camwyn | Nov. Bargain, part the Fifth, Subpart B

Having already dropped off Cranston and Hugo, Miss Poppins informed me that it was my turn to go next. Apparently she'd located a suitable painting in the Tate galleries. I didn't ask her how she knew it was suitable. The less I knew about such things, the better, as far as I was concerned. All that mattered was that it'd be over in a few minutes, and Prince and I would be back in the Yukon for however long it took.

I'm pretty sure Prince is the only dog to be allowed into all of London's major museums and galleries. We'd been to all the others during the time between Glasgow and the arrival of the fairies. Never did get around to the Tate, though – it's a pity, really. Louise would've loved it. She'd have loved a lot of London, I think. . . but that's beside the point. The gallery guards didn't seem to know what to make of a husky who probably outweighed them. They did have enough sense to recognize my uniform. Once that happened we had no trouble at all. They showed us in, made a few fussing comments among themselves, and let us go on through.

I'll give Miss Poppins this: she knows her paintings. They had A. Y. Jackson's Terre Sauvage on display. I don't know how they managed that, as most of his work's in Ottawa, but there it was. Wasn't as detailed as a photograph, I'll admit. Jackson doesn't paint like that. I don't know how to describe his work, except to say that when he paints a place, you can't help but recognize it. The evergreens, the clouds, the stony white ground all reminded me so much of the territory around Fort Munn that it got me outright homesick for a moment. I believe I almost said something then, but I looked down instead.

Prince was looking back up at me. When we were in Oz, Prince could talk, and I could understand him. That went away when we returned to London – mostly. Maybe it's just that I always thought Prince would've spoken if he could, but ever since getting back from Oz I'd had the very clear feeling I could understand him better than before. Looking down at him in the Tate, I got the impression that he felt the same way. For all that he'd been able to speak, he hadn't really been happy in Oz. It was too warm for a dog like him – warmer even than London – and half the time we were there, we had to fly. He'd liked that even less than I had. I glanced at the painting, and then down at Prince again. "Almost there, old fellow," I said and tried to smile.

Miss Poppins overheard me. "Quite right, Sergeant," she said briskly. "Now, if you would be so kind, I'm afraid I shall need to hold Prince's lead."

"Excuse me?"

"Sergeant, surely you noticed that I held both your hand and Dorothy's when we visited at the National Galleries?" As I was thinking about that, she said, "Prince, here, hasn't a hand to hold. Either I've got to hold on to his collar, or his tail-"

Prince snorted. Miss Poppins went on. "Or, of course, you could outright carry him-"

"Miss Poppins, I could more easily pick up and carry you."

"Exactly so. The lead, please, Sergeant."

It wasn't an idea I liked. Prince hadn't come with us into the paintings before, and I didn't know how he was going to react. But like she said, we didn't have much choice. I gave him one last scratch behind the ears, then handed the leash over.

"Thank you. Prince, are you ready?" The dog heaved a sigh; Miss Poppins nodded. "Very well. Sergeant-"

I took her hand, and – we jumped.

It's not a physical jump, really. Not like jumping with your legs, I mean. It's as if the world suddenly twists in a direction you didn't even know it had. When it happens, all of a sudden everything that was flat, like the painting in front of you, becomes as real and three dimensional as you are. The only thing is that everything that was already three dimensional gets- more. I don't have the words to describe it, but it's as if everything else around you suddenly turned out to have more depth to it, only in directions that didn't exist a second ago. And none of the directions are the same, so absolutely everything that you look at is trying to be complicated in a completely new way, all at once. If you aren't concentrating on looking straight at the painting, it's dizzying. For me, it was worse than that. At the National Galleries I wanted to know what was going on, and I made the mistake of looking around as we jumped. That was a very big mistake, one I tried not to repeat the rest of that day. My stomach didn't forgive me for hours afterwards.

I remembered the trip to the Galleries, of course. Couldn't help but remember. When Miss Poppins started to jump I kept my eyes straight ahead. Didn't want my first act upon returning to Canada to be getting violently sick, after all. I think I might have managed it, too, except for one thing: Prince. Didn't have him right there next to me. I suddenly remembered how badly he'd reacted to the dirigible ride, and turned to look for him.

Even thinking about it makes my stomach want to turn inside out. EVERYTHING moved when I did that – Prince, Miss Poppins, the painting, the next painting over – it turned in a thousand directions at once. The whole place seemed to fly apart like a mirror thrown at the wall, some things flying away and some back at me-

I couldn't help it. I threw both my arms up in front of my face. By the time I realized I'd let go of Miss Poppins' hand, I'd hit the ground. . . the green, grass-covered ground.