Barnaby purred, a happy, rumble-y sound. ‘It is nearly dinner time, little one. Mother will be wondering where her diligent helper has gone. It is time to return to your own story.’ Lucy felt a little pang of sadness to leave, but also a comforting pull towards home. She gave Barnaby a soft pat on his head. ‘Thank you, Barnaby,’ she whispered. ‘For all the wonderful stories.’
Barnaby blinked his emerald eyes. ‘The stories are always here, Lucy. And sometimes, the very best stories are waiting in your own kitchen, if you only know how to look.’ He led her back to the spiral staircase, and Lucy began her climb upwards, the soft light of the library fading below her.
With a gentle whoosh, the trapdoor opened, and Lucy found herself back in her own kitchen. The shadows were growing long, and the first star appeared in the sky outside the window. The scent of Mother's warm dinner – shepherd's pie, perhaps, or a lovely chicken stew – filled the air. It was a smell ever so good, of spices and warm, crusty goodness.