I judge a bookstore by the number of Diana Wynne Jones novels it stocks. The late British author wrote some of the twentieth century’s most widely lauded science-fiction and fantasy (SFF). She clinched more honors than I should list, including two World Fantasy Awards. Neil Gaiman, author of American Gods, called her “the best children’s writer of the last forty years” in 2010—and her books suit children of all ages.¹ But Wynne Jones passed away as I was finishing college, and her books have been disappearing from American bookshops. The typical shop stocks, at best, a book in the series she began with Howl’s Moving Castle, which Hayao Miyazaki adapted into an animated film.

I don’t recall the last time I glimpsed Deep Secret in a bookshop, but it ranks amongst my favorite Wynne Jones books—and favorite books, full-stop. So I relished living part of that book this spring.

Deep Secret centers on video-game programmer Rupert Venables. Outside of his day job, he works as a Magid, a magic user who helps secure peace and progress across the multiple worlds. Another Magid has passed away, and Rupert must find a replacement for him. How does Rupert track down and interview his candidates? By consolidating their fate lines so that the candidates converge on an SFF convention. Of course.

My fate line drew me to an SFF convention this May. Balticon takes place annually in Baltimore, Maryland. It features not only authors, agents, and publishers, but also science lecturers. I received an invitation to lecture about quantum steampunk—not video-game content,² but technology-oriented like Rupert’s work. I’d never attended an SFF convention,³ so I reread Deep Secret as though studying for an exam.

Rupert, too, is attending his first SFF convention. A man as starched as his name sounds, Rupert packs suits, slacks, and a polo-neck sweater for the weekend—to the horror of a denim-wearing participant. I didn’t bring suits, in my defense. But I did dress business-casual, despite having anticipated that jeans, T-shirts, and capes would surround me.

I checked into a Renaissance Hotel for Memorial Day weekend, just as Rupert checks into the Hotel Babylon for Easter weekend. Like him, I had to walk an inordinately long distance from the elevators to my room. But Rupert owes his trek to whoever’s disrupted the magical node centered on his hotel. My hotel’s architects simply should have installed more elevator banks.

Balticon shared much of its anatomy with Rupert’s con, despite taking place in a different century and country (not to mention world). Participants congregated downstairs at breakfast (continental at Balticon, waitered at Rupert’s hotel). Lectures and panels filled most of each day. A masquerade took place one night. (I slept through Balticon’s; impromptu veterinary surgery occupies Rupert during his con’s.) Participants vied for artwork at an auction. Booksellers and craftspeople hawked their wares in a dealer’s room. (None of Balticon’s craftspeople knew their otherworldly subject matter as intimately as Rupert’s Magid colleague Zinka Fearon does, I trust. Zinka paints her off-world experiences when in need of cash.)

In our hotel room, I read out bits of Deep Secret to my husband, who confirmed the uncanniness with which they echoed our experiences. Both cons featured floor-length robes, Batman costumes, and the occasional slinky dress. Some men sported long-enough locks, and some enough facial hair, to do a Merovingian king proud. Rupert registers “a towering papier-mâché and plastic alien” one night; on Sunday morning, a colossal blow-up unicorn startled my husband and me. We were riding the elevator downstairs to breakfast, pausing at floor after floor. Hotel guests packed the elevator like Star Wars fans at a Lucasfilm debut. Then, the elevator halted again. The doors opened on a bespectacled man, 40-something years old by my estimate, dressed as a blue-and-white unicorn. The costume billowed out around him; the golden horn towered multiple feet above his head. He gazed at our sardine can, and we gazed at him, without speaking. The elevator doors shut, and we continued toward breakfast.

Despite having read Deep Secret multiple times, I savored it again. I even laughed out loud. Wynne Jones paints the SFF community with the humor, exasperation, and affection one might expect of a middle-school teacher contemplating her students. I empathize, belonging to a community—the physics world—nearly as idiosyncratic as the SFF community.⁴ Wynne Jones’s warmth for her people suffuses Deep Secret; introvert Rupert surprises himself by enjoying a dinner with con-goers and wishing to spend more time with them. The con-goers at my talk exhibited as much warmth as any audience I’ve spoken to, laughing, applauding, and asking questions. I appreciated sojourning in their community for a weekend.⁵

This year, my community is fêting the physicists who founded quantum theory a century ago. Wynne Jones sparked imaginations two decades ago. Let’s not let her memory slip from our fingertips like a paperback over which we’re falling asleep. After all, we aren’t forgetting Louis de Broglie, Paul Dirac, and their colleagues. So check out a Wynne Jones novel the next time you visit a library, or order a novel of hers to your neighborhood bookstore. Deep Secret shouldn’t be an actual secret.

With thanks to Balticon’s organizers, especially Miriam Winder Kelly, for inviting me and for fussing over their speakers’ comfort like hens over chicks.

¹Wynne Jones dedicated her novel Hexwood to Gaiman, who expressed his delight in a poem. I fancy the comparison of Gaiman, a master of phantasmagoria and darkness, to a kitten.

²Yet?

³I’d attended a steampunk convention, and spoken at a Boston SFF convention, virtually. But as far as such conventions go, attending virtually is to attending in person as my drawings are to a Hayao Miyazaki film.

⁴But sporting fewer wizard hats.

⁵And I wonder what the Diana Wynne Jones Conference–Festival is like.