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the sea; naked; a thousand miles from land.

It was the Lacewing King, of course. Hearing the sound of sails as the boat moved across the water, he had summoned the last of his strength to swim towards the little craft. All he could hope for now was that its single occupant would have mercy on his plight and agree to take him on board.

The builder of boats was wary at first. The Sea Folk could be treacherous, and it was not beyond them to lure unwary travellers to their deaths with tales of misadventure. Besides, the man in the sea looked very different to the people she knew: to begin with, his skin was white, not brown, and his hair, which was long and straight, was the shade of a moth’s wing in the starlight. A string of Moon Jellyfish circled him; his skin shone in their pearly glow. And beneath him, moving up from the Deeps, was a shape like that of the full Moon, dressed in a gown of a thousand frills.

β€œHelp me,” said the Lacewing King.

β€œWho are you?” said the builder of boats. β€œAnd what are you doing so far from land?”

The King looked down at the glowing shape that was racing up to meet him. β€œPlease,” he said. β€œJust take me on board. I swear on my name I’ll repay you.”

β€œYour true name?” said the builder of boats, who knew the value of such an oath.

The Lacewing King had no choice but to swear, and to give the boat-builder his true name.

β€œA named thing is a tamed thing,” said the builder of boats with a smile. β€œHenceforth, you will serve me, until your debt to me is discharged.”

Once more, the King had to agree. It was that or be torn apart by the Moon Queen in her rage and grief. So the builder of boats hauled him aboard; and there she gave him food and drink, and clothes like those of the islanders; a sleeveless tunic, tied at the waist, and a woven blanket wrap in the bright colours of the islands.

Meanwhile, the Moon Queen had risen to the surface but could not see the Lacewing King, hiding in the red-sailed boat. In her gown of a thousand frills, she searched the waves; she searched the skies; she called him, but he did not reply. At first, she was only anxious. Could her King have suffered some kind of misadventure? Could he have missed the rendez-vous, and be waiting for her elsewhere?

Finally, the New Moon rose. The Queen saw it riding pale in the sky and knew that her King had failed her. And in her grief and sorrow and rage, she raised the creatures of the Deeps; the sea-serpents, the Kraken; and they thrashed the sea with their tentacles until it was red with sand and blood.

The little red-sailed barque of dreams was tossed and tumbled on the surface. But the builder of boats had built it well. Boat and passengers survived. And by the time the Moon had set, and dawn was on the horizon, the red-sailed boat had almost reached the Outer Archipelago, in which ten thousand undiscovered reefs and islands awaited them, and where a thousand thousand tales were carried on the wind by the bees.

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In a land of metal things, and plastic, and concrete, and sooty buildings and speeding trains, there lived a little girl who dreamed. On sunny days, she liked to sit by the railway line. On rainy days she would watch from inside, tracing the tracks of the raindrops as they trickled down the window and listening for the sound of the trains like music in the distance.

The little girl knew where the railway led. It was a steel road connecting two cities, equally grey, with equally sooty buildings. But secretly the girl believed in special trains along the line, leading to secret stations. She often dreamed that if she believed, then one of these trains would stop for her and take her to a world in which magic was as everyday as science was in her own world, where animals spoke; where Kings and Queens rubbed shoulders with monsters, and witches, and fairies, and where Love was an adventure, not an ending to a story. Sometimes, on rainy days, she felt almost close enough to touch those secret walls between the Worlds, and to hear the sound of a passing train slowing to allow her on board. But they never did, of course, and in time she came to believe that they were only stories.

Time passed. The girl grew up to become an Engine Driver. She drove a train between cities, but every stop she made was the same. The cities were grey and sooty and dull; the stations were busy with people going from one place to another. But the Driver still sometimes dreamed of those secret stations, and listened for the passing trains in the spaces between the Worlds, and wished that she could drive them instead, and travel with them between the stars. But she never told anyone, and instead, continued to drive her train from one dull place to another, but never going anywhere.

One day, when it was raining, the train she was driving broke down between stations. The passengers were all transferred, but the Engine Driver stayed with the train to wait for the repair crew. She sat in her cab and watched as the rain trickled down the window, and looked around her at the place in which the train had been stranded.

The train had stopped in a siding, deserted and overgrown. Willow-herb grew on the bank, and nettles in the ditches. Beyond were fields and hedges and woods, all summer-green and drenched with rain. The Engine Driver thought it was the most magical place she had ever seen. The trees were wild with blossom; the birds sang with unusual grace; and all

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