At the foot of the cellar stairs Oak stopped, holding his crystal
high to cast light into every corner of the room. I was utterly
astonished by what I saw, and I had to say as much.
“I don't understand,” I said, “I came down here just a few
hours ago. It was a complete mess.” I pointed to a neatly stacked
pile of boxes. “They'd all fallen over, half their contents
spilled everywhere. I was even trapped underneath that big one. How
can it be have gone back to being so tidy, so organised? Nobody else
has been down here, not as far as I know. Surely we'd have heard
them?”
“You have to understand, Edward,” Oak said, lowering his arm,
“This is not your cellar.”
“It's not?” I asked, a bit shocked. “Well what is it, if not
our cellar?”
“It is your cellar,” he replied slowly, “But it is also
the idea of your cellar.”
I think my frown must have betrayed my confusion.
“It is the cellar of this house as you imagine it,” he continued.
“Yes, I know,” I told him, “But surely the mess should still be
here?”
“Only you actually saw it though, didn't you?” he asked. “Not
your wife, or son, his wife, or even the man who came to read the gas
metre three weeks ago? All those people have an effect on the idea
of your cellar.”
