Mirror is taken to the spare bedroom, still in this strange coma, and I kiss her on the cheek and go to sit by the fire with Icabod.
His cottage is covered in scribblings and ideas for his stories. On the walls are dark ink illustrations of wicked witches and a prince trapped in a great forest. A selection of fairy postcards line the kitchen cupboards, each fairy performing a different task: singing, dancing, playing a pipe, kissing a frog. A great oak bookshelf displays his numerous published works, in both alphabetical and colour coded order. He is a stickler for fine details. He has the unusual quality of possessing skills of both imagination and order.
I had read some of his stories to Mirror over the last year. They were accomplished, perfectly crafted pieces with colour and wit. Little whimsical fairy tales for children. Pale moons hung over enchanted, fairy-kissed forests. Giants carried hedgehogs over magic bridges to safety. His landscapes were colourful, but more importantly, safe.
Icabod is a small boned, bird-like man with strawberry blonde hair and an impish little face, full of imagination and kindness. His eyes are small and green, the colour of frogs. He hands me a very large glass of brandy and pokes the fire nimbly. I am exhausted and slump myself in a great patchwork-quilted chair and feel the wonderful heat of the flames warm me, my beard still dripping with raindrops.
“Thank you dear friend,” I say gulping down the brandy
“You are more than welcome. It is lovely surprise too see you after so many years. I don’t often get visitors, other than Mrs Spoons, who pops in for a bit of local gossip and brings me her homemade plum cake.”
“I am sorry it has been so long. You are the bestselling author on fairy tales in England and, according to The Times, a national treasure.”
Icabod looks kindly at me. “I have been extremely fortunate. I could have ended up a Vicar, as my father intended.”
“You never married?”
“I was engaged briefly but she broke it off. She hated my stories. Said they were twaddle,” and he laughs to himself, and then he looks at me, concerned. “Goliath, please tell me what has happened.”
The fire spits and flickers. The fire poker, I notice, has a little bee on the handle. And the fireplace has engravings of imps dancing and butterflies. It is a lovely fairy tale world he lives in. There are no little girls locked up in clocks, starving to death. There are no demons. His world is safe and soft. If I could I would put Mirror into his world. But I fear it would not be able to hold her.
“Goliath?” Icabod leans forward. I had got lost watching the flames.
“I’m sorry. I am so very tired. I will tell you of what has happened, but first let me forget for a while. Tell me about your stories. Distract me.”
“Of course. I am currently working on my ninth children’s story. It is entitled Horace and the Magic Foot.”
“The title is dreadful.”
“Yes it is. But they will publish it, no doubt.”
“Tell me the plot.”
Icabod pours some more brandy. “Horace is an ordinary boy with a magical foot. His foot can grow extremely large, so he is able to kick in locked doors, stomp on wicked wizards and carry rescued maidens on it. One day, Horace grows tired of his magical foot because he simply can’t fit in the world and feels odd and unconnected. Anyway, he comes across a wizard who offers him a deal: he will remove his magical foot and replace it with a human one if he will help him kidnap a princess. Now Horace agrees to this and kidnaps the princess for the wizard but falls in love with her and, well... that’s really where I have got up to.”
“Any ideas on an ending?”
“It has to be a happy one, of course. It’s a fairy tale. What do you think?”
“I think I have missed you, Icabod. And the story is awful.”
Icabod laughs out loud. “It is, isn’t it? It’s bloody awful – they all are really. I always wanted to write crime detectives stories, like Sherlock Holmes,” and at this he lights his pipe. “Now are you ready to tell me your story, Goliath?”
“I fear my fairy story will not have a happy ending.”
“How can I help you write a better ending?”
“You are already doing a great deal to assist me, and for that I am eternally grateful. I could think of no other place we could go, or anyone else I could trust.”
And my eyes grow heavy and I feel myself drifting off into sleep.
I start to dream. I can see my father waving at me. In his hand is a little pot from the tomb of the princess. It has little green frogs painted on it. Inside the jar is a heart. He hands it to me.
“This belongs to you.”
I wake in the armchair. Icabod has put a blanket over me.
“Good morning,” he says sprightly. “She is still sleeping, but she seems fine.” He hands me a cup of coffee and brings in a large plate of buttered crumpets. “Tuck in.” And I do. I eat six and feel better. “Now,” he says, “tell me your story from beginning to end.”