So the advertising industry isn't in charge of all this then? Who then is? It's easy to follow the clues back. And yet what to think next? We are obviously in the hands of an omnipotent, omniscient figure. He can do almost anything he wants. He can block all communication between Paris and London. He can make all the men that I see ugly. He can even make it impossible for me to complete my song by stealing all the words that I need to write it. So what's the answer? Do I even want to know?

Such were Claire's thoughts that day. She knew the answer by now of course, but she was not sure if she wanted to take the final step and allow herself to recognise it. It was painfully like coming up against God. Who wants to acknowledge God, with all that follows? Finally Claire took a deep breath and decided that she might as well get it over with. It was something that she had to know, in spite of anything that might come later.

'OK, Mr Author. I'm coming after you now.' Claire set her teeth and began to carefully examine her surroundings for holes.

What is this? Is she really talking to me now or is this just another trick of some kind? What does she expect me to do? What can I do? I can't give her what she wants. I just can't. I am not that powerful. No. I am not that generous, when it comes right down to it. I could give her Gerald and a lifetime of happiness, but then what about me? Don't I deserve some of the happiness I've created for her? It seems only fair. Why should Gerald end up with her? What has he done to deserve it? Don't tell me that he loves her more than me. I created her. Hell. How could anybody love her more?

Out on the balcony that lead off from her flat, Claire discovered the hole she had been looking for. It had never been fully described, just pencilled in as background information. The words were still raw and unfinished. She began to prise them loose. At first it was difficult. She had to prevent the words that made up her fingers from mingling and dissolving into the words that made up the balcony. But her fingers, her hands, had been much more firmly described than the balcony ever had been and so at length she prevailed and began to peel the words back from her world, revealing a passage through into somewhere else. It took great courage to move forward at this point.

Claire finally discovered how to slip between the words, and walked into a study where an old man was typing, bent over an aging portable Oliver typewriter that was thick with dust in the places where the fingers never reached. Dust gathered thickly in the room, even covering the old man's shoulders. He had not moved very far in a long time. An old man with white hair growing out of far to many places where hair should never be allowed to grow. He was wearing formal clothes. White tie and tails, a top hat held a pair of gloves on the table. There seemed to be a spider living in it. Cobwebs had begun to gather over the surroundings. There was a fire burning low in the ancient fireplace. The study was thick and heavy with the smell of old literature, old thoughts. Old vices, though such a thing is scarcely acceptable to the young and Claire was unwilling to follow the thought through. The obvious allusion to Miss Haversham ran into Claire's mind. And yet, there was something more here. Possibly something worse. Perhaps better. It was just different. She did not seem to be able to cast the old man as a character in a novel, that was all. He was more real than anybody she had ever seen before. At the same time he was less real. He was presented to Claire as a person who had been granted far more reality than she could ever have and yet had done far less with it than she had done with hers. He seemed to be half asleep as he continued to type. Claire suddenly realised that if he were ever to stop typing, she would no longer exist. The old man blinked and read back over what he had been typing, while at the same time never ceasing to type. The tapping of the keys chimed in time with Claire's heart beat.

The sound of the typewriter was very loud in the stillness of the room. Claire did not think that he was aware of her presence and moved closer to him to try and read what it was that he was typing. She had a dreadful feeling that she knew exactly what it was. Somehow she still felt pity for the old man. She walked towards the typewriter. The old man looked up at the sound of her footsteps. He saw Claire and drew in a shuddering breath. His hands froze over the keys and he stopped typing.

For a moment Claire flickered out of existence. There was nothing there except the old man and his typewriter. The old man gazed at the sheet of paper that had come out of his typewriter and wondered what he should do now. You may think that it would have been very easy for me at this point to tear the sheet from the machine and crumple it up. Begin a new chapter in which this situation need not occur. But she was here. I did not know how she had managed it but she was standing next to me in my study looking at me. I had not thought it was possible for a man to feel such conflicting emotions. Should I let her free into my world? And what if she said no? I hesitated over this decision for a long time. For days I did not touch the typewriter. The sheet remained to laugh at me. What was I thinking? I must let her go, tear the sheet out, rewrite. She should be with her Gerald of course. But if that were true why had she come to me instead of going to him? How could I ever let her go? At length I returned to the machine, determined to see it through no matter what happened. That determination is the only thing I am proud of now.

Claire stood over the typewriter and attempted to read what had been typed. The old man ignored her, head bent over his machine, continuing to give her life enough to do so. He knew she could not read it of course. The ribbon had long ago disintegrated and he had been typing into a void. It was enough that the striking of keys continued to make her heart beat, her lungs draw in air, her clocks chime. The old man felt Claire close by his shoulder and a tear dripped from his eye, moistening the strikers enough that a few words appeared on the page.

'I know you are very sad,' said Claire. 'But you must not make me live my life through your tears. It is very wicked of you. I do not even talk like this in reality. You know this kind sir. I beg of you to set me free of a promise I never willingly gave you. I fear I do not belong in a Jane Austen novel, no matter the manner in which I may be speaking at present.' Claire touched my shoulder. I wish very much that she had not done so, but there is little I can do about it now. After that touch, my path was laid out clearly before me. I would do anything - anything - to feel that touch again, even if only once and to never be repeated. I promise this to you. Claire moved from my side. 'You don't speak French, do you?' she said as she moved away.

'I'll be back later you know,' she said. 'I've almost got the proof I need.' Claire left the room and returned to her apartment in Paris. She now knew how to write her song. She only hoped that it wasn't too late. I wish that her hope could be of some use. I really do. But that touch. That touch. It haunted me for days in which I could do nothing but read over that single sentence. Claire touched my shoulder. Claire touched my shoulder. Claire touched my shoulder. Surely she must have known what it would mean? At least she said that she was coming back.

How is she going to write her song?