By now I’m at the door. I reach out a trembly hand and pull the silken rope. I hear a chime like a ship’s bell from somewhere. Then, just as I’m wondering if I can sneak off and pretend no one is in, a light bulb on a brass panel beside the door fizzes on. On the bulb, in tiny curly letters, it says:

COME IN

And the door swings slowly open.

The immense room beyond is shrouded in dusty curtains that cover the windows and tumble across the floor like waves. A conical beam of cold light, swirling with dust motes, descends from the ceiling to a circular table in the middle of the room. Sitting beside the table, in a gleaming bronze and wicker wheelchair, is an old lady wearing a turban. The way her wrinkly head emerges from her sumptuous silky gown reminds me of a turtle. She beckons me in with a motion of her claw-like hand, and the doors swing shut behind me.

“Ah, Mr Lemon,” Lady Kraken says, as I hesitate by the door. “Don’t just stand there like a question mark, boy. Come closer!”

As I approach, I pull my Lost-and-Founder’s cap from my head. The elastic pings and nearly takes my eye out.

“Mrs, er, Lady Madam,” I say, rubbing my eye and trying a bow.

She lets out a hoot of laughter. “No need for all that! Come to the table, Mr Lemon. Tell me what you see here.”

I reach the table, which is bathed in the strange shaft of light. It reminds me of a cinema projector, only the light is coming straight down from above. I’m about to ask what it all means when I gasp.

“That’s the pier!”

And sure enough, projected on the table in front of me is a moving image of the pier at Eerie-on-Sea, seen from above. But it’s not merely a flat picture – the image is three-dimensional, raised up off the tabletop in a structure of sparkling dust motes. It’s a perfect model of the pier, with the black sea heaving beneath it.

“Of course it’s the pier,” Lady Kraken cackles. “And there, look – Mr Seegol is just closing up for the night.”

And it’s true. As I watch, I see a tiny model of round Mr Seegol emerge from his fish and chip shop in the middle of the pier, carrying a bucket. He leans out over the water, which swirls dark and silver. He stands there a while, braced against the wind as if listening for something. Then he places the bucket down in the shadows, before going back inside. In a moment, the cheery light from Seegol’s Diner snaps out.

“Poor man,” says Lady Kraken. “Still waiting, I see.”

“But what is this?” I say, marvelling at the magical diorama. “How can we see this here, on the table?”