That I should have been shaking hands with Agnes Wickfield would have been unbelievable only a brief time ago, but this was not my first contact with somebody from her world. She ushered me into a side room in the hotel, and a waitress served us tea. There was some polite small talk, and then she told me how she had arrived in London accompanied by her father and his clerk.
"So, you see, Peregrine, we are here in this dimension as refugees, having escaped from the military dictatorship that has taken over the World of Fiction, the name of our adopted home, a world populated by those of us whose lives first emerged as characters in a novel. People in your world do not yet fully understand what it is like to live in a multi-reality universe. The almost infinite number of possible realities means that there is no distinction between fact and fiction. The existence of people like me who have liberated themselves from the constraints of a predetermined existence must appear fantastic—not to you, of course, Peregrine," she added, with a graceful inclination of her head.
"I am afraid these sceptics who expect our lives to be as colourful as the character we played in our novel will be disappointed; we are boringly normal and no different from anybody else. Most of us who survived all the drama and excitement of the novel ended up living a quiet life, but there are always committees of one sort or another that society expects one to attend, and charities, of course. 'The poor will always be with us', as Jesus said, and gentlefolk like ourselves have a moral duty to help; wouldn't you agree, Peregrine?"
"I see you mean well, Miss Wickfield, but…"
"Please, Agnes, if you would, one can hardly stand on ceremony in our desperate situation."
"Very well, Agnes, but do you not think that Jesus meant to shame us with that statement? People are poor because they lack the opportunity to improve their lot in a society where one class unfairly hoards almost the entire wealth of the country. The poor do not need token handouts to satisfy the consciences of the better-off; they need fair wages and equal access to education and training. But most of all, they need decent housing, proper sanitation, and access to health care for themselves and their children."
Agnes's teacup clinked against its saucer. "Peregrine!
Are you—" She hesitated. "Are you a revolutionary? One of those socialist plotters and anarchists one reads about in the Times newspaper, who are determined to bring our noble country to its knees and destroy our democratic institutions. I can barely credit what you have just said."
"I'm sorry if I have upset you, Agnes," I replied, "but with all due respect, you are unaware of the depths of poverty and social injustice in this country. I do not blame you for your ignorance of such matters; people of your class are generally uninformed. It is somewhat ironic that Charles Dickens, the author of your novel, was instrumental in bringing the attention of society to the plight of the poor."
Agnes pursed her lips and said in a very measured tone.
"If you care to explain your case more fully, Peregrine, I will make every effort to understand."
"You must forgive me once again, Agnes. There are things you do not yet know that are, for the time being at least, best left unsaid.
"But Peregrine…"
You must trust me, Agnes; we are in great danger and must leave the present subject for another time. Now, if you would please tell me again the exact details of your experiences, we cannot afford to miss anything."
Agnes replaced her teacup on the table and calmly smoothed down the front of her dress; there was more steel to Agnes Wickfield than one might think.
"Very well. "After the military dictatorship took over, life in The World of Fiction became intolerable," she said. "The countryside became overrun with soldiers of all kinds, some of them not even humans, and these were the worst sort, creatures born in hell. Beasts known as Orcs and the like, and Dwarves and Goblins, and every other kind of creature imaginable, including fallen angels whose wings had become blackened by corruption, and Dementors: creatures without bodies who breathed death.
"We are a tolerant world; there are both good and bad people in our communities, and we live and let live, as they say, but these savage creatures were beyond forgiveness, and we decided to flee. We knew that Earth Minor had open immigration policies and would welcome people of our kind, but we did not know how to get there. There was, however, a direct portal link to an alternative London, a route that others had taken before us, and we decided to go in the hope of contacting somebody who could help."
"Thank you, Agnes," I said, "but time is short. Could you quickly move on to the point where you became aware of my arrival here?"
"Of course," she said sharply, "and I will be as brief as possible. We thought we were safe here, but one night, a squad of soldiers from the rebel army launched a night attack on the temporary haven for refugees in the city centre that had taken us in. Luckily for us, so many of them landed on the roof of the building where we were all asleep that it collapsed, and people scattered in every direction. I intended it to be just me and my father, but his terrified clerk hung on to Father's coattails, and we had to take him with us.
"We hid out here, in this hotel, and the Pimpernels, a brave group of resistance fighters who arranged our escape from our occupied world, contacted us with the important news. A young man named Peregrine, a portal traveller and a resident of Earth Minor, would materialise in London at Gloucester Road in Lambeth early this evening and would be able to take us back with him to his home world.
"We duly assembled to wait at the spot they indicated, but just as you arrived, two of the soldiers from the search party saw us from the bridge. They began to run in our direction, and my quick-thinking father realised that your odd appearance would make you stand out in any pursuit. He took off his coat and hat and dressed you in his clothes; you were still in a daze after emerging from the portal. All we could do was point you down the hill and set you off. Fortunately, you kept on going in a straight line; it was almost as if you were sleepwalking.
"We made our escape, and later I came back in a hansom cab to look for you. I saw a soldier on the other side of the road who was checking everybody who passed, and I did not dare to stop. When I returned later, you were gone, and I gathered up a gang of street urchins and gave them your name, description, and where I was staying. I offered a gold sovereign to the boy who could bring you to me that night. I returned to the hotel and have been waiting here ever since."
"Thank you, Agnes," I said sincerely, "and now would you take me to meet your father and his clerk? I will inform your father that I must leave again to finalise the details of our escape and advise him to rest, but he must be ready to leave the instant I return. I will make a signal to you by clenching and unclenching my fist three times, and you will offer to escort me out. I cannot explain now, but I must have a secure place in the hotel where you can leave me in complete privacy. Do you have something like a small dressing room at your disposal?"
"Yes," she said, puzzled.
"Excellent! I want you to lock me in there with only a chair to sit on. Once you have locked the door, you must not open it again or attempt to disturb me in any way; that is most important. You must stay in your room and not let anyone in and only open the door of the dressing room and let me out when you hear me shout. I cannot predict how long I will be; time passes differently between worlds. Now, will you do all that?"
Agnes held my gaze, searching for something—assurance? Doubt? A reason to say no? When she finally spoke, it was quieter than before. "Yes… of course." But her grip tightened on the key in her hand.
A pause. "Take care, Peregrine."
"I will," I replied. If this works, we will be in a much safer world before the night is out."