Pages & Co.: The Last Bookwanderer

Chapter 1
A Tangle of History and Myth

When traveling through a magical portal, you don’t usually expect to end up at a tourist attraction. And yet, for five bookwanderers, that was exactly what seemed to have happened. They stood beneath a slate archway and behind them stretched the wilds of the Northumbrian countryside. In front of them was somewhere entirely different—instead of fields, there was the sea, but there was also a queue of slightly sunburned people staring at them in annoyance. Thankfully, these people didn’t seem to be able to see Northumberland through the portal, or the magical book-smuggling train waiting there. The dirty looks were all due to Tilly, Milo, Oskar, Alessia, and Rosa jumping the queue for the archway photo opportunity.

“The portal is broken,” Alessia said bluntly.

“It’s not exactly broken,” Oskar pointed out. “It did bring us . . . somewhere. Something magical happened.”

“It took us to the right place,” Rosa said slowly, looking around. “This is Tintagel Castle in Cornwall all right. But I’m worried that it’s the wrong time—or the wrong . . . layer?”

“It’s me,” said Milo, resigned. “I did something wrong. I’m not the Anonymous Reader after all. I’ve created some sort of sightseeing portal instead of the one we need to find The Book of
Books. The Alchemist is going to track it down first, steal everyone’s
imagination, and it’s all my fault.”

“Well, can we go back and try again?” Tilly asked, just as the hazy gateway shimmered out of existence.

“You ruined it,” Alessia said accusingly to Tilly.

“I hardly think a stone archway is listening to me,” Tilly retorted. “Is it?” She turned to Rosa, who looked troubled.

Considering Rosa was the person who was closest to being in charge, this wasn’t the most reassuring thing for the others to see.

“Hang on, though,” said Oskar. “What did you say about layers? You said we might be in the wrong time or the wrong layer?”

“I’m not sure how the magic is supposed to work,” admitted Rosa. “There’s never been any serious threat to the Book before the Alchemist learned of its existence, and I can’t
use the gateway by myself, so I haven’t been here before. I was taught how to get here, but not what to do next. I must say I thought it would be more obvious. We seem to have come to actual Tintagel Castle in the regular world—the portal has simply teleported us. I was expecting it to take us inside Story, or even back in time. Merlin isn’t exactly going to be wandering around in jeans, taking selfies and queuing for ice cream, is he?”

“Is he not?” Oskar asked entirely sincerely. “Fictional people are rarely what you’re expecting.”

“Well, I suppose I don’t know,” Rosa said, sounding flustered. “I’ve never met him before! Maybe he’s immortal, and has hung out here for centuries and just carries the Book around in a backpack!”

The four younger bookwanderers looked at Rosa, worried. Before the Alchemist had taken Pages & Co. hostage, Rosa had rarely become visibly frazzled and always seemed confident as to the best thing to do. The news that the Alchemist had discovered a secret route to The Book of Books—via a book hidden in Pages & Co.—had turned her focused determination into scattered fear.

“It’s not your fault, you know,” Milo said gently. “None of it.”

“Is it not, sweet Milo?” she replied with a sad smile.

“It’s not,” Tilly said firmly.

When she had first learned that Rosa had known all along that the Book was at Pages & Co. and hadn’t warned her family, she’d felt quite differently. But despite her fear for her family, she knew there was only one place to lay the blame.

“My grandad would say that even if we make mistakes in how we react, bad things are always the fault of the person acting badly in the first place.”

“That sounds very wise,” Rosa said. “But I’m not sure it’s so clear-cut in this case. The whole purpose of my life and work is to protect The Book of Books, and now not only is it in danger, but your family are being used as collateral because of my decisions.”

“The only reason any of that’s happening is because my father is evil,” Alessia said with a resigned sigh. “Which sounds very dramatic, but it’s true, and if I can make peace with that,
then so can all of you. He’s holding Tilly’s family and Milo’s uncle prisoner because he wants the secrets of the Book and because he wants to enslave the whole world’s imagination. Now, I suggest that we stop debating all of this and get on with finding Merlin, or finding our way to the same layer of Story that he’s in.”

“You’re right,” said Rosa with a sharp nod. “Thank you, Alessia. We have a mission, and the only way to rescue your families is to complete it.”

She took another step away from the queue of photo-takers and frowned in concentration, but Milo could see that the worry and responsibility she felt were simply tucked away temporarily,
not gone.

The group took in their surroundings more thoroughly. They were standing in the ruins of a very old castle on an almost-island, only connected to the mainland by a huge tumble of rocks and a shiny, modern bridge. A meter or so away from where they stood was a sharp drop down to a small sandy cove. The salty air and sunshine were a small balm to their worries, and the sight of the sea meeting the sky will always bolster an adventurous heart. A friendly-looking woman in an English Heritage gilet came over to them and smiled encouragingly at Rosa.

“School group?” she asked.

“Huh?” replied Rosa in confusion.

“You seem a little lost,” the woman said, “so I was just wondering if I could maybe point you to what you’re after. Are you looking for the rest of your group? I didn’t realize we had a school trip in today—or are you home educators? All welcome! Anyway, school groups are often looking for the Dark Ages ruins up on the headland. Or the Tristan and Isolde myth garden.” She said all this very quickly and left Rosa looking a little stunned.

“Thank you!” Tilly said, jumping in. Only she and Oskar actually had any experience of regular school; the other three were entirely unfamiliar with the rhythms of a school trip. “We’re actually researching Merlin for a class project, so if you could point us to the stuff about him, that would be amazing.”

“Of course!” the woman said kindly, looking delighted to be able to help. “Well, Merlin’s Cave, down below in the cove, is the part of the site named after him, but he was integral to King
Arthur’s birth, which took place right here in the castle. Well, sort of. There wasn’t technically a castle here back when that was supposed to have happened, more a settlement. This place is a bit of a tangle of history and myth, but I think that’s what makes it so special. Merlin was Arthur’s guide, as I’m sure you know if you’re doing a project on him. Have you been up to take a look at the sculpture at the top? Definitely worth seeing that if it’s Arthurian myths you’re learning about! Just follow the signs! And it’s down the steps to the cave. We’re closing in an hour, though, so do make sure you leave enough time to see everything you want!”

“Thanks so much,” Oskar said, and he and Tilly encouraged the other three along the path that led away from the bridge, farther out onto the headland.

Despite the sunshine, the wind was bracing on the exposed coast, and the farther they got from the bridge, the wilder the land became. They passed more remnants of civilizations past that reminded Milo of the remains of Hadrian’s Wall. As the path led them upward, a grid of mossy stones came into view, and a sign told them that they had been built back in the Dark Ages, the period after the Romans left Britain. There was even a kiln made of slate in one corner where medieval people would have dried out their corn.

“It’s wild thinking of all the different sorts of people who’ve lived here, isn’t it?” Oskar said, staring at the kiln as though he could see back into the past.

“Yeah, it feels like we’re moving through layers of history just by walking here, never mind layers of Story,” agreed Tilly.

“They’re not so dissimilar in the end,” said Rosa. “History is a story in many ways—the archeologists and historians who dug these buildings up had to create narratives to connect the evidence they found and make sense of it. We rarely, if ever, know exactly what happened in the past, especially when we’re looking this far back. And that’s not even taking into consideration the fact that most of the stuff we do find belonged to the richest or most important people. Lots of ordinary people couldn’t write for great swaths of history, so we don’t have any of their letters or diaries, and no one was paying much attention to what normal people were doing anyway. And Tintagel is a place where stories and history get even more muddled than usual because it’s a place of myths and legends, as well as real people. For a long time, many believed that the stories about King Arthur and Merlin were actual history.”

“Hang on, King Arthur isn’t real?” Tilly asked, feeling as though she should have known that.

“I would have thought you of all people knew that the boundary between real and imaginary is more than a bit squishy, Tilly,” said Rosa gently, “given your half-fictional nature.”

Tilly smiled ruefully. “Sure, but I’m hardly King Arthur. People won’t be writing books about me.”

“Who’s to say they won’t?” said Rosa, smiling. “But, taking your question at face value, truly we don’t really know and probably never will. Certainly, the stories that people like Geoffrey of Monmouth and Tennyson—”

“And Thomas Malory,” Oskar interrupted.

“Yes, exactly,” Rosa said.

“How do you know that?” Alessia asked, impressed.

“I’m pretty into King Arthur stuff,” Oskar said with a shrug. “I loved the TV show Merlin, and then I read a graphic novel version of the myths, which was adapted from the Malory book.”

“How come you didn’t mention that before?” Tilly asked. “Like on the train when we found out we were coming to find Merlin?”

“Well, because there was a lot going on!” Oskar said. “It was more important to look after you because of the whole just-found-out-my-family-is-being-held-prisoner thing, and we needed to get back to the treehouse, and then it was much more important to look after Milo after the Alchemist poisoned his grandmother. My pop-culture habits didn’t seem relevant—and I figured I could chime in as necessary.”

“I’m certainly very glad to have another Arthurian enthusiast on the team,” Rosa said. “As you must know then, all the stories those people wrote are understood to be essentially fiction these days—not that it makes them any less important. And I think we might learn much more from them in our fight against the Alchemist than in regular, straightforward history.”

“How do you know all this if you’ve never been here before?” Alessia asked.

“Because I read,” Rosa replied with a smile. “Just like Oskar does. The whole world, and beyond, is open to you if you read. I’ve been to many, many places I’ve never set foot in before, as I’m sure you have too. And, when it comes to this sort of thing specifically, I’m sure you can imagine I’m particularly well versed on anything to do with Merlin, given his role as the keeper of The Book of Books. But, regardless, I’m fairly certain the official line these days is that there’s not much history to back it all up besides an obscure mention of an ancient king in an old manuscript—I’m sure that friendly lady by the arch could tell us the up-to-date academic thinking on it all, but some people, myself included, would posit that all myths are rooted in something real. And who am I to say where the line lies between the real and the imaginary—or who can bend it?”