I sent Hassan out, righted my chair, and sat on it gaping vacantly at the mirror. I had seen a girl from another time and had spoken to her.
We had conversed, across ages.
It was then that I realized that not only my life had changed, but that the world had changed utterly. Out there gas lamps were being lit, men were hurrying out to taverns to buy their evening meal, theaters were opening their doors, the vast populace of London was teeming in the rainy streets.
Yet here, in this solitary room in a house among a million others, I, John Harcourt Symmes, had broken open the boundaries of time and space.
So when the brick crashed through my window I almost screamed with the sudden shock of it.
It landed on my mahogany desk, scattering papers and books, and I leaped up and ran to the smashed star of the window and stared out.
In the dim shrubbery to the side of my gate a dark figure flickered and was gone.
Hassan came racing in, with the men I had hired. “Get out there,” I snapped at them. “And do your duty!”
Quickly I closed the shutters and picked up the missile. It was a half brick, and I shuddered as I thought how it might have smashed the mirror itself to pieces. Tied to it with a length of dirty string was a note, which I unfolded. It read: “You have stolen from us and we will have our payment. And until we do, you will never sleep soundly again.”
I crushed it in my fist and smiled. The poor wretch from the shop, perhaps. The first thing I would do was have him sought by the officers.
And then, believe me, I would amaze the world.
Soft steam hung in the dimness. Jake looked at Wharton, who stood breathless with his empty extinguisher, surveying the wreckage.
Burnt-out wires glowed like cigarette tips.
Ash drifted in an icy draft.
Sarah hugged herself, the snake bracelet tight in her fist.
Venn picked himself up and pushed past Jake. Ignoring everyone, he ducked through the safety web to the mirror, and when he reached it he put his hands against it, meeting his own contorted reflection.
Piers came from the controls, a zigzag of soot on his forehead.
“The mirror itself is undamaged,” he said. It was almost a plea. “It’s not the end.”
Venn was staring at himself. His hands, maimed by frost, gripped the black glass. For a second Jake was sure he would grasp it tight and pick it up and throw it to floor, shattering it in a million pieces.
But all he did was stare into his own blue eyes, his hands flat on the solid, unforgiving surface.
He seemed to Sarah to be staring at the torment of his failure.
And of hers.
15
If a speculum is polished sufficiently, it becomes invisible. For it doth reflect all about it, so that the eye sees only that which is shown, not the devyse that showeth it. And if a man becomes hard as diamond, faceted and flawed, he too will show nothing of himself, onlie the fractured images of his world.
From The Scrutiny of Secrets by Mortimer Dee
“I’LL TAKE IT,” Sarah said.
Piers looked at her closely. “You’ve had as much of a shock, invisible girl, as him. You should go and rest. It’s almost midnight.”
“The last thing I want is sleep.” She took the tray with the mug on it and turned to the door. The house was silent, its long corridors still. Wharton had finally gone to bed, and where Jake was she had no idea. Failure seemed to hang in the air, as acrid as the lingering stench of smoke. She was tired, and as she walked along the dim corridors, she still felt the terror of the mirror, dragging at her.
But this had to be done.
She knocked on the door.
No answer. “Venn? It’s Sarah.”
She knew he wasn’t asleep. She said, “Let me in. Piers has sent you tea. He’s worried stiff.”
She balanced the tray and groped for the handle, her wrist encircled with a white ring where the snake had grasped it. She eased the door open.
His room. She had expected a mess, like Jake’s, but it was spartan. Nothing on the shelves, no clothes, none of his prized ceramics. The furniture was black, modern, glossily lacquered. In all its surfaces reflected snow was falling.
“Leave me alone, Sarah,” he said, his back to her.
“You are so like Jake. Anyway, you don’t mean that. Part of you must be excited about what we did.”
“Must I?” He was sitting in a chair facing the window.
She put the tray on a table and turned. “I spoke to someone in the past. It’s a breakthrough! Piers will repair the damage.”
“It’s over,” Venn said. “Burned out. Finished.”
His voice chilled her. She walked over to him. “He says it looks worse than it is.”
“He’s lying. You can take your money and go tomorrow. Where the hell you like.”
“I don’t want to—” She stopped. Because he was holding a small revolver in his right hand, loose and careless. As she watched, he cocked the trigger back, and turned its muzzle into his stomach.
The tiny click leaped in her heart.
Tap.
Tap, tap.
Snow was falling on the window. Jake ignored it. He stared into the dim embers of his bedroom fire, the marmoset curled cozily on his lap.
Had Sarah been lying? Maybe the first time, but this time he had heard that voice, that querulous question. Hadn’t he? After the confusion of the explosion he wasn’t even sure anymore.
Was she really some mixed-up patient dragging them all into her madness? Not that Venn needed dragging. And if the Chronoptika had really swallowed his father, could they ever get him back again, especially after this disaster? Piers had been upbeat, but even he could see the damage. If only he could get close to the device on his own, maybe there was some way it would respond to him.
Maybe now, tonight!
Tap. Tap.
The small noise filtered through his drowsiness. He focused on it, realizing suddenly that it was too regular for snow or wind. He put the monkey on his shoulder and went quickly over to the window and listened.
Tap.
Carefully he unlatched the shutter. Nothing. The sill was cluttered with his father’s books; he pushed them aside and knelt up there, Horatio’s arms wrapped firmly around his neck.
Outside, snow fell in slow diagonals, twirling out of the dark. The Wood was a black emptiness against the sky.
With an abruptness that made him yell and jerk back, a figure hauled itself over the sill and gazed in at him. He glimpsed a flicker of eyes, then the bang of a fist on the glass.
Jake opened the casement.
Gideon crouched outside, gripping tight to the ivy. He was white with cold.
“You!” Jake stared.
“I thought I told you to keep a window open!”
Jake shrugged. “Get in before you fall.”
“I can’t. You have to pull me in.”
The wind roared between them. “Why the hell should I?” Jake snapped, irritated.
“Because no one has, for centuries.” Gideon’s fingers slid, bone white on the ivy bines, his eyes green as the leaves. “And because I saved you from Summer and I paid for it. You owe me.”
Jake stared at him.
Then he leaned out and gripped the changeling’s hand, and hauled him in.
Very quietly, so quiet she barely heard her own voice, Sarah said, “For God’s sake, be—”