Free Blood Red, Snow White by Marcus Sedgwick

clutched in his lap.
    He saw people looking at his typewriter box, and now he knew what it felt like, for he was every bit as curious about what was in the diplomatic bag on his lap.
    At the British Embassy in Stockholm he waited for an hour for the minister to meet him, and then, with a brief nod, Sir Esmé took the briefcase and was gone, without a word. Arthur stood about feeling like an idiot, then slunk outside, wondering what the hell had been in the bag. A letter from the pompous old man’s mother? Some dreadful novel perhaps? Both of those seemed unlikely. State secrets? If that were so, just what did that make him?
    *   *   *
    He spent the next three days walking from one end of Stockholm to the other, trying to find out who he needed to talk to, to get back into Russia. It was a gilded cage affair. He didn’t see the beauty of the wonderful old city spread across dozens of islands, like a fleet of floating buildings, and he didn’t see the beauty of the buildings themselves, or the pretty Swedish girls who served him breakfast at the hotel. He knew he had to get back to Russia, to get on with his job, and that was all he could think about.
    At last he discovered that he needed to get permission from the Bolshevik emissary to Sweden, a man named Vorovsky, but Vorovsky flatly refused to see him. He persisted for another couple of days, and still got nowhere, but then one day there was a note waiting for him at his hotel.
    It was from Sir Esmé, and apparently Arthur was to join him for lunch the following day.
    Somewhat mystified, Arthur presented himself at the Embassy at the appointed hour, wondering what trouble he was in now. He hadn’t touched the contents of the bag; they were sealed and he’d not even so much as thought about breaking the seal, not seriously.
    He was shown into a sumptuous dining room where a feast lay spread. Sir Esmé was waiting for him, and this time he was smiling.
    “Ransome!” he declared, as if Arthur had returned from the moon. “Good of you to come. I’m so very glad you’re still in Stockholm.”
    Behind the minister, two children stood nervously peeking out from behind his back, a boy and a girl, both more or less Tabitha’s age, he thought.
    Arthur began to wonder what was going on, but Sir Esmé was talking again.
    “Why on earth didn’t you say who you were, man?”
    “But I did, I…”
    “I mean the book. Why didn’t you say you were that Ransome?”
    Something began to dawn on Arthur, and he smiled.
    “I didn’t think … I mean why would you be…”
    “Well, never mind. I’m just relieved you haven’t left. When I mentioned your name at supper the night before last I was nearly lynched by these two!”
    He turned to his children.
    “Isn’t that right?”
    They giggled.
    “Children! Meet Mr. Arthur Ransome.”
    Now Arthur knew what to do; he was on familiar ground. He bowed low and solemnly, and then straightened, winking at them.
    “They’re big fans of yours, you see,” Sir Esmé said. “So won’t you join us for some lunch?”
    Arthur smiled at the children.
    “Well now,” he said. “You must be Maroosia, and you must be Vanya, yes?”
    They squealed with delight, and then all four sat down to eat.
    *   *   *
    Arthur stayed all afternoon, and earned his keep by telling stories, lots of stories, ones there hadn’t been room for in the book, and other ones entirely, from Africa and India. But it was the Russian stories they liked the best.
    By the end of the afternoon, he left behind two happy children and came away with a letter of introduction from the minister to Vorovsky, and three days later, got his visa to return to Petrograd.

 
    6:10 P.M.
    ARTHUR REALIZES THE POST OFFICE will be shut long before he’s due to meet Lockhart, and with a sigh puts his light summer jacket on again. His shoulders ache as he pulls it on, and he wonders how he got like this. He’s still young, so why is it that he feels like a very old