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but takes it several steps further. In my sequel, Gretel, like any surrogate parent, tries to protect her successor by choosing someone half blind. Ironically, that ‘someone’ has already encountered the true spirit of the Faerie once before, to her cost, and no amount of clumsy benevolence on Gretel’s part can shield her from a second encounter. The fact remains that Lucy’s subsequent adult glimpse of faerie splendour is simultaneously an act of theft and a moment of transformation, and for both she must pay by giving up any hope of a normal existence.
    A final word about the bonds I have invented to tie the two worlds of the story together – bonds that don’t exist in the original. First and foremost, there is the bond of honour, symbolised by the handshake near the end, a reaching across the gulf, with human and Faerie pledging their word and thereby guaranteeing their coexistence. Without this act of good faith, there can be no ongoing story, no intertwining of the magical and the real, only the eventual destruction of the ‘other’ and the loss of all wonder.
    There is, however, also a second, darker bond, one of mutual fascination, symbolised by the unnatural lust that draws humans and Faeries into a single embrace. (And on this point, I fancy, Keats and I agree!) Herein, for me, lies the importance of the original image of the midwife. She is the lynchpin of the story, for she is the one with an ‘eye’ for the needs of both peoples, whose duty it is to deliver the uncertain results of their dangerous union. Lucy’s task, in short, is to emulate Gretel and grow into the traditional witch-cum-midwife-cum-holy woman, into the archetypal wise old woman of many old stories; to accept the role of outsider whose secret knowledge alone can ensure the safe passage from one order of being to another.
    Or rather, that’s what I’ve tried to hint at!

T he sound of the key in the door surprises him. He has forgotten that she is coming home tonight. He is engrossed in work, moving sentences around and searching for better words. It is important to get exactly the right words.
    No, he has not forgotten that she is coming home. It has just slipped his mind.
    He is writing a review. The editor of one of the national broadsheets offers him a review maybe four times a year, maybe six. His reaction is always the same. It is easy money for a few hundred words of prose, and it is good for him to exercise his analytical skills. When he actually gets down to work he discovers, every time, that it is not so easy, and he remembers that it was like this last time, and the time before, and that he always underestimates the amount of work involved. It is not criticism that is the problem. Criticism is the language of the circles he moves in, and he is never short of opinions. It is analysis that is more difficult. Analysis requires a different set of muscles entirely, and his are slack.
    He knows immediately whether he likes a person’s writing or not. It works for him or it doesn’t. That is simple. The reason why is not so simple. But that is what reviewing is all about, and more often than not it’s a struggle.
    No, it has not slipped his mind that she is coming home tonight. It is just not uppermost in his mind. But earlier in the day it was. When he was waiting at the ATM on Upper Street he was thinking about her coming home. He had got the date wrong, initially, and had bought flowers a week ago; flesh-coloured lilies with a deep pink blush at the centre and a powerful scent. When the ATM rolled out his cash, he went into the supermarket and bought a nice bottle of bubbly to go with them.
    The other important thing to be taken into account when writing a review is the tone. The tone has to reflect his position in the literary world. It is important not to be condescending, but at the same time the reader should not be under the illusion that he is considering the work