This seventeenth century writer interested him, and he was eagerly reading the selected excerpts of poems in the thin blue-covered “essential read” booklet, already covered with his notes, paragraphs, and sentences underlined, although his essay was not due for another week. He was sitting at his usual place, at the long library table of dark oak, with the dark green leather strip in the middle, in the long reading room. The atmosphere was quiet and studious. The sounds of discreet footsteps were absorbed by the thick walls and ancient wooden floor and the heavy window curtains; the light projected by the individual lamps was soft and friendly. 

It was his favourite building in the whole town, civilised, not threatening, a place of study and reflection, where he felt himself. He lifted his gaze, and there, in front of him, she was looking at him, her beautiful green eyes resting on his face. She smiled, the wonderful smile of love, and how he loved those lips… 

For a fraction of a second, he no longer knew where he was. Melissa was there, perhaps for the first time. They usually met only outside, or in one of the little cafés. He tried to remember. Was he still in the old house where Gabrielle had been showing him her world, sitting on the sofa near the fire? Or was he here, seemingly, in the ancient reading room?

 As he looked at his hands, he saw the young skin, the unblemished look of a pupil’s hands, the hands of a fifteen year-old boy. Time was suspended. He looked up again, and Melissa was gone. The long table and his book, the seventeenth century poet – they were all gone. 

He was standing in the little street, alone. Everything was in darkness. He looked for the old door. It was nowhere to be seen: there was just a long wall. The sky was black, starless, and a light icy rain was beginning to fall. 

He walked back, trying to retrace his steps. The narrow street and the houses looked different, even older than he remembered. But how long had he stayed in Gabrielle’s house? He looked at his watch: he couldn’t have been inside more than three hours, perhaps even less… He thought after walking for half an hour, he’d taken the wrong direction, and nearly turned back. Then he heard his phone. It was Sarah, she was waiting for him at the tube station and had located him on her phone. 

His relief was immense… It took him another hour to get there and find his wife, who seemed to enjoy looking around the ethnic shops. She kissed him and took him home. He felt utterly exhausted. The next day would be Christmas Eve.

At home they sat near the tree, silent. Julian had told his wife the whole story, about the medieval street, the house, the “film” of Gabrielle’s world, Andromeda, the town, the library. Sarah listened quietly, asking only a few questions. They were both eager to leave answers, and more questions, until later. 

He suddenly felt more cheerful as he opened a bottle of Loire wine, and they talked about the next day.

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