Grandma's Attic

Chapter Thirteen

Thredwyl would rather the door to Professor Angelus Margev's inner sanctum was left open, if only a crack, lest he needed to run. Except, where exactly would he run to? There was no escape from the professor's apartment, its outer doors closed, their latches and locks well out of Thredwyl's reach, even on tiptoes. Yet to leave the door open at least allowed him to reach the relative safety of Daisy – if he needed.

If he needed? Aye, he didn't know what the professor intended in coaxing him into this place, alone, without Daisy, but Thredwyl didn't trust him.

"You may close the door," the professor said.

"I'd rather it's open. The draught, the air – my chest." Thredwyl forced a cough, though in truth this inner sanctum was less heavy with incense than the previous room, the professor's study – the study where Daisy was trawling the intranet, whatever that was, hunting for folklore references to the gobelings, or the Kupies as Thredwyl knew them.

"I said close it," the professor repeated and, without rising from the seat he'd already taken, the door behind Thredwyl whispered shut, the only sound the click of its catch. "These old places, so draughty."

How now was Thredwyl to escape? He looked at the cram of furniture, more like a storeroom than a place for sitting. Chests tall, wide and low, tables large and small, chairs of several designs and repair. None sat flat on the floor, all had legs. With a fleet smile, Thredwyl acknowledged the plethora of hiding places here. He heaved a breath and let it go. He felt more confident now.

"Well," the professor said in impatient tone, "are you to stand at that door, or are you to venture further in? Come, I'll help you on to a chair."

Thredwyl quirked his mouth, an appraising eye cast at those seats. To sit was comfier than to stand, and he'd be able to slip down easy enough and run. And run to where? To beneath any of these high-legged pieces of furniture of course. Thredwyl nodded assent, eyes scanning for what looked the comfiest.

"That one," he said, and walked towards his chosen chair, a deep cushioned seat with wrapped around sides. It was near to that crystal wall that they'd called a window. Beyond was a garden, all colourful around a patch of green. "Might we open that window?" Thredwyl tapped on his chest, he really was poorly.

And the fool of a professor agreed it. He scooped Thredwyl up and onto the chair – gently done – and in a continuation of movement, he opened the window.

Thredwyl sighed, "Oh, much better." Genuinely said, for if he must he could now jump out of the window.

Professor Angelus Margev didn't immediately sit but first fiddled with Thredwyl's full-skirted coat. "Not silk or satin. Not woven at all. And the breeches – if I might."

"Nix, you might NOT!" Thredwyl slapped the interfering hand away.

"As you will..." The professor sat, taking the chair nearest the door.

"And what do you want us to talk about?" Thredwyl might be vertically challenged – a phrase learned from Daisy – but he'd not allow this professor, who anyway reeked of lies and disguises, to grand it over him. Nix and nay, he would not.

"We might start with Grandma," said the professor. "How is she these days? Quietly retired now her acts of creations are done?"

"Gran...retired? What do you know about the Great Grandma?" Thredwyl frowned hard at the professor. Grandma's misnamed acts of creations were far from done. In truth, there'd been but the one act and, according to the jawman at the Mother's Meeting, that one was still slowly unfolding.

Thredwyl felt a little uneasy at the smile that crept across Professor Angelus Margev's deeply graved face. "As I understand it, my Lord rolled her into a cloak, no more to create. For is it not my Lord, now, who is this world's sole creator?"