The Steps Under the Trapdoor
Lemony flew out of Siena's blanket. A tiny flight, down onto the trapdoor in the terrace floor.
“That's where I come from,” said Lemony. “From underneath.”
Dad looked at the trapdoor. There was nothing under the trapdoor. Only leaves, shadow and dust. Dad knew that. So did Mango.
“I came out to see the morning,” said Lemony. “But it was too cold. And when you are cold, you can't sing. And without a song, you can't find your way back.”
Kiwi whimpered softly. He felt sorry for her.
“Now I'm warm,” said Lemony. “Listen.”
And she sang.
Tee-ree-ree. Tee-ree-ree-ree.
The trapdoor lifted all by itself. Creak.
Underneath, there were no leaves anymore. There were steps. Wooden steps, going down. And down. And still further down, much deeper than anything under a terrace could be.
Warm air rose from below. It smelled of bread and grass.
Kiwi went down first. Hop, hop, hop. Mango sighed. Then he went down too, one step, then another, in no hurry at all.
Mom took Siena in her arms. Dad closed the door of the house. And they all went down after Lemony.
Step. Step. Step.
At the bottom of the steps was a valley. The sun was setting. The grass was soft.
And up on a hill stood seventeen towers. All dark. All quiet.
“That's my home,” Lemony whispered.
Siena was asleep. But in her sleep she moved her fingers a little. As if she wanted to touch the towers.
Tower by tower, the town of Siena fell asleep.
Goodnight, Siena.