The Cradle of All Worlds. Jeremy Lachlan

foyer. Now they’re all looking at me like a bunch of ravenous wolves, which are these big ferocious dogs that howl and hunt in packs. I read about them in a book once.

      ‘Run, Jane,’ Violet shouts.

      So I run. Past a grand staircase, down a long corridor. I kick my way into some sort of office and push through the upturned furniture to a window. Mrs Hollow shouts after me, ‘Get back here, Doe! You are a scar upon this island! A catastrophic blemish –’ but I’m already out the window, already sprinting for the Stairs. I trip more than once – over a rock, a plank of wood, Peg. Whenever I stumble or hit the ground I pull myself up and keep on moving. Dad’s just an ant-sized speck now, three-quarters of the way to the top. I wish I could reach out, grab the invisible thread and reel him back to safety before it’s too late.

      Because I’m not the only one trying to stop him.

      Atlas has found a pistol. Someone must’ve dropped it in the square. He’s running for the Stairs too, but he hasn’t seen me coming. He fires at Dad. Misses by a long shot. Raises the pistol to fire again. I jump over a boulder and that’s when we collide. We hit the ground hard and roll. The pistol goes flying. I manage to slip out from under Atlas, but he grabs my ankle, pulls me back, and before I know it he’s on top of me, hands wrapped around my neck. He squeezes. Leans in.

      ‘No more games, girl,’ he snarls.

      I’m choking. I can’t breathe. I reach out with my uninjured hand, feel around for something, anything, to help me. The pistol, a piece of wood, a club.

      ‘Your little friend’s not here to save you now, and neither is Winifred Robin.’

      A rock. I grab it, hold it tight, smack Atlas in the head as hard as I can. A dull thud and he collapses beside me.

      ‘Lucky I can take care of myself then,’ I wheeze.

      I stagger to my feet, coughing and spluttering, rubbing my neck. Only manage three steps before my legs buckle and someone catches me from behind, strong but gentle.

      Winifred’s here, holding me up, holding me back.

      Dad’s at the top of the Stairs now. A tiny red dot of a man dwarfed by the sheer size of the Manor and its great stone door. It strikes me that we’ve never been this far apart before.

      Why is he leaving me? How can this be happening?

      He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t look back. He scrambles right up to the Manor, and we can’t even see him any more for the angle of the Stairs. But we can see the great stone gateway opening wide, ready to swallow him whole. Nothing can stop him now.

      ‘A door opens,’ Winifred whispers, ‘an adventure begins . . .’

      I’m not a big crier – hell, I reckon I could count the number of times I’ve cried in my life on one hand. But as the Manor gateway shuts again, and I feel the invisible thread stretch and tug and snap with a sickening jolt, I can’t stop the tears from coming. I struggle in Winifred’s arms. I want to follow Dad, run up to the Manor and smash my way inside, but I’m too weak. Exhausted. Broken.

      He’s gone.

      I can’t go up the Stairs now anyway. A flock of people have beaten me to it. Dozens of townsfolk stream around us, shouting, pushing, desperate to try their luck on the gateway. Barnaby Twigg’s in the thick of it, warning everyone to back off.

      ‘It’s my turn,’ he bellows. ‘My destiny! My time!’

      ‘We must leave,’ Winifred says. ‘That door will not open again for a very long time. Atlas will come for you again when he wakes. We must get you somewhere safe.’

      Dad’s gone. I’ve lost him, and I don’t know how I’m gonna get him back.

      ‘I have to . . . have to go after him.’

      ‘You will,’ Winifred says. ‘But not that way. There is another.’

      That’s when I notice my bloodied handprint on the Stairs. Every crack in the stone spiderwebs out from its centre. Up and down the Stairs. Across the square.

      My left hand throbs again. The bandage is already spotted with blood.

      ‘Did . . . did I do this?’

      ‘Come, Jane,’ Winifred says. ‘We need to talk.’

THE MUSEUM OF OTHERWORLDLY ANTIQUITIES

      The foyer’s deserted. Winifred bolts the door the moment we step inside. The place is a mess. Tapestries hang askew on the cracked walls. The domed ceiling looks perilously close to collapsing. Some of the enormous stained-glass windows have shattered.

      ‘This way,’ she says.

      Our footsteps echo through the cavernous space. My hands are shaking. I feel numb. I’m covered in blood, sweat and vegetable gunk, and the invisible thread’s trailing behind me through the dust, untethered now, disconnected from Dad.

       He’s gone. He’s gone. He’s gone.

      Why am I even following this woman? Isn’t this all her fault?

      Maybe I’m in shock. I’m definitely in shock. Hell, I’m not even supposed to be in here. I’m not allowed. I swear the larger-than-life-sized statues lining the walls are glaring down at me. Sayuri Hara. Atticus Khan. K.B. Gray. Finn Pigeon. They look like ancient guards. Sentinels bearing weapons, compasses, globes and books. These are the Great Adventurers. The people whose exploits through the Manor have become the stuff of legend.

      The statue in the centre of the foyer’s the largest of all. That Dawes guy everyone loses their nut over around here. There are all sorts of impressive words people use to describe him. Imposing. Fierce. Ferocious. All I see is a ponytailed fool in a loincloth. The plaque at the base of the statue says he entered the Manor over two thousand years ago.

      Apparently, he was the first to step inside. And he never returned.

       Dad’s gone. He’s in danger. Go get him.

      ‘We are going down,’ Winifred says, heading towards a spiral staircase in the far corner. ‘Like you, I have grown accustomed to underground living.’

      So down we go, twisting deeper and deeper under the museum.

      Getting further and further away from Dad, step by step.

      At the bottom of the stairs, Winifred opens a hefty wooden door. ‘Welcome to the Great Library. Or perhaps I should say, welcome back . . .’

      The library’s enormous, lit by hundreds of oil lamps hanging from the walls, lined with rows of stone columns and seemingly never-ending shelves. The same shelves from my baby photo. It looks like an underground city, and smells of dust and old parchment.

      ‘This way, if you please . . .’

      Winifred plucks a lamp from its bracket, sets off down one of the aisles. I catch a few titles on the shelves as we go. Isobel Harper and the Tomb of the Serpent King. Hughlance Boone and the Glacial Blade. Jack Lee and the Darkling Light. There are thousands more in this aisle alone. The Bluehaven Chronicles. Some look well-preserved. Others have cracked leather bindings and faded, flaky lettering. It’s impressive. All of it. Even I can’t deny it.

      ‘There are so many.’

      Winifred nods. ‘One book for every adventure undertaken through the Manor, written by the heroes themselves upon their return.’

      We head through an archway, down a staircase, along a stone-walled corridor, and into a warm, cosy study – the same study from Dad’s photo. There’s the crackling fireplace, the desk littered with parchment, the massive cabinet packed with antique swords, rifles, globes and vases. An enormous painting hangs on the wall next to the cabinet. A canyon riddled with caves. One of the supposed infinite realms connected to the Manor, I suppose.

      ‘Your