Warily, testing the way before he took a step, he made room for the others to join him. Constable Peel was the first up.

“Oh, Lor’,” he said as he took in the view. “I don’t feel at all well.”

For a moment, he appeared to want to turn back and take his chances with the vanishing stairs, but Samuel reassured him.

“It’s okay,” he told Constable Peel. “There’s still a floor under us. You can see it if you look hard enough.”

Constable Peel didn’t want to look. Looking meant seeing infinity, or as good as, waiting right beneath his feet. He stretched out a hand to balance himself, and Angry gripped it.

“It’s all right, Constable,” he said. “I have you.”

“If I fall,” said Constable Peel, “I’m taking you with me. At least I’ll die happy.”

With Angry’s help, Constable Peel came to grips with the concept of a floor that both was and wasn’t there. They repeated the process as the rest of the group joined them, until at last they were all standing together, alternating between fear and awe at the terror and majesty of the Multiverse, and at the one construction that really didn’t seem to belong in it, for standing before them was Santa’s Grotto.

Samuel couldn’t understand why they hadn’t noticed it before. Maybe they’d been too concerned with not falling, and with taking in the view, but it was hard to ignore a little stone house with smoke pouring from its chimney and snow on its roof—real snow, because it had now begun to descend on them as well, tickling their faces before melting on their skin. The light flickering through its walls turned from white to orange as they watched, as though a great fire were raging inside.

The door opened, and Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley appeared.

“Look,” said Jolly, “it’s Mr. Smokey-Chimney.”

“So it is,” said Dozy. “Oi, we want a word with you about this job, Slimy-Chopsticks. We’re starting to think that we might not want it after all; that, or you need to pay us more.”

Now it was Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley’s turn to glow red.

“It’s Sinjin-Chumley!” he screamed. “How many times do I have to tell you? Sinjin-Chumley! It’s just two words. How hard can it be?”

Even amid the chaos of the Multiverse, the dwarfs could see that he was annoyed. The dwarfs prided themselves on their sensitivity to the feelings of others.

“Sorry,” said Angry.

“Yes, sorry,” said Jolly and Dozy.

“Applidlespopop,” said Mumbles.

“He says he’s sorry, too,” said Angry.

“Sorry, Mr. . . . ?” said Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley.

He cocked his head, and waited for a reply.

The dwarfs looked at one another. Somebody had to give it a try. Angry, who had decided that he’d had enough of taking the lead for one day, gave Jolly a nudge.

“Sorry,” said Jolly, “Mr. Slimjim . . .”

He ran out of steam. Dozy gave it a try.

“Sorry, Mr. Soapy-Chandling.”

“Mr. Slightly-Chafing.”