“Mr. Harcourt Symmes? Good morning, sir. I have to say we weren’t expecting you quite so soon.”
Symmes shoved the letter in his face. “I came at once. This bracelet. It’s exactly as you describe it?”
“I assure you—”
“Then let me see it, man, immediately. I can’t tell you how much this could mean to the scientific research I am in the process of . . .” Blah, blah, blather, blather.
The long and short of it is I’m dragged after them through endless rooms of rust and dust and broken pots. Once I got a big shock and screeched and they both stopped and stared at me.
“What?” Symmes asked.
Couldn’t they see? I pointed at the dead geezer in the painted coffin. Talk about a stiff.
“Oh for heaven’s sake, Moll.” JHS caught my arm and whisked me on. “It’s ancient Egyptian. It’s not going to hurt you.”
He smiled a sort of ghastly grin at the other man. “My niece. I’m bringing her up, having rescued her from . . . a very difficult childhood.”
Owl-Eyes stared at me, his lips as tight as a mouse’s arse.
We got into a big gallery. Owl-Eyes switched the gas on and I saw long glass cases packed full of serious tin—silver, gold, diamonds.
He took out a small key and unlocked a case and lifted out a bracelet.
Me and JHS stared at it.
The silver creature crawled round and swallowed its own tail. An amber crystal glowed in its heart.
I would have recognized it anywhere, even though I really only saw it for a few minutes, when you showed me after we got it back from the thieves at Skimble’s.
Those were the days, eh Jake?
JHS cleared his throat and shook his big shiny head and made a big effort. “Ah. How unfortunate. It is not at all the same. Quite unlike. The whole design is . . . er totally different. Isn’t that so, Moll?”
I nodded, deadpan. “Nothink like it, Uncle John, Your Honor, sir. Nothink like it at all.”
Oberon Venn stood before the obsidian mirror.
In it he could see his own reflection, his face all angles, a pale glimmer in the depths of the dark glass.
For a moment he could not recognize himself. The mirror showed him something insubstantial, wavering, a being caught halfway between existing and not existing. He wondered if it could see into his soul, into the fluttering indecisive thing he had become. That Summer had made of him.
Maskelyne and Gideon watched, the changeling standing, arms folded, in the heart of the malachite web, the scarred man seated at the control panel. The baby, Lorenzo, crawled unnoticed on the dirty floor.
Venn said, “And you’re sure Sarah went after them unseen?”
“Piers says the cat says so.”
Venn nodded, reluctant. “That girl . . . She really is a true Venn.”
He came forward and gripped the silver frame, its unknown letters. As he closed his fingers around it, the mirror gave the smallest shiver; only Maskelyne sensed it, and he looked up and saw that Venn, as always now, was wearing the remaining bracelet locked tight around his wrist.
“Step back,” he said quietly. “The mirror knows you’re there.”
“Does it?” Venn stared into his own cold eyes. “Does it know what I want? Does it know where they all are, the lost ones, Leah, David, Jake?”
Piers came running in, breathless. The little man wore his white lab coat, the pockets stuffed with papers and wires. In his arms he carried a tall pile of books with the marmoset balanced precariously on top of it. Seeing Venn, his gaze widened with alarm.
“Be careful, Excellency.”
Venn was still, as if by his own despair he could conjure something, anything, from those black, heartless depths. When at last he did step back, his face was gaunt.
He turned to Gideon.
“Summer is holding Wharton. As a hostage for you.”
Gideon folded his arms over his patchwork coat. The news was a shock, but he managed to keep his voice steady. “Then I truly feel sorry for him.”
“The fool thought he had some sort of choice, thought he was being heroic, giving himself up.” Venn’s ice-blue gaze held the changeling in contempt. “I won’t force you to go back. But don’t you think you should . . .”
Gideon shrugged, calm. “No, I don’t. Summer doesn’t keep bargains. The Shee don’t understand fair or unfair. If I went back, she’d still torment him and probably imprison both of us in some dungeon in the Summerland. It’s a pity about him. But I’m more use to you here.”
Venn nodded. “A cool judgment. You’ve grown very like them.”
Annoyed, Gideon paled. “I don’t think so.”
“No? If Jake was in your place, he wouldn’t hesitate. He’d be furious, reckless. He’d be storming into the Wood to save Wharton right now.”
That was true; Gideon knew it. He felt the familiar stirring of self-hatred, of shame, but Venn turned away abruptly, and said nothing more.
Gideon breathed out. Then, seeing Piers’s bright eye on him, he growled, “Keep your opinions to yourself, little man. You wouldn’t go.”
“Well no,” Piers said, “I don’t suppose I would. But then I’m not a mortal. I don’t have to be brave and stupid.”
He turned to Venn. “Excellency, this is what you asked for. Like I told you, I found it under a floorboard in Sarah’s room—she had a stash of stuff there. She must have had the hiding place in the future time, when the house is ruined. If that makes sense.” He fished a small gray notebook out of the pile and laid it on the workbench. “And this.”
A black pen, with a capital Z on its cap.
Venn picked the notebook up and opened it.
He flicked through the messages she had written, and Janus’s mocking answers. One of them caught his eye.
DO I HAVE TO SEND MORE OF MY TIME WOLVES AFTER YOU, DEAR SARAH? DO I HAVE TO HUNT YOU DOWN TO STOP YOU DESTROYING THE MIRROR?
NO, I DON’T. I CAN SIT BACK AND SMILE. VENN WILL DO MY JOB FOR ME. VENN WILL PROTECT THE CHRONOPTIKA BECAUSE VENN IS THE MOST SELFISH OF BEINGS. HE WOULD SACRIFICE THE FUTURE OF THE WORLD FOR HIS OWN HAPPINESS. AND SO HE WILL ENABLE MY TYRANNY TO BEGIN.
It stabbed him like a thin blade of fear in his heart, a sliver of ice. It was clever and mocking and it would have hurt her all the more because she would have thought it was true.
Bitter, he looked up. “Why did she communicate with him like this?”
“Know your enemy, they say.” Maskelyne came and picked up the pen. “This is interesting. The notebook is just ordinary paper. The pen, however, is the device that coveys the message. It is some creation of the future. She must have brought it with her.”
Venn took it from him and looked at the letter Z on the cap. Then he said, “It makes me think. What if it was Janus who took Jake? What if Sarah guessed that when she went after them? Who else can send Replicants across time?”
“We won’t know, unless—”
“Unless we ask him.”
Venn took the black pen and strode to the mirror. In huge, angry letters he scrawled a message over the black glass.
WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH JAKE?
Through the hothouse window Sarah saw a paradise such as she had never believed could really exist. She opened the door and went out and stared.
A great park stretched downhill before her, its green lawns perfectly smooth. Between neat paths, formal gardens were laid out in squares and rectangles, immaculate with parterres of white shell, dark cinders, crushed terracotta gravel. Box trees, cut in precise balls or tidy triangles, stood in containers. Great urns of roses perfumed the summer air, and as she looked up, doves rose in a cloud from the roof of the hothouse.
“My message was for you to wait inside!”
Sarah turned.
The thin Englishman was back; with a shock she r
ealized that he could see her.
Behind him a château, a vast white sugar-icing palace rose against the blue sky, its windows perfect, its symmetrical steps leading up to a pillared colonnade.
He glanced around. Grabbing her arm, he hustled her back into the steamy greenhouse. “Bloody stupid girl!” He hurried to the Conjurer automaton and pulled a parcel from under its seat. “These are your clothes. Your contact in the kitchen is the woman called Madame Lepage. She’s in the plot. Get changed, quickly.”
She said, “But you. You’re—”
“Long Tom. I’m inside too, with the metal puppets. You know all about the plan? You can do what we need?”
Baffled, she said, “Of course . . . But—”
“Good. Then hurry! Get dressed now.”
He shoved the parcel at her; she took it and ducked between the giant leaves.
The Scribe automata watched her with its vacant glass eyes; she wished it could truly answer questions because she had absolutely no idea at all what was going on here. Opening the parcel, she found the dark plain dress of a kitchen maid, a white apron, a frilly cap. As she changed quickly, bundling her own clothes into the bag, she said, “You snatched the boy Jake, didn’t you?”
“How the hell do you know about that?”
“I heard . . . talk.”
“Yes, we got him.” The tall man laughed. “Went straight in and kidnapped him from his bed. Arrogant brat too. Don’t know why she was so keen.”
Sarah paused, half buttoned. “She?”
“Some sort of twisted revenge, maybe? Some joke? You never know with our little contessa. Are you done?”
She hurried out, breathless.
“Why is your hair so short!” He glanced at her, anxious. “Well, maybe the cap hides that . . . Remember, your name is Adelie, you’re madame’s niece, just here tonight to help for the Midsummer Ball.”
She said, “I don’t know a word of French.”
Long Tom swore a lurid oath. “Where in hell’s dregs did they find you? Then just keep your mouth shut. Okay?”
Bewildered, she nodded. “Okay,” she said.
As he turned swiftly toward the château, she said, panicking, “About the ball . . .”
He glanced back. “The vicomte’s invited half of Paris. You know what to do. The door in the moon has to be open by the stroke of midnight. Don’t forget.” He pulled his hat on, wiped his sweaty forehead with his sleeve. “Too hot here. Too dangerous. We must be mad.”
Then he was gone, a flicker in the brilliant sunlight.
Sarah smoothed her dress with shaky hands. All right. Think. They—whoever they were—had mistaken her for some other girl. They could journey. They had the mirror, and at least one bracelet. And they were planning something for the Midsummer Ball, something that involved Jake.
Which meant, presumably, that they would be bringing him here.
To do what? What was this plot? To steal something? Murder someone?
She looked up. The glorious confection of the château stood serene under its blue sky. But a few miles back there, in Paris, the crowds were screaming around the guillotine. Blood was running in the gutters, and mobs roaming the streets. How long before the heedless aristocrats holed up here felt that wrath?
She had to find out more. About where Jake was, and about the mysterious contessa.
Not to mention, she thought as she set off for the kitchens, about finding a door in the moon.
7
At last the Abbot himself said, “I will enter the dark Wood and face the demons in my own guise. And if our lost brother is there, I will find him, and with God’s grace and the protection of the holy saints, I will bring him home.”
Wiser monks shook their heads and counseled him not to venture. Because they knew what fiends, what temptations, lurk’d in those desolate places.
Chronicle of Wintercombe
SHE CAME FORWARD, out of the shadows, small and smiling.
“Moll!” he said. “How can it—”
He turned, and stopped.
She seemed to transform. From a small dirty child to a girl, as if time accelerated before him. As she unfastened her hood and swung off the dark cloak, he stared with astonishment.
She said, “Time don’t stop, Jake. I’ve been waiting an age for you.”
He saw a girl of about fifteen, dressed in a gown of maroon-and-black velvet.
Lace gloves covered her fingers. Her hair, dark and lustrous, was pinned up in an elaborate style. Earrings, glinting with diamonds, hung at her ears.
She was slim and beautiful and cleaner than he was.
His face must have shown only shock, because she giggled. “You should see your face, cully. Have I changed all that much, then?”
He swallowed. “No . . . but you’ve . . .”
“Grown up?” She came forward, her dress swishing on the floor, and he saw then that it was too big for her. “How long for you, then, Jake, since you went back through the mirror at Symmes’s place? Five months? Six?”
“Six.”
“Not long.” She sat on a striped sofa and leaned back. “Not for you. Five whole years for me.” She winked, a coy, knowing look. “Catching up with you, Jake.”
He was devastated. The cheeky, bold urchin he had known was transmuted into a girl who had probably seen more of life than he had, and he felt bewildered. As if he was the child and she the adult.
He said, “They didn’t kidnap you too?”
She giggled, gleeful. “Lord, there’s no they, Jake, luv. Just me and the boys. Surprised?”
She sat on the sofa, demure, then tiring of that, swung her legs up and sat with them crossed.
Jake stared. “You mean . . . My God, Moll! I was scared stiff! He had a gun and—”
Moll laughed. “Empty, Jake. Wouldn’t have had you hurt. But what a lark! I knew you’d love it. All that malarky with the gag and stuff.”
He had no idea what to say. He had forgotten her wildness, her fearlessness. He was angry, furious with her.
She tapped the seat beside her. “Come on, Jake. No hard feelings?”
And then he saw, under the lace of her glove, a slim edge. Grabbing her hand, he slid the glove down and stared at the bracelet.
“Moll, where did you get this? Did Symmes . . . But no, we know that Symmes never had one, because in the end he entered the mirror without one, so—”
“You don’t know zilch, Jake luv.” She was looking at him as if she feasted on the sight of him.
He dropped her hand, realizing. “And to get me you’d have had to travel into the future! How is that possible? We’ve never been able to do anything like that yet!”
“I worked a few things out. You don’t know half of what that black glass can do. But I do, Jake.” She shrugged. “I’ve just about sold my soul to the thing to find out. Because I had to, cully, once I worked out that you was never coming back for me.”
He sat, slowly, beside her. “Moll, like you said, it’s only been six months. I would have come, I meant to, but things have gone crazy. I tried to find my father and ended up in World War Two—well, you won’t know what that is—and then I did find him, but I lost him again.” He shook his head, stabbed suddenly by the pain of that, his father in the frayed doctor’s robe, the terrible heat of the plague-ridden city. Then, looking up, he stopped, because what did any of that mean to her?
For her it had been years.
Moll put her lacy fingers together and said calmly, “I waited, Jake. Waited and waited. And you never came. I was a kid from the slums back then, the lowest dregs of the street. All I knew was cheek and snatching purses and being fast on my feet. And then you came. All big and brave and handsome. You crashed in like a hurricane—you and Venn—and blew my life apart. Little girls have stupid crushes, Jake, luv. Mine was with you. The boy from the
future.”
“Moll . . .”
She ignored him. “I was so sure you’d come back. We’d journey off to some city of glass buildings and magic machines, and there’d be fun and adventures and food and friends. Symmes gave me some clothes and a bag and I kept it all packed ready, for weeks, Jake. Months. Before I started thinking you’d forgotten me.”
“I never forgot you!” He jumped, up, paced. “For God’s sake, it’s only been six months, Moll. I will—”
She watched him, calm. “It’s been five years. And you never did come.”
That silenced him.
He said, “How did you get the bracelet?”
“Blimey. That’s a tale. You’ll have to read my diary. I’m going to leave it for you, Jake, somewhere you’ll be sure to find it. Anyway, me and Symmes got hold of it.” She laughed. “And that was too big a temptation, Jake. Once a thief, always a thief. Symmes needed money for the experiments—he got married to this stuck-up piece what hated my guts. So I left, and I took the bracelet with me. Set up on my own.”
He sat back down. The room was shadowy, but he saw now it was sumptuous; hung with heavy drapes, its tables littered with lamps and precious porcelain, silver dishes and etched glass. A door opened and a manservant came in, powdered and silent in silver livery, and began to lay the table with fresh linen.
Moll took Jake’s arm and cuddled up close. “Know what you made me, Jake? You made me the best jewel thief in all the world. Because with the mirror I can steal anything, all across time, and journey away and never get caught. Such adventures I’ve had, Jake, such close shaves! The Sultan of Oman’s Yellow Opal, I stole that, and we robbed the Duchess of Lindsey in her carriage on the Dover road, and then there’s the Charing Cross Bank job—ever hear about that one?”
He sat silent as she detailed amazing and daring exploits, as she jumped up and gleefully acted out how she’d climbed the wall at Chatsworth House, how her gang had tunneled under the vaults of Dublin Castle. And as he watched he saw that maybe he was wrong, maybe she hadn’t changed, hadn’t grown up at all.