Exterior light to interior gloom. Or it seemed that way as
the door slid to a close behind Phillens. The gloom of an
in-between place without any windows. More like a closet
than a corridor. Complete with a tinge more akin to a
squeezed orange laced with the herb with flower heads
reminiscent of a revincé hat shop.

He would have missed the stairs if the crystal had not
illuminated proceedings with a gentle glow. But had to turn
back as he had gone past a pair of doors and needed to
check the numbers.

“Wrong set,” a voice came from above, in sync to a
new, beat track. Phillens looked up to the top of the stairs.
But was only met by the thankful glare of a landing
window.

“That’s right,” a second voice added, but from more to
the side. “Up here.”

Glancing at the door numbered four, Phillens picked his
way up the steps. Walls brighter and more distinct at every
step. Feet almost sinking into layers of what felt like
eiderdown. To the point that at the top the crystal had gone
out, but Phillens could almost have been outside in the
sun.

“Step this way,” the first voice said. Still invisible, but
more horizontal, as if a curtain had managed to steal away
half of its volume. At least the music had stayed the same,
even if the ball hadn’t and the stairs continued to another
floor.

“Wouldn’t he like to know,” the second voice chuckled.
“Keep on the straight and narrow.”

Phillens moved away from the landing and onto the
new corridor. More doors. But taller, arched and with
overhung gables. But if he was now upstairs, wouldn’t
rooms’ one and three be downstairs? Not up here - next to
a door of optimistic yellow - that could have passed for a
front door. And what was with the jet door-knocker shaped
like a sun-ray-maned lion? Or the gilded numerals crafted
into the result of ten-plus-one.

“Don’t falter now,” the first voice said. “Come in.”

Phillens blinked. Falter? The plaque next to the door
said to knock: Once for a question; twice for your intention.
Three times if your problems include House-eating shrubs
of ANY kind; and Report to Reception before Reception
finds you if you have NO business being up here at all.

“It — it says to knock,” he said.

“He said you can come in,” the second voice yawned;
coupled with the door-knocker lion opening his mouth and
displaying a twinkling set of citrine teeth; whilst the knocker
band fell out of the lion’s mouth and turned in a buzz of
eleven rainbow bees before it, or they, had hit the ground.

A ground splashed with a new light: not from the great
window at the corridor’s end, but the half - blink - to three
quarters - blink - wide-open door. Neither was the light
coming from a lampstand, ceiling or wall lights. But from a
sun that might as well have slapped his across the face.

One step took him onto a surface like sand. Another
picked up the gentle caress of turquoise waves lapping
onto a shore. The third came with a blast of nautical salt;
whilst in contrast to the sand and lapping waves; ribbons of
cotton balls cruised across an aquamarine, cobalt and
sapphire sky.

“What’s this?” he said, staring at a jewelled yacht
matching the course of the clouds.

“My colleague’s idea of a place to relax,” a voice said
from the right. Phillens turned to see a man, in indigosunglasses,
enjoying the back and forth of an orange and cream rocking chair.

“What he thinks I would take time to rest in,” another
voice came from the left; belonging to a fellow with a
russet cap to match deep ruby shades. “This is more you
any Sunday to Saturday.”

“We can change it if you like, Mr Martens,” the indigoshaded
man continued. “Something a little cooler?”

Drier might have been more appropriate, Phillens
winced. A warm brown track pressed against his feet;
framed by verges of tinder-like undergrowth. A sea of it,
and hair-cut short grass, had replaced the one of turquoise
he could have jumped in. Although that faded the moment
he looked up at the not-so-different sun and sky.

“Ganslat,” the second man coughed, a yellow, crimson
and ultramarine parasol opening above him. “There’s no
breeze, Jo.”

Phillens put a hand above his eyes. No breeze and tall,
smooth, pillar-like trees that looked as if they had been
planted upside down.

“It’s not even the right spot,” said Jo, typing on a
floating screen as a parasol opened overhead. “Have you
been at the moods again, Jay?"

“Like I would ever come back here,” the ruby-shaded
Jay replied. “Dust, twigs, heat and freight-sized
hedgehogs.”

“It’s jumped over to this. As if Fields and Meadows
have been deleted."

“I — I don’t mind the previous one,” said Phillens.
Anything to avoid another sight of dancing, goods-carrying
monster lemurs. “I can even sit on the sand.”

“You’ll find the one that I’m trying to find more
refreshing,” Jo continued, balanced on the edge of the
rocking chair.

“Montarion’s borrowed it,” said Jay, with a hand sweep
that replaced the upside-down trees with blue sky,
turquoise sea; white sand and green-fronded palms. “I’ll
get it back later.”

The screen and parasol disappeared as Jo rose a little
higher from the edge of his chair. “He’s not back till Twins.
Are you going to explain its absence to Miss Celandine on
her next appointment?”

Jay stopped adjusting his cap. “But he said that he
would be back before her next - visit…”

“A hard job when it’s tomorrow. Unless you’re planning
to go to Vallevicon.”

“I’d rather start a brawl in the Celery House.”