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The red-headed writer (aka la Raconteuse) was more than relieved, she had sat down at the pleasant table not far from the bar and by Frank, the tall, thin man and Lou, and all of them were talking about various things, including that strange voice which no one could see.

But la Raconteuse was already rather restless since she had not been able to write for far too long; she quickly arranged all her stuff in her big red bag, then she stood up (carefully), and walked to the bar, right by one of her best friends, Denise aka the Bartender.

“You’ve been busy for a while, haven’t you,” grinned Denise as she put the coffees and cakes on a long tray, “do you want some of this as well?” – “very much so,” said la Raconteuse, “although I would rather go back to my usual booth,” – “not a problem,” said Denise, “I’ll join you for a bit.”

So, Denise and the red-headed writer had a great gassing time; they grinned, they laughed and, well, what a riot they had, as they made many jokes and schemes.

But then Denise had to go back to the bar, and the red-headed writer was back to her nonsense writing very tall tales and many spinning yarns.

A little later, la Raconteuse looked up, she muttered to herself, and said, that must be the pretty young woman who Denise mentioned in passing, I’m sure she’s a poet, I’ll have to meet her, and soon!

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The red-headed writer (aka la Raconteuse) was feeling rather off-kilter since that odd room, called Room 215, was still bugging her, she had notice that it said it was only for Proprietors on the door, but clearly she had seen other people inside, like Frank, for example, so that didn’t seem correct.

La Raconteuse had dithered for a bit, wondering what she should do with that small card that she had got, it said, “Get out of jail, it’s free”, but in the end she managed to poke it under the door, maybe Moxie might decide to come into the hallway?

But little Moxie had been adamant to stay in those areas around the Room 215, and the last thing la Raconteuse heard was Moxie running with a little pink kite.

Heaving a small sigh, la Raconteuse held her big bag tightly as she had a last look at that door, but then she thought she should not go any further along the hallway to the back, but rather she should go to the Six-Sentence-Café-and-Bistro.

She was walking quite quickly now, but she stopped to see if the tall, thin man was around in the Manager’s Office, but no-one was there; but then she saw a young pretty woman who was about to go into the bathroom.

She had stopped just before opening the door, as she took one shoe off then rubbed her foot; she was wearing kitten heel shoes and it was clear that one of them pinched.

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“Come on,” said the red-headed writer (aka la Raconteuse), “please can we go back to the Room 215,” as the two of them sat in the usual dumbwaiter, “it’s all very well for you, dear Moxie, but for me, it’s very cramped in here, and by the way, what’s the large red balloon doing in there as well?”

“Good question,” grinned Moxie, as she began to let down the rope, while glancing at the bright red balloon, “you know, I’ve no idea, but I expect we’ll find out, and soon,” as Moxie tied up the rope and opened the dumbwaiter.

So, la Raconteuse retrieved her big bag by the floor, and her smartphone and charger by the shelf next to the clockwork contraption, then looked around the Room 215, “excellent,” she said and smiled, “let’s open the door and make our way back to the Café and Bistro, I’m missing all my friends.”

“Not me though,” said Moxie, “I’m not able to leave those various rooms – you know, the almost sky up there, the red room and the blue room, and here, of course,” as she jumped to the floor by the four-foot bellhop, “I wouldn’t even dare to go out there.”

The four-foot bellhop then offered a note to la Raconteuse, as the bright red balloon hovered by him, as a couple of rather small animals, some kind of deer, also appeared.

“Mad, and mad,” muttered la Raconteuse, as she read the note: Get out of jail, it’s free.

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“It’s all very well,” muttered the red-headed writer (aka la Raconteuse), as she continued to stare at the wonderful vista for a while, then turned to little Moxie, and said, “it’s not real, is it… there’s no ocean by the roof top garden, it can’t be that.”

“Aha, you’re right,” as Moxie began to do a couple of pirouettes, then said: “I’ll show you another place instead; we’ll go back to the usual dumbwaiter, I just need to find a particular vestibule, and then we’ll walk to a larger room, it’s called The Blue Room.”

So, la Raconteuse did as she was told, although she was almost desperate to get her big bag back, since she needed to write all these strange things down.

“Here we are, we’ve made it,” grinned Moxie, “you’re going to like this immensely… come on, you can look at all these excellent objects and even people and animals; and I’m going to run a quick victory lap to show how happy I am.”

It was alluring and also weird – there were three fat ladies who would dance with a moment’s notice, lifting up their thunder thighs and doing their can-can several times; then further over la Raconteuse saw a huge snake, and said, “wow, that looks dangerous?” – “nah, that’s Daisy,” grinned Moxie, “she’s a pussy cat, and not venomous, by the way.”

“All very interesting,” said la Raconteuse to Moxie, “but I really want to go back to Room 215, and kind of now.”

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“So who’s overseeing this place now, eh?” muttered the red-headed writer (aka la Raconteuse) since it was now rather busy in the Room 215, as she looked across to the tall, thin man, then to that small strange four-foot bellhop, all so known as a dumbwaiter, and then to the sweet sprite; plus two made-up people who had just arrived from the closet and now were sitting at two rather nice wingback armchairs.

“Aha, Frank, how lovely to see you,” grinned la Raconteuse, “it’s definitely a crowd now; but, sorry, it seems that I need to follow that little sprite, and I must remember she’s called Moxie, not Honeybun, it seems that she has a plan for me.”

“Come on, be quick,” said Moxie to la Raconteuse, as she pointed to that wonderful clockwork machine, “see, the time… the six bells by the owls will chime very noisily.”

Moxie jumped across several shelves, then scampered down to the floor, while la Raconteuse watched her, then both of them looked at each other, grinned, then stepped across to the closet, since it was free at that time.

La Raconteuse pouted and said: “I have to get into that contraption… really?” – “you can definitely do this,” said Moxie, as she jumped up; “I’m pulling it down again, and all you need to do is sit in it, since it’s a dumbwaiter, and the usual kind.”

So both went up, “what a vista,’ grinned la Raconteuse, “I can see the ocean from here!”

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“I need to charge my phone,” said the red-headed writer (aka la Raconteuse); “if for some reason that strange door would not open for our friends outside, I will be able to talk to them at least, unless you have yours,” as she looked up to the tall, thin man… “well, do you have yours, your phone?”

But the tall, thin man had not commented about that, he had other thoughts about things, like that four-foot bellhop.

So, la Raconteuse had decided to move a little further away, since she still found that very short person, or whatever he was, was rather hostile she felt.

La Raconteuse put her charger on, and then put both of them by one of the shelves, it was the one with the excellent many clocks and stuff; it was lucky, she thought to herself, that she hadn’t left the charger at home, since she often did.

She continued to look at that large steampunk clockwork machine, it was so interesting, but then she suddenly saw a rather tiny… what? a fairy perhaps? but certainly a little female person and it, sorry, she, was moving quite quickly as she was pirouetting along the clocks.

La Raconteuse peered at the little person, and then a moment later the pirouetting stopped, and the tiny person peered back at her, and said: “my name is Honeybun, and I am a sprite, by the way, and also I don’t like my name, I prefer to be called Moxie…so there.”

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The red-headed writer (aka la Raconteuse) had looked up and stared, as the tall, thin man removed part of the pelmet and something behind there it as well, as he said to her, ‘please, don’t say anything at all… just wait… and look, it will take only a little while.’

La Raconteuse just managed to not talk for a bit, while some dust floated down as a small part of the strange Room 215 revealed something more than weird, she blinked several times, and then she asked, but very quietly, ‘what on earth is this?’

She had anticipated many things she thought, but not this; ‘my goodness,’ she muttered to herself, ‘I didn’t expect this.’

She had so many emotions, and most odd it seemed for her, she felt she was on a rollercoaster for a while – it was not anger… no that was wrong, but there was an element of fight or flight, but why… this very short man surely shouldn’t worry her, but clearly it did.

La Raconteuse glanced from the small mechanical machine to the tall, thin man; she moved from the table by the fireplace as she walked rather quickly to stand very close to him, while looking up, she said: ‘what are we going to do with this, this… this… person.’

However, something else caught her attention, and it seemed that someone was almost to the door outside, she started to smile since it would surely be another Proprietor or, at least, a good friend.

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The red-headed writer (aka la Raconteuse) had heard the noise outside the room, and a moment later the tall, thin man had opened the door, she grinned happily – such a good friend, although he seemed rather keen to make the move to another part of that room.

The tall, thin man suggested that she should sit down near that rather splendid yet small black marble fireplace, she concurred since she felt no qualms, in fact she was rather glad to sit there and start an interesting conversation.

La Raconteuse related so many wonderful things in those shelves as she wittered and wittered on, she took a breath, and then she said: ‘we do like to talk don’t we… we’re both able to make many quick quips and clever remarks, and even witticisms and retorts, yes?’

But the tall, thin man had been thinking other things by now, as he thought about options, and particularly on those excellent shelves – all those clockwork machines and stuff… more than useful, he thought.

Now, the red-headed writer suddenly stopped talking… at least for a moment: ‘oh gosh, sorry, I’ve been rabbiting on, as usual, you said something about options, you mean we would put some of those things down by the bar and the walls, would that be fine?’

The two of them glanced around the room, ‘sounds like a plan,’ she said, ‘I bet loads of people would want to see them, in fact, they might even be a queue around the block!’

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The red-headed writer (aka la Raconteuse) continued to peer down at the street, she was ninety per cent sure that it was the Gatekeeper who had just walked from the taxi; she grinned since she was pretty certain that he would be more than interested about all these tiny steampunk treasures in this room.

Meanwhile, la Raconteuse moved to the next group of objects by the window, as she got closer to this extraordinary tableau, it was amazing – such detail, as she stared around all the little people; but these were not people, no, these were animals and birds.

It was a delightful scene: there was a square in the middle with some shops, a town hall and a church, and just on the edge of the table there was a small button to press, and so she did.

Everything them began to move – as she smiled with glee; she could see a little group of mice who were by the church, the bride was there, but where was the groom… but then that naughty mouse dropped his top hat, and legged it; jilted she was, that tiny mouse, as she flung the bouquet away, then a little bird, a jenny wren, began to sing.

This was more than wonderful, as she pressed the clockwork machine again – such a lovely thing, as she thought to herself.

But she suddenly jerked her head as she could hear a noise beyond the room; she quickly stood up and moved to the door.

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