'Isn't it?'

     'It's blue!'

     The oh god risked a look down.

     'Water's blue,' he said.

     'Of course it's not!'

     'Grass is green, water's blue... I can  remember that. It's some of the stuff I just know.'

     'Well, in a way...' Susan hesitated. Everyone  knew grass was green and water was blue. Quite often it wasn't  true, but everyone knew it  in the same  way they knew the sky was blue, too.

     She made the mistake of looking up as she thought that.

     There was the sky.  It  was, indeed, blue. And down there was the land. It was green.

     And in between was  nothing. Not white space. Not black night.  Just... nothing, all round the edges of the world. Where the brain said there should be, well,  sky and land, meeting neatly at  the horizon, there was  simply a void that sucked at the eyeball like a loose tooth.

     And there was the sun.

     It was under the sky, floating above the land.

     And it was yellow.

     Buttercup yellow.

     Binky landed on the grass beside the river.  Or at  least on the green. It felt more like sponge, or moss. He nuzzled it.

     Susan slid off, trying to keep her gaze low. That meant she was looking at the vivid blue of the water.

     There  were  orange fish  in it. They didn't look quite  right,  as  if they'd been created by  someone who  really  did think a fish was two curved lines  and  a dot and a triangular  tail. They reminded her  of the skeletal fish  in  Death's  quiet  pool.  Fish  that  were...  appropriate  to  their surroundings. And she could see them, even though the water was just a block of colour which part of her insisted ought to be opaque...

     She knelt down and dipped her hand in. It felt like water, but what poured through her fingers was liquid blue.

     And now she knew where she  was. The last piece clicked  into place and the  knowledge bloomed inside her. She knew if she  saw a house just how its windows  would  be  placed, and  just how  the smoke  would come out of  the chimney.

     There would almost certainly be apples  on the trees. And they would be red, because everyone knew that apples were red. And the sun was yellow. And the sky was blue. And the grass was green.

     But there was another world, called the real world  by  the  people who believed in it, where the sky could be anything from off-white to sunset red to thunderstorm yellow. And the trees would be anything from bare  branches, mere scribbles against the sky, to  red flames before the frost. And the sun was white or yellow or orange. And water was brown and grey and green...

     The colours here were springtime colours, and not the springtime of the world. They were the colours of the springtime of the eye.

     'This is a child's painting,' she said.

     The oh god slumped onto the green.

     'Every time  I  look  at  the  gap my eyes water,' he  mumbled. 'I feel awful.'

     'I said this is a child's painting,' said Susan.

     'Oh, me... I think the wizards' potion is wearing off...'

     'I've seen dozens of pictures of it,' said Susan, ignoring him. 'You put the sky overhead because the sky's above you and when you are a  couple of feet high there's not a lot of sideways to the sky in any case.  And everyone tells you grass is green and  water is blue. This is the  landscape you paint. Twyla paints like  that. I painted  like  that. Grandfather saved some of...'

     She stopped.

     'All  children do it, anyway,' she muttered.  'Come  on, let's find the house.'

     'What house?' the oh god moaned. 'And can you speak quieter, please?'

     'There'll  be  a house,'  said  Susan, standing  up.  'There's always a house. With four windows. And the smoke coming  out of the chimney all curly like a spring. Look,  this is  a place like  gr... Death's country. It's not really geography.'

     The oh god walked over to the nearest tree and banged his head on it as if he hoped it was going to hurt.

     'Feels like geo'fy,' he muttered.

     'But have  you ever seen  a tree like that? A big green blob on a brown stick? It looks like a lollipop!' said Susan, pulling him along.

     'Dunno.  Firs' time I  ever  saw a tree.  Arrgh.  Somethin' dropped  on m'head.' He blinked owlishly at the ground. ' 's red.'

     'It's an apple,' she said. She sighed. 'Everyone knows apples are red.'

     There were no  bushes. But  there were flowers,  each with  a couple of green leaves. They grew individually, dotted around the rolling green.

     And then they were out of the trees and there, by  a bend in the river, was the house.

     It didn't look  very big. There were four windows and a door. Corkscrew smoke curled out of the chimney.

     'You know, it's a funny thing,' said Susan, staring at it. 'Twyla draws houses like that. And she practically lives in a mansion. I drew houses like that. And I was born in a palace. Why?'

     'P'raps it's all this house,' muttered the oh. god miserably.

     'What? You really think so? Kids' paintings are all of this place? It's in our heads?'

     'Don't ask me, I was just making conversation,' said the oh god.

     Susan hesitated.  The words What Now? loomed.  Should she  just go  and knock?

     And she realized that was normal thinking...

     In the glittering, clattering,  chattering atmosphere a head waiter was having a difficult time. There were a lot of people in, and the staff should have been fully stretched, putting bicarbonate of soda in  the white wine to make very expensive bubbles and cutting  the vegetables  very small to  make them cost more.

     Instead they were standing in a dejected group in the kitchen.

     'Where did it all  go?'  screamed the  manager. 'Someone's been through the cellar, too!'

     'William said he felt a cold wind,' said the waiter. He'd  been backed  up against a hot plate, and now knew  why it was called a hot plate in a way he hadn't fully comprehended before.

     'I'll give him a cold wind! Haven't we got anything?'

     'There's odds and ends. .

     'You don't mean odds and  ends, you  mean des  curieux  et des  bouts,' corrected the manager.

     'Yeah, right, yeah. And, er, and, er . .

     'There's nothing else?'

     'Er... old boots. Muddy old boots.'

     'Old...?'

     'Boots. Lots of 'em,'  said the waiter.  He  felt  he was  beginning to singe.

     'How come we've got... vintage footwear?'

     'Dunno.  They just turned up, sir. The oven, s  full of old boots. So's the pantry.'

     'There's a hundred people booked in! All  the shops'll be shut! Where's Chef?'

     'William's trying to get him to come out of the privy, sir. He's locked himself in and is having one of his Moments.'

     'Something's cooking. What's that I can smell?'

     'Me, sir.'

     'Old boots muttered  the  manager. 'Old boots... old  boots... Leather, are they? Not clogs or rubber or anything?'

     'Looks like... just boots. And lots of mud, sir.'

     The  manager  took off his jacket.  'All right. Cot any cream, have we? Onions? Garlic? Butter? Some old beef bones? A bit of pastry?'

     'Er, yes...'

     The  manager rubbed  his  hands together.  'Right,'  he said, taking an apron  off a hook. 'You there, get  some water  boiling!  Lots of water! And find a really large hammer!  And  you, chop  some  onions! The  rest of you, start sorting out the boots. I want the tongues out and the soles off. We'll do  them... let's  see... Mousse de la Boue dans une  Panier  de la  Pate de Chaussures...'

     'Where're we going to get that from, sir?'

     'Mud mousse in  a  basket of shoe pastry. Get  the idea?  It's not  our fault if even Quirmians don't understand restaurant Quirmian. It's not  like lying, after all.'