The thieves had drunk themselves into oblivion. They lay sprawled on the cluttered stage, one on a bench, the other curled in a heap of old coats and cloaks, only his head showing.
The women had gone.
“Right.” Jake glanced up at the swinging bag. “We need to lower that. Are there some pulleys?”
She looked at him sadly, as if he were the child of ten. “Not as works, cully. You have to climb.”
He scowled. Silently, she pushed him through the door out of the balcony.
The sleeping theater was a nest of rats. They scattered in rustling scutters as the small girl led Jake, her hand in his, along the rotting corridors. Ancient posters hung in rags, layer upon layer of lost comedy acts and forgotten singers, of plays mildewed into obscurity.
The backstage area was a maze of bedding and rubbish. A woman squatting in a corner turned and stared at them, and Jake saw she held a baby, swaddled tight to her chest.
Moll put her finger to her lips; the woman stared, blank with weariness.
What had once been the wings stank now; pools of what Jake hoped was water ran on the boards, some of which had been ripped up for firewood.
He paused.
The bag of loot swung overhead. It was at least fifteen meters up, and the rope it hung from snaked down and was firmly tied around the big thief’s waist.
Jake swore, silently.
Moll tugged him down, her small lips tickled his ear. “Look there. You’ll have to climb.”
Slung next to it was a thicker cable, rising in a great loop. He gazed at it, then at the men. He said, “Right. You stay here. If they wake, they mustn’t look up. Do you understand?”
“Clear as muck, Jake.”
He took the cable in his hands. It was filthy, and the fibers creaked, but it was strong and as he tested it carefully he knew it would support him. He slid his hands up, gripped with his feet, and began to climb.
Hand over hand he hauled himself up. The rope’s end twitched and swayed; then it came loose from somewhere and skittered over the stage, making a soft rustle that froze him in fear.
The big thief snored.
Moll, crouched in the darkness, gave him a double thumbs-up. He climbed on.
Soon his hands were red and sore, his knees and back one fierce ache. The higher he went, the more the rope swung, its end kinking and flicking. Up here it was dark, and sweat stung his eyes, but at last he was alongside the bag, its dim shape an arm’s length away.
This was tricky. He tried to reach out and grab it. Twice he missed.
The third time, with an effort, he forced the cable to swing, and as the swing brought him close he caught at the bag and this time held it, the leather soft and yielding. Gently, he drew it toward him.
The cord leading down strained tight around the fat man’s belly. He snuffled and muttered something in his sleep, flinging out one arm.
Carefully, gripping only with knees and ankles, Jake eased his hand inside the bag. He felt cloth, the greasy edges of coins. He felt the solid round lump of a gentleman’s watch. And he felt the bracelet.
Its snake form was cold under his fingers.
He tugged at it.
Coins slid and clinked. He had it but it was tangled on something in there; he pulled it again with more force.
The rope swung, the cable swept. In a sudden dizzying moment he lost his grip; his ankles slid, he grabbed wildly at the rope and at once he was upside-down, gasping, the snake bracelet ripped from the bag of loot that tipped out all its contents, crashing, tumbling, an iron rain, onto the sleepers on the stage.
Sarah said quietly, “I never actually said that girl was me. I let you believe it. I saw the report in the paper and the photograph was like me. It was too good a chance to waste.”
They were all gazing at her as if they didn’t know her anymore. It was hard, but she pushed the cropped hair behind her ear and floundered on. “My name is really Sarah, just not Stewart. I…”
Wharton pointed to the coin. “Explain that. In the journal, Symmes is given it as a token. Zeus. Why is it significant?” His voice betrayed his anger.
She stared. “You read the journal?”
Wharton looked slightly red. “Well, I went into Jake’s room and there was all this stuff…”
She nodded. “The journal is about the past. I don’t come from the past. I come from the future.”
Rebecca stifled a grin; Sarah’s eyes flickered to her. “Don’t laugh at me.” She glanced back at Wharton. “He believes me.”
He shrugged. “Yesterday…an hour ago…I would have laughed too.”
“She’s telling the truth.” Gideon’s voice was cool and disinterested. “I’ve seen her—she was a little girl. They took—will take—her parents away.”
She stared at him, dizzied by the way all time was one for him. Then she said, “I will be born here. But my Wintercombe is a ruin. A place of ghosts. A colony where ragged people live like rats, and where I hide my secrets in a hiding-hole in a brambled room.” She shrugged, and went and sat on the inglenook bench, staring into the flames. “I can’t tell you all of it. But there was a man in the camp called Janus. He started off as one of us. One of the revolutionaries. Gradually, he changed. Became one of them. My father said, ‘He’s going too far. Thinks he’s more important than the cause.’ One night, in winter, we heard him on the radio. TV was long gone, the Internet dead. We heard Janus and we knew he was all that was left. My mother laughed, but my father was afraid. It only took an hour after that for the headlights of the trucks to come roaring down the drive. They took my parents away. I don’t know where. They took me to the Labyrinth.”
Gideon came softly and sat next to her. “A place of terror?”
She laughed. “A place where I learned to be invisible. A place of secret experiments and strange procedures. A place where they studied humans, how to make them more than mortal.”
He laughed too. “More than mortal!”
Rebecca shivered.
“But a few of us were stubborn.” Sarah looked up. “We formed a resistance cell. We called ourselves ZEUS because of the coin, and because of the story, the legend in Greek mythology…”
“What legend?” Rebecca asked,
Wharton nodded. “I see. Chronos—that is Time—was a Titan who murdered all his sons one by one. Until Zeus was born. Zeus was the one who defeated Time.” He looked at her. “How many of you were there?”
She shrugged. “Six. Six friends. Angry, disaffected kids with no hope. No plan. Until we found out about the mirror.”
Wharton got up and put a new log on the fire, pushing it well down into the hot red embers. “So you get yourself in here, you make us feel so sorry for you, you lie and pretend, and all the time you want to steal the mirror?” His anger was sharp as a wasp. He stood there and dusted his hands and held her with his annoyingly honest stare.
“Not to steal,” she said quickly.
“Then…”
“To protect it. From Janus ever getting it.”
She glanced at Gideon. He sat in the inglenook, watching the crackling fire. His hands were around his knees, his whole body twisted away from the iron work. He was listening intently.
She hurried to escape the lie, maybe too quickly. “He’s experimented with it. We don’t know details, but we do know that it works and that he’s journeyed because…because of the Replicants.”
Wharton said, “All this is fascinating, but…”
“No, please. Listen.” She turned to him, her blue eyes fierce. “This is important. If a journeyman makes a mistake…if you come back at the wrong time…that is, if you come back before you leave…don’t you see? There will be two of you. We call it replication. Janus must have done that, because he has at least several Replicants. One of them is here, outside, in the grounds. Now.”
“And the wolf,” Gideon said. “Don’t forget the wolf.”