Work Text:
With a loud RATA TAT TAT, 22 year old Amelia Rouse awoke to a loud disturbance in the single-family home she resided in, immediately bolting to attention. It was the middle of the night, whoever could be knocking at this hour, she thought to herself. Wrapping herself in a blue chiffon robe, she sleepily made her way to the front door, mumbling, “Whoever that is, is about to get an earful.”
She reached the front door, keeping her robe closed with one hand and opening the door with another. “Hello? It’s-gods I don’t even know what time it is. What do you want?” She demanded, keeping the door open just enough to have a conversation.
A dark spectre seemed to stare back at her in the inky black night and left the stoop of Amelia’s door, as if to insinuate to follow it. In the brightly lit London streets, the spectre fell to shadows, as if a shadow itself. In the bright light, it was clearly outlined now - with a tunic and peaked cap, complete with tipped shoes. It flitted from side to side, as if evading the light, but all the while dragging Amelia through the dark streets.
After what felt like an age, they landed on 100 Bayswater Road, where the dark hand of the spectre opened up the black and white door. Once inside, she swore she could hear birds chirping and sunlight beaming inside. The halls were narrow, but the windows were wide and open. Amelia turned to the spectre. “Can you speak?” she asked.
The spectre shook its head no. The spectre headed deeper inside, up a spiral staircase, winding up to two doors, one a dark, dull color, the other a vibrant more freshly painted color, that she could hear birds from within. The spectre pointed towards the vibrant colored door for her to open. Within was piles of half open open books on the floors, walls upon walls of bookshelves, lined with books on bright canary yellow walls, seeming to emanate sunlight. Amelia’s eyes brightened at the books, she’d never seen so many in one place before. The spectre followed her inside and watched as she inspected the bookshelves.
Running her fingers over the spines of the books, there was a warmth that hummed beneath them. I shouldn’t, she thought to herself. These were someone else’s treasures. She looked around the room, and picked up an upturned book, closing it shut. Gulliver’s Travels, she read on the front. Looking for the author’s last name on the spine, she filed it on the shelf under Swift, between other books alphabetically. There were a number of other books on the floor. “Well, no time like the present.” She said aloud to no one in particular. She filed the books carefully, not wanting to damage the old copies. She wondered if these were first editions, the amount of wear and tear that they seemed to have gone through, pages yellowed with age.
After cleaning up the study, she noticed the spectre was still in the room with her, seeming almost like it was watching her, though it lacked any sort of eyes. It pointed at the bookshelf, as if inviting her to explore the spines again. She rested a hand on some of the books, not sure which to pick. The collection was mostly children’s books, she noticed. She was drawn to an unobtrusive grey spine reading The Tale of Peter Rabbit by B. Potter.
She tipped the thin spine towards her, warm to the touch. “What an odd book,” she said to herself. On the cover was an illustrated small brown rabbit with a smart blue coat and two little shoes, walking as if he was human. “Why not? It doesn’t look like it would disturb anyone to just read one book.”
Opening the book, there was a WHOOSH of warm air emanating from the book, that twirled Amelia’s dark brown hair, out of its usual braid for the night. She glanced around, looking for some manner of support from the spectre, but it just nodded approvingly. She glanced back down and opened the book to the middle and began seeing the words appear in thin air.
An old mouse was running in and out over the stone doorstep, carrying peas and beans to her family in the wood. Peter asked her the way to the gate, but she had such a large pea in her mouth that she could not answer. She only shook her head at him. Peter began to cry.
She glanced up, seeing the words on the edge of her vision. Instead of seeing the seemingly magical bookshelf in the foreground, she saw a small brown bunny on a log crying. She was outdoors and looked down and found herself dressed in grey overalls and a white working shirt, complete with boots and a pitchfork! She walked over to the wheelbarrow carefully and quietly, as to not disturb the rabbit. She knew the story well, and that Peter Rabbit was quick to fear.
“Hi? Hello? My name is Amelia. What’s yours?” She knelt down to the small young rabbit.
“P-Peter. Mumma told me to stay out of Mister McGregor’s garden. I don’t think I’m supposed to talk to strangers, least of all human ones…” he sniffled.
“Well, I know your name, and you know mine. By my records, that doesn’t make us strangers.” She smiled at the fluffy anthropomorphic creature. “Why did your mum say to stay out of the garden?”
“Poppa was put into a meat pie.” He said quietly.
“A PIE?” The young girl almost yelled. This tale was darker than she remembered. The rabbit nodded. “Well, we can’t have that, now can we? Come on now, let’s get you home, shall we?”
“That would be most appreciative of you.” The rabbit cooed. “But there’s just one problem. The cat.”
“Oh, I’ve dealt with my fair share of cats before.” Amelia grinned.
The words began to appear on the ground in the sand, letting Amelia know she was on the right path.
Then he tried to find his way straight across the garden, but he became more and more puzzled. Presently, he came to a pond where Mr. McGregor filled his water-cans. A white cat was staring at some gold-fish; she sat very, very still, but now and then the tip of her tail twitched as if it were alive.
Amelia whispered to the young rabbit. “This way. I know a shortcut.” The tale was coming back to her, remembering that Peter ends up going to the tool-shed. It felt like cheating, but she felt responsible for the little bunny’s safety, despite being fictional. He leapt down from the wheelbarrow carefully and in his paw print tracks, words were etched in the dirt.
Peter got down very quietly off the wheelbarrow, and started running as fast as he could go, along a straight walk behind some black-currant bushes.
Amelia rushed to join the rabbit, eager to slip him through the gate and have him safe in the wood outside the garden. Peeking over the gate, she saw the little rabbit running at top speed, not daring looking back until he reached a large fir tree, far from the property of Mister McGregor.
She could swear she saw a paw wave her farewell from afar. She looked towards the skies, appreciating the autumn air of the tale. In the skies, the clouds spelled out the end of the tale.
Peter never stopped running or looked behind him till he got home to the big fir-tree. He was so tired that he flopped down upon the nice soft sand on the floor of the rabbit-hole, and shut his eyes. His mother was busy cooking; she wondered what he had done with his clothes. It was the second little jacket and pair of shoes that Peter had lost in a fortnight!
Peter safe at last, the remainder of the story spelled itself out as Amelia made her way back to Mister McGregor’s farm. Suddenly, there was a lurch within her stomach as if she was about to lose her lunch! Within seconds and a blink of her eyes, she was back in the magical room, laying sprawled on the ground, book in hand, sweating profusely through her robe. “Goodness, spectre, I certainly wasn’t expecting that!” she exclaimed, seeing the spectre in the corner clap its hands giddily.
Suddenly, the door opened. She tried to gather herself together as a tall gentleman in a pinstripe suit with a sporting mustache entered. “Well then, I gather our shadow had quite the adventure for you this evening!” A quiet Scottish voice announced his presence. He smiled, cocking his head to read the spine of the book. “Well, let’s get you some tea, shall we? Seems you had quite the misadventure with Peter this evening.”
Amelia bowed her head, quite embarrassed. She wasn’t the type of girl to go off gallivanting and breaking and entering into strange men’s households. “Wh-what is this place? Who are you?” She stammered, quite taken aback.
“This is my home away from home. My study, if you want a proper term for it. The bookshelf, as you may have seen, imbues books with the words becoming alive. I can explore other worlds as frequently as I like, when I’m lacking a muse. I’m a writer. You can call me James.” He toyed with his mustache as he spoke. “Now come, come downstairs and let’s get you some tea.”
Amelia didn’t need to be told twice and bounded down the stairs. James set up a kettle to start boiling on the stove and invited the young woman to explore his tea collection. She settled on a nice chamomile, remembering the “medicine” that Peter has at the end of his tale made by his mother.
The odd pair of them stayed up talking all the night about stories and the power it gives them.