“But,” said Mavis, who had followed her, “don’t you live in the same book?”
Torfrida smiled.
“Not quite,” she said. “That would be impossible. I live in a different edition, where only the Nice People are alive. In hers it is the nasty ones.”
“And where is Hereward?” Cathay asked, before Mavis could stop her. “I do love him, don’t you?”
“Yes,” said Torfrida, “I love him. But he is not alive in the book where I live. But he will be—he will be.”
And smiling and sighing, she opened her book and went into it, and the children went slowly back to the Palace. The fight was over, the Book People had gone back into their books, and it was almost as though they had never left them—not quite, for the children had seen the faces of the heroes, and the books where these lived could never again now be the same to them. All books, indeed, would now have an interest far above any they had ever held before—for any of these people might be found in any book. You never know.
Book Heroines.
The Princess Freia met them in the Palace courtyard, and clasped their hands and called them the preservers of the country, which was extremely pleasant. She also told them that a slight skirmish had been fought on the Mussel-beds south of the city, and the foe had retreated.
“But Reuben tells me,” she added—“that boy is really worth his weight in pearls—that the main body are to attack at midnight. We must sleep now, to be ready for the call of duty when it comes. Sure you understand your duties? And the power of your buttons and your antidotes? I might not have time to remind you later. You can sleep in the armory—you must be awfully tired. You’ll be asleep before you can say Jack Sprat.”