Sadie Madison and the Boy in the Crimson Scarf

Michael Madison's "The Woman Who Labelled Everything"

In a majestic house, on an immaculate street, opposite the Royal Park in Ville de Feuilles—the City of Leaves—lived a wealthy woman named Estelle Gautreau.

Split over five floors, her house was filled to the rafters with books, paintings, ornaments and antiques; glamorous clothing and costumes, jewellery, shoes and wigs; flawless wooden furniture, couches, armchairs and chaise longues; tiny silver thimbles, spoons, pill coffers, snuff boxes and cigarette cases; and every type of possession and collectable you care to mention.

Sitting in her house, surrounded by her belongings every day, made Estelle happy beyond all imagining. But a sadness lingered in her heart. Something was missing. Something she coveted more than anything else in the world.

Now, the City of Leaves is famous throughout Norland for its New Year celebrations.

One year, the Royal Park opposite Estelle Gautreau's house had been chosen to hold the New Year festivities. She watched with fevered anticipation as the carnival arrived and an army of roustabouts worked tirelessly rigging a sea of tents and a cavalcade of fairground attractions.

When New Year's Eve arrived, Estelle dressed in her finest clothes and wandered through the makeshift avenues of tents and pop-up eateries, their sounds and smells filling her with wonder. She sampled whiskey-glazed pork skewers; toffee-flavoured tea coated with fluffy cream and chocolate flakes; fried potatoes dripping with cheeses from all over the world; and, to her astonishment, found herself standing outside a fortune-tellers tent, considering whether she should enter.

Now, Estelle was a cautious woman, not one to be taken by frivolous notions such as fate and destiny. But she soon found herself sat in a candlelit tent with a strange man's hands on hers. "Why have you come?" he asked.

"I do not know," she replied. "I felt...compelled."

"What is it you seek?"

"Nothing," she replied. "I have everything. More than I need."

"Yet there is something missing," he told her. "In your heart, Estelle. A longing. A need. Something money cannot buy."

Estelle pulled her hands away. "How do you know such things?" She looked around desperately. "How do you know my name?"

The fortune-teller folded his hands beneath the table. "Do not be afraid. Speak from your heart."

Estelle's bottom lip quivered. "Love," she said, finally. "I wish to be loved."

The fortune-teller stared at Estelle for a moment. "To find love—true love—you must let people into your life," he told her. "Relinquish the hold on your material things. Collect memories and experiences, not possessions. Talk to every stranger. Accept every invitation. Live in a way you have never lived before. Do this, and love can be yours."

Back home, Estelle walked through every room and admired her belongings. She brushed the back of her hand against the furniture, ran her fingers over rugs and silver jewellery, smelt the polish and incense and the wealth packed into each room. Finally, at the stroke of midnight—as fireworks erupted in a storm of colour from the Royal Park—she hauled the bottom drawer of her armoire open and lifted out a nickel-plated Dymograph.

A Dymograph, if you didn't already know, is a compact typewriter. It prints words onto small strips of parchment and adds an adhesive to the reverse. She spent the entire night printing Dymograph labels and sticking them to everything around her. Item #00001: Bedside tables (pair). Mahogany, two drawers. Item #00002: Hand-forged, wrought-iron bed, dragon-size, brass bed knobs. Item #00003: Rug, Persian, labyrinth design. And so on.

As she dymographed each item, she measured the dimensions and noted them in a large, leather-bound journal. She took a pictogram of each item and developed them in her dark room. After almost two days of typing and measuring and pictography and scribbling, Estelle had done her entire bedroom—six hundred and fifty-eight items in total.