty.
The lemonade had got warm and the boiled eggs were cold, but it wasn’t bad.
It was a Tea. (Like the Teas Jizania had, at the House, for every meal.)
The doll – Grembilard calls him Jotto – fussed round all the time. He leapt to serve us all. He even let the cats on the table, and put plates for them, and spooned on eggs and toast and biscuits and butter, and chopped them all up to make them easier for the cats’ teeth to get to. When he wasn’t running up and down doing that, he was running up and down waving off the bees and dragonflies and humming-birds with a feather fan.
I felt tired when I’d eaten, but still very Nervous. Also, the sun was westering behind the rocks/buildings. The sky was that spicy colour it goes just before and just after sunset. Where had today gone?
‘Oh, I do hope he’ll be here soon,’ fussed Jotto. He was nice, really, kind and wanting to help so much you wanted to slap him. But, I mean, he’s clockwork! No doll I’ve ever come across (although I suppose my experience with them is limited) ever had a personality!
‘He?’ I demanded. ‘Who?’
‘Prince Venarionillarkasl—’
‘Oh, him.’
‘You see,’ fussed Jotto, opening a jar of fruit and offering it to the grey cat, ‘he knew it would take ages to find you, probably. But now he’s probably having to do it twice, since you unfortunately left the first set of rooms.’
‘I see,’ I lied.
‘Poor prince,’ said. Jotto rather cheekily – or not? They wouldn’t have stood for that at the House. ‘This place can be such a trial.’
I was surprised he thought so too. Surprised he thought anything.
‘I don’t understand about the rooms moving,’ I announced flatly.
Jotto opened his mouth, then hesitated. ‘I get a bit muddled.’
Grembilard said, ‘Prince Ven-etc.-etc. will explain.’
‘Oh, yippee.’
The sun set. Grembilard scratched at his leafy hair and Tearful got up and went and cried on it, gallons. Grembilard rubbed the water into his scalp. ‘Thank you, Treacle. That feels much better.’ (He’s not really like a slave, Grembilard. And she’s called Treacle.)
Then, in the quick red afterglow, Jotto pointed excitedly.
‘Look, there’s his light!’
We looked. A tall yellow window had lit under the gold globe, in the rocks.
‘Lights here just light anyway, don’t they?’ I said.
‘Oh yes, lady dear,’ said Jotto kindly. ‘Only his is a special oil lamp. He does so like to be different.’
Oil lamps, like candles, are what I’m used to. I realize by now, it may not be the same for you.
But well, anyway, we got up and trooped off into the darkening trees, through the fireflies that were also lighting up, and after about ten