Furthermore(45)

Oliver nodded and even looked a little sorry to have said anything.

No distractions, Alice scolded herself. No distractions. Think of Father, she thought. Waiting for help. Hurting somewhere.

That was all it took.

She offered a small smile to the fox (who then scampered back into the forest) and joined Oliver at the red door. They were here to meet Time. They were here to save Father.

She took a deep breath.

“Are you ready?” Oliver asked her.

“Always,” she said.

And they knocked.

The two of them together, her knuckles and his. Oliver said these were important manners in Furthermore. When two people came to visit, both people should knock.

“Otherwise,” he said, “it would feel like a lie, wouldn’t it?” He smiled. “Thinking only one person was coming over for tea, when actually it was two!”

Alice raised an eyebrow. She didn’t say it then, but she was thinking it: Oliver was growing odder by the moment.

So they knocked on Time’s door until Oliver said they’d knocked enough, and then it was time to wait.

“How long?” Alice asked. “How long do we wait?”

“As long as it takes,” he said. “We wait until Time comes.”





Ten minutes later, Alice was grumpy.

She thought this was all a bit ridiculous. Waiting for Time. Oh, she was losing her mind, she was sure of it. She tried to remember the last time she’d slept, and couldn’t.

What day was it? How long had they been gone? Had Mother and her brothers finally noticed she’d left?

Alice was paid such unaffectionate attention at home that it was hard for her to believe Mother would miss her. But Alice underestimated the space she took up in the hearts and minds of those she met and she had no way of knowing how her absence would affect the ones she loved. Nor did she have time to dwell on it. Her days were dizzier than ever here in Furthermore, and though she missed her home, she didn’t miss the long, empty hours or the interminable stretches of loneliness. Here at least she had Oliver—a friend unlike any she’d ever had—and constant adventure to fill her mind.

Speaking of which, the big red door had finally opened.

Behind it was a little boy.

He wore denim overalls over a bright red T-shirt and he peered up at them through a pair of spectacles far too large for his face, taking care to stare at Alice the longest.

She and Oliver said nothing.

“Good,” the boy finally said with a sigh. He sounded like he’d lived the life of an old man. “Very good that you’ve brought her.” And then he turned around and left, walking back through a door into a world she couldn’t see the end of.

Oliver moved to follow him, and Alice shot him an anxious look. “Don’t worry,” Oliver said, reaching for her hand. “He’s my friend. And I’ve been here before.”



They followed the boy through a house so dark Alice almost thought she’d gone blind. In fact, it was so impossible to see anything but the boy that the darkness actually seemed intentional.

Time was private, apparently.

They three tiptoed through hallways and up stairways and under doorways until finally they reached a room that was brightly lit. Inside was a very old desk and very old chairs (you’ll find that young people are very good at spotting old things), and every inch of the room was covered in numbers. Plastered to the walls and tables, framed and hung as photos, upholstered to the chairs; books and books of numbers were piled on floors and windowsills and coffee tables. It was bizarre.

The little boy asked them to sit down, and then, to Alice’s surprise, took his seat behind the large desk, laced his fingers on the table, and said,

“Alice, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

“Oh,” she said, startled. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, too, Mr.—um, Mr. Time.”

“No need to be so formal,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “Call me Tim. And please”—he smiled and gestured to his appearance—“forgive my age,” he said. “It changes on the hour.”

Alice tried to smile.

“Thank you for meeting me here again,” he said to Oliver. “I know how much trouble it is to negotiate with my security team, but I can only ever be of use to you when I can stand to be still.” To Alice, he said, “I hope my friends didn’t frighten you too much. Some people find those pantsuits extremely intimidating.”

“Not at all,” she said shakily. “I thought their pantsuits were lovely.”

But Alice was distracted. Tim was dark-haired and olive-skinned in a way that reminded her of Father. Father’s skin was not such a lovely brown as Mother’s, but just a shade or two lighter, and Alice’s heart was hit with a sudden swell of emotion as she remembered her parents’ faces.

“Now then,” Tim said as he turned to Oliver, all business. “You brought the book?”

Oliver nodded and placed the pocketbook on the table.

“Very well, very well,” said Tim, looking vaguely disappointed. “Thank you for returning it.”

Alice glanced at Oliver, all question marks. He still hadn’t told her anything about what they were doing here, and she was beginning to realize he seldom did—not until it was too late.