Two hours later, in the Library...
He’s tried everything.
That old fiddle is lying in the corner. He’s tried that. And broke the bow too; it’s lying over there, in three pieces against the door’s foot panel.
Milk isn’t doing it, there are fifteen different bottles on the floor, at least. He sticks his finger at each of them to show her, counting as he adjusts her for the seventeenth time, switching to the other elbow.
“Maybe the machine is off...” he reasons aloud, wandering into the hallway and snapping his fingers. The room with the drinks machine slips silently into place behind the door. He goes in.
He looks down at Susan. “Oh, goodness,” he breathes, hopping gently with excitement as his foot connects. “Milk, water, milk, water. Boring!”
Susan’s lip begins to shiver, and a deeply doleful cry bubbles from her little throat.
“Oh ho ho, that’s all right my precious child, it’s just a nasty old machine! Not the one we need, anyhow. How’s about...” he spins around, distracting her for the moment with the sudden, dizzying movement while he grabs a random doorknob, “... we try this one? It’s bound to have something good inside!”
The sleek silver door opens on a small, circular room.
There is a strange tree of cables in the center, from which nothing seems to be hanging, yet.