Part 2 (1/2)

Matt had no idea what he might mean. 'Where is this?' he asked.

'It is the Scriptorium,' said Constantin. 'My Scriptorium, you might say. It used to belong to a monastery, where monks copied ma.n.u.scripts. But now we have movable type and the books are printed. You could call it a ”Stamparium” I suppose.'

He patted the nearest machine affectionately, as if it were a favourite dog.

'But you must come into my studio,' he said suddenly. 'I have clothes waiting for you.'

He took off his scholar's robe and threw it round Matt's shoulders. Matt looked down at himself, incongruous in his pyjama bottoms, his chest and feet bare under the heavy black gown. This was a very realistic dream.

It wasn't until then that he noticed he was holding the little leather-bound book in his hand.

But the Professor was leading him off towards a side door, beckoning him to be quick. Matt got the impression that Constantin didn't want the men at the far end of the Scriptorium to see him. He followed obediently, though he had no idea what was going on.

Constantin's 'studio' was nothing like what that word conjured up in Matt's brain and he was amazed that his sleeping mind could come up with such a scene. The only furniture was a large wooden desk, a wooden armchair and a couple of stools. But every surface was covered with books, parchments, rolls of paper and printed pictures.

There were no bookshelves, which would have been the obvious solution to the clutter. Matt wondered how the Professor could find anything he wanted. There was no electric light or desk lamp but there were candle-holders on the walls and a big candlestick on the desk, which had dripped fantastic patterns of wax on to both wood and papers. And there was an unpleasant smell like old cooking fat. On one wall there was a religious picture that Matt somehow knew was called an icon. On the opposite one there was a cupboard built into an alcove. There was one window with a deep wooden window seat. Through it Matt could see a jumble of old buildings and narrow streets.

The view and the candles, together with Constantin's clothes, made Matt realise that he was dreaming of a distant past. The Professor was saying something, gathering up some clothes from a pile on a stool.

'Put these on,' he was saying. 'Of course, if anyone sees you haven't a shadow, your secret will be revealed. But at least you will be less conspicuous in these.'

He looked at Matt critically. 'Apart from your hair, of course. Why do you young men in the twenty-first century wear it so short? We'll have to find you a hat. I don't suppose you'd accept a wig.'

As he was rattling on, Matt looked down at the tiled floor of the studio. The light from the setting sun was streaming through the window on to him but as he twisted round to look, he saw that what Constantin said was true: he cast no shadow.

'What an odd detail for a dream,' he thought.

But the Professor was urging him into the clothes. Matt shrugged and put them on. It was not a bad idea to go along with things in dreams, he found. But the clothes were weird sort of velvet trousers and a ruffled s.h.i.+rt. There were black leather shoes too with big silver buckles. What on earth must he look like? Constantin rummaged in the cupboard in the wall and triumphantly pulled out a dusty black velvet hat. He held it out to Matt.

'There!' he said. 'Now you can pa.s.s for a Talian.'

Barbara was petrified. It took away almost all the pleasure she felt in wearing the glorious turquoise silk dress and matching mask. Her hair was elaborately dressed, with turquoise ribbon threaded through it, and ornamented with b.u.t.terfly pins of diamond and sapphire.

She was sitting between the d.u.c.h.essa's father, the Regent Rodolfo Rossi, and his new wife, Silvia, at a banqueting table in the Ducal palace. Senator Rossi was making a speech but Barbara was too nervous to concentrate on what he was saying or on eating any of the fine food on her plate.

'Her Grace, my daughter, is unfortunately unable to address you all today,' said Rodolfo. 'Regrettably she is indisposed by a sore throat and has lost her voice . . .'

Barbara coughed elegantly into a little lace handkerchief. How on earth had milady ever thought they would both get away with this deception?

'. . . but she has asked me to thank you for your presence here to celebrate her birthday and indeed your presents, which you in your generosity have showered upon her.'

He cast his eyes towards an oak table laden with boxes and jars tied with satin ribbons of every colour, while the guests laughed at his little jest.

Barbara thought longingly of what the contents might be the jewels and lace collars, the writing-cases and scented bath oils. If only they were really for her! But she knew that the real d.u.c.h.essa did not care about belongings perhaps because she was so wealthy she could afford anything she wanted. The only gifts that meant anything to her were the ones from her parents and her fiance. Barbara had seen how delighted she was when she opened Luciano's present of earrings. She wondered if they were having a happy time together now; it must surely be better than what she was going through.

'And now,' said Constantin. 'You must have questions you want to ask me.'

'Not really,' said Matt. 'I mean, this is a dream, right?'

'Is that your first question?' said the Professor. 'Good. We have started with an easy one. No, it is not a dream. You are in Talia, in the city called Padavia, famous for its University. It's the second oldest in Talia, after the one in Bellona. And I am a professor at this University.'

'OK,' said Matt, playing along. 'And are we in the University now? I mean I thought we were in the Scriptorium or the Stamparium or whatever.'

'The Scriptorium is part of the University now,' said Constantin. 'It is all that remains of an old monastery next to the main university building. And it was suitable in size for my enterprise of a printing press. I like to think, too, that it has always been a place where books were produced. And on your visits here we shall say that you are one of my apprentices.'

Matt couldn't help pulling a face.

'You don't like books?' said Constantin. 'I see you have one in your hand.'

Matt looked again at the leather-bound book he had bought at Mortimer Goldsmith's antiques shop. It was strange how solid and real it felt in his hand, just the way it did when he was awake.

'I like this one,' he admitted. 'I don't know why though.'

'Because it spoke to you,' said Constantin. 'It is your talisman and it found you. I have been waiting for it to do so for some time.'

The strangest feeling was growing in Matt that this wasn't an ordinary dream. The leather-bound book could well have come from a time and place like this. That was it, he thought: he had made up this whole dream-world to explain to himself where the book belonged. It couldn't hurt to tell this imaginary man the truth.

'I'm not good with books,' he said. 'I . . . I have problems with reading.'

He felt a bit stupid, sitting in a scholar's room, overflowing with books, in a university, even if it was only a dream one, confessing that he wasn't good at reading. But the Professor wasn't fazed. He picked up a volume from his desk and held it out to Matt.

'Have a try,' he said. 'Things are often different in Talia.'

Matt took the book reluctantly. His heart sank as he opened it. Lines of fuzzy black type filled the pages; it was just the sort of thing he wouldn't be able to read.

And then something miraculous happened. The words somehow formed in his mind and he found he was reading, quite easily, a rather dull book about weapons. He stopped and looked up at the Professor, who was smiling encouragingly at him.

'You see,' said Constantin. 'In Talia you can read.'

Chapter 3.

First Impressions The alarm on his mobile phone screeched at Matt at the usual time, followed five minutes later by the even shriller sound of his alarm clock. Both phone and clock were on his desk across the room from his bed, the only arrangement that worked to get him up in the morning. He groaned under the duvet then flung it aside, staggered over to the source of the noise and pressed b.u.t.tons till it stopped. He looked longingly at his bed, still warm and enticing. It seemed only minutes since he had fallen into that deep sleep.

And there was the book; just seeing it brought the whole dream back. Constantin had told him he was a Stravagante a traveller between worlds but what was even more amazing, he had said that Matt wasn't the only one to find his way to Talia from Barnsbury Comp. That wasn't so extraordinary for a dream after all, Matt had seen Georgia and Nick only yesterday but Constantin had also mentioned Sky, the boy with dreadlocks, and another boy, who had died and lived again in Talia.

Matt shook the last shreds of sleep out of his head. Maybe he was wrong to think he wasn't good at Arts subjects? If he put this dream down on paper, it would make a great story for Creative Writing. The Professor had told him he could get back to his own world any time he wanted, just by falling asleep with the book in his hand while thinking of home. His 'talisman' was what Constantin called the book.

'Every Stravagante has one,' he had said. 'It is his or her most valued possession and must be guarded with their life. There are enemies in Talia who want to find out the secrets of stravagation.'

Matt picked up a book from his desk. It was a Maths textbook with little writing in it so he couldn't tell if his reading was any better. He turned instead to his childhood books on the shelf. He had always kept copies of the books his mother read to him as a kid, even if he struggled to read novels himself. Now he took out Tom's Midnight Garden, an old favourite, hoping to read it as fluently as he had the book in Talia.

But it was no different from before. The words still got themselves all snarled up like tangled fis.h.i.+ng-line. That glorious feeling of extracting meaning from them without trying, like swimming underwater or flying, had disappeared.