He realized he must be in one of the lowest sinks of the city, some slum so lost and dark that he felt all hope of rescue go out in his heart like a candle.
Turning, he saw the men were lowering a long package from the roof of the carriage; they handled it carefully, as if it was precious.
“You, stand aside,” one of the men snapped.
He didn’t move.
They shoved him back, and the package, all corded in sackcloth, was carried past him. Tall as a man, a thin flat slab of something delicate and heavy. He felt a stab of fierce joy. It had to be the mirror.
They carried it down the alley, one man at each corner. The final man, the one with the pistol, nudged Jake to follow.
Fog lurked in the doorways. Smoke clung to the rooftops. Under his feet the cobbles were treacherous with slime. Halfway down, he passed a huddled, miserable tent of rags; a half-starved child peeped out at him, then darted back in alarm. Jake stumbled on, trying to think, but he was so tired now his brain was numbed and he had to force himself to keep his head up and take notice. There was nowhere too dismal for Jake Wilde. But he wished desperately that Sarah or Wharton were here. Wintercombe Abbey seemed a thousand years away.
The street sloped downward; the stench grew worse. Then he realized they were coming to the river. The Seine was a wide, black flood, its mud banks littered with refuse that a few beggars picked over for scraps of food.
“Down the steps,” the man muttered.
“Not much of a talker, are you,” Jake said. Make some connection with the kidnappers. Get them to talk to you. Scenarios from old books and films flitted through his tired mind. “That’s the mirror, isn’t it. But none of you are the two who came for me. And who’s behind this? Who’s paying you?”
The nudge of the pistol against his cheek silenced him. “Shut up. Get in the boat.”
He was pushed down a set of creaking wooden stairs. The river lapped at his feet, sucked at his boots. He climbed quickly into the boat, the last man followed and cast off, and they began to row downstream.
It was a journey through a nightmare. To each side the city rose, its church pinnacles, its crowded slums and rickety tenements. Lights flared, a woman cried out. Drunken men laughed on the waterfront. Almost silent, the boat floated on, the ripple of the oars barely heard among the noise of the quays.
Once they passed below the shell of what had been a great palace, all its empty windows lit with flames, fires still burning in its courtyard, and Jake said, “Is this the Tuileries?” He knew that palace had been destroyed in the Revolution.
To his surprise the man beside him said, “Bloody cut-throats. Call themselves Citizens! This would never happen in England.”
One of the rowers grunted in agreement. “Sooner we get the goods and get out of this crib, the better. Before all our heads get chopped.”
As he spoke they came under a wharf, wooden piles rising around them. It stank so foully Jake put a hand over his nose and mouth and tried not to breathe. Looking up he saw a dilapidated sign swinging in the wind. Le Chat Noir, a dark cat with yellow eyes. The boat rocked as one of the rowers stood and thumped upward with the oar.
A dull thud.
Then another, answering.
A trapdoor crashed down.
Jake was hauled up. He found himself in a cellar, moldy with damp, its walls green with slime. “Up again.” The man with the pistol gestured; leaving the others to unload the mirror, he pushed Jake up some stairs in the corner to a door, which he unlocked. “Go on.”
Jake shook his head, uneasy. “You first.”
“What, you think we’ve brought you through time and tide to top you? Bloody thick, are you? Why she thinks you’re so . . .” He stopped. Then, angrily, “Get on.”
Jake climbed the stair and opened the door.
To his great surprise he found a comfortably furnished room. His wet boots sank into a deep rug. A long table, laid with silver dishes glittering in the light of five crystal candelabra, each with branches of bright candles.
Plates of food littered the surface—roasted meats, steaming vegetables, sauces. Sweet, sticky confections of cream and sugar and cinnamon were piled haphazardly on delicate porcelain plates. A carafe of dark wine stood by a cask of beer.
Jake went straight for it. He drank some wine and felt its heat flood through him; then he sat, pulled up a plate, and ate with concentration and speed.
After ten minutes he felt a lot better. He took a breath, wiped his lips with a napkin, took another long swig of wine.
Then he looked up, and saw in the warped silver side of a tureen that someone was standing in a doorway behind him, watching him; a slim, dark, cloaked shape.
His heart leaped.
“Dad?” he whispered, in wild hope.
Venn’s temper was so spectacular that most of the Shee had fled to the safety of the treetops. Now as he picked up a chair and hurled it into the bracken, so that the frail wood splintered against a tree trunk, even Wharton winced.
He had made himself tell the story of the kidnapping very clearly, and without emotion. Summer had smiled her pretty red lips throughout, even laughed a cold tinkle of laughter when she heard of Sarah’s disappearance. Could she be behind this? He wouldn’t be at all surprised.
Now she said, “Calm down, Venn. It’s nothing that need bother us.”
He swung on her. “Someone comes into my house through the mirror, kidnaps my godson—”
“You know very well the boy means nothing to you.”
“Summer, he’s David’s son. That means something.”
“Still?” She pouted. “Oh, that’s so disappointing, Venn. I thought you’d got beyond all that.”
“All that!” Venn came and stood over her. “David was . . . is . . . my friend.”
“You don’t have friends, Venn. You have tools. People you use for as long as you need them, and then discard. Or forget. Or ignore. That’s the Shee in you, my sweet.” She smoothed her dress, sat up, and swung her legs around, poised daintily on the edge of the lounger. “But if it irritates you, I can send my people to find Jake.”
“Well, do it then.” Sullen, he turned his back on her and glared at Wharton. “How the hell could you let this happen!”
“Me?” Wharton was astounded at the man’s arrogance.
“You’re the teacher. You’re supposed to be looking after him.”
“Now look bloody here.” Wharton stormed forward, ignoring a titter of mirth from the treetops. “First, you’re the boy’s guardian. He’s in your house. But you’re not there, are you, oh no. You spend all your time out here, in this godforsaken wasteland with these flim-flam creatures. What’s the matter with you, man? Has she got you under some spell, that you can’t get control of yourself, do your duty, get yourself back on track? A few problems with the mirror and you’re gone, bored with it. So much for Oberon Venn and his deathless passion, his love that won’t accept the grave! Or is it that you don’t want your wife back anymore? That you’re quite happy with the one you’ve got?”
He knew he was blustering, red-faced, making a fool of himself, but he didn’t care.
The Shee loved it. They swung down, became butterflies and finches, fluttered around Wharton in mocking excitement. One of them landed on his head; he shook it off, furious. “Look at you! You’re turning into one of them! And that kid, Jake—yes, I know he’s a total pain, but all he cares about is his father, and then there’s Sarah, with all that weight of the future on her, you just leave them to it and . . . and . . . gad about here with that . . . that . . . creature.”
He was stuttering with fury. Shut up George! But it was way too late for that. The Shee shrieked with joy; they made wild patterns and flew around him; some of them crumpled back into people-shape and fell into the grass giggling helplessly.
He stood among it all. Then he t
ook out a handkerchief and mopped the sweat from his face.
That made them laugh all the more.
The racket rose until Summer clapped her hands and there was instant silence. She glanced at Venn. “What do you want me to do to him?”
“Nothing.” Venn stood unmoving. His face was emotionless, but his voice was dark and brooding.
She put her hand on his arm. “I can turn him into the donkey he is.”
He shook her off, as if a spider had landed on his sleeve. “I said no. I don’t need you to act for me.”
She stepped back. Very slightly, the sun darkened. “Oberon . . .”
“He’s right. I know it, he knows it. I’ve let myself lose hope. I’ve let you take it away from me.”
Summer bit her lip.
The Shee fled. They melted silently away into the trees, flew among the leaves, hid in the undergrowth. A small breeze rustled the clearing.
Wharton watched, fascinated.
Venn turned and strode toward the Abbey.
“Where are you going?” she said quietly.
“To sort out this mess. To get the mirror up and running.”
“You won’t need to,” Wharton muttered. “The kidnappers, whoever they are, did that. Maskelyne says its awake now with a vengeance.”
Venn turned fast. His eyes were bright with interest. “Really?”
At once Summer tapped her bare foot on the ground. Instantly all the trees around the clearing seemed to link arms and pull together; a solid green wall of branches and boughs meshed in seconds.
“I really think you are taking a few things for granted, sweet,” Summer said.
She stood among the flowery grass, a small, delicate creature, her dark hair woven with white daisies, and Wharton felt the cold fear of her slide into his heart. They were at her mercy now. And she had no mercy.
“You see”—Summer brushed the slightest dust of pollen from her shimmering dress—“I haven’t decided to let you go yet. Persuade me, Venn.”
He was still a moment. Then he approached her. Warily, Wharton thought. Like a hunter circling a most deadly prey. He said, “I have to go back. Jake is in danger. Surely you see that.”
“Ah, but what about Leah?”
His face darkened. “Don’t say her name.”
“Leah. Leah, Venn.”
“Leah is dead.”
“Not to you. I know whatever George here says, she lives inside you. Deep, deep down in some locked, steely place even I can’t reach.” For a second, so fast Wharton almost doubted he saw it, her features lost all their beauty, flickered through a transformation to some ancient stony hag and back.
Venn laughed his rare cold laugh. “Your jealousy’s devouring you, Summer. What more do you want? You’ve surrounded my house, you invade my life, grow and tangle over all of it. You know very well I can never escape from you.”
Silent, she gazed at him. Then she said, “I wish I knew what game you’re playing, Oberon.”
He shrugged, as if careless. But Wharton saw the sweat under his lank hair, the tension in his eyes.
Suddenly Summer turned away. She twisted on her toes and clapped her hands. “Let’s have some lemonade and ice cream!”
The Shee descended in a whirl of preparations; the cloth was whirled over a small tilted table. Glasses with stripy straws suddenly fizzed with drink.
Venn said, “I’m going.”
He strode toward the hedge. A gap opened in its mesh, a mossy branch unfurled. Two lichened boughs creaked apart.
“Go then,” Summer said, light as air.
Venn flicked a glance at Wharton. “Come on.”
But Summer’s smile was brittle. “Not him.”
“What?”
“Dear George stays here with me.”
Venn came back. His eyes were blue and curious. In the heat he seemed to shimmer, his pale coat dusted with damsel flies. “Why?”
“Because I am in love with dear George.” She pouted at Wharton. “Because I would love to show him all the delights of the Summerland. And because you still have my pretty changeling.”
Venn nodded, grim. “Gideon! I knew you’d get to him sooner or later. Well, he’s not my prisoner, Summer, and he could come here anytime, but he won’t. He’s had enough of you. ”
She smiled, showing small white teeth. “He’s afraid. He took that girl into my very house and stole . . . Well, never mind what he stole. Until he comes back, dear George stays here with me.” She turned to Wharton with an amused glance. “Look at him. He loves the idea.”
Wharton was exercising every ounce of self-restraint he possessed. He’d faced down enemies and sorted hundreds of school brawls, knew how to quell uproar in a classroom with one glance. One small woman, however powerful, would not intimidate him.
But as Summer’s tiny fingers closed over his, he felt only a shiver of complete fear.
He looked at Venn. He wanted to shout, “Don’t leave me here.” Instead he said, “It’s quite all right. I’ll be fine. Jake is what matters now. Get back there and find Jake.”
He made himself stand tall.
Venn watched him a moment, then quietly nodded. He turned to the gap in the hedge and walked quickly through, then turned and looked back.
“You’re a brave man, teacher,” he said.
And was gone.
Wharton cleared his throat. Summer stood on tiptoes, reached up and kissed him on the cheek.
“You won’t regret it,” she whispered.
He had never been so scared.
Jake put down the wineglass slowly.
The figure moved forward. He saw, with a shiver of disappointment, that it was too small for his father, but still he dared not stand, as if sitting still kept that hope alive.
Then she said, “Not your dad, cully. Just me. Watch and learn, Jake, luv. Watch and learn.”
Astonished, he jumped up, knocking the chair over with a smack.
“Moll?”
She never had so sweet a changeling.
6
Moll’s diary.
JHS has tort me to read. I catch on fast, he says. He don’t no the harf. So I’m starting a diary too, Jake, all for you, and locking it in my room so that snivelfacd creep Hassan can’t read it and split on me.
Been a year now in this posh crib. Good dresses, a coat, boots withaht holes. No rozzers after me, no punks pinching my stuff. Warm bed, food, plenty of it. JHS likes his grub.
Working every day with the mirror. But you no what? No braslet, so nothing works . . .
Jake said he’d cum back for me. Swore he wood.
Cum on, Jake. Hurry up and get me.
I’m waiting, Jake.
Moll’s diary. 6 months later.
Today JHS nearly exploded with excitement. He’s been writing to some scolar who says he knows where there’s a bracelet just like the one we need. The letter came at breakfast; JHS came bursting into the kitchen (because I have to eat there with Hassan and Mrs. C since he met the LOVE OF HIS BLOODY LIFE).
“My coat, Moll!” he says. “Quick!” His face was as red as a turkey-cock’s comb.
Mrs. C rolled her eyes. She thinks JHS is for the Bedlam over the mirror. She hates it, won’t even dust it. Says it’s a black eye watching her and she might fall into it and go down and down and down, skirts over her head, still holding the feather duster.
Anyway, I grab his coat and we (me and JHS) jump in a cab.
“Where are we going?”
“The Ash Moleyan,” he says.
“What’s that?”
“What’s that, sir. Why do I keep having to remind you of your manners, Moll!” He gets tetchy over that. Remember your place, girl, I thought. I kept shtum.
Till he says, “That’s a museum, in Oxford. I’ve been corresponding with them, ab
out the bracelet, and they’ve got one, Moll! They’ve got one!”
“Just like Jake’s?” I say, all quiet.
“From the description here it sounds absolutely identical! Silver snake swallowing its tail, the amber stone in the center . . .” He couldn’t sit still he was so took up. “Just think, Moll, if it’s what I’ve been searching for for years! As things stand, I dare not use the mirror myself until I’m sure I can return. But both Venn and David Wilde had such a bracelet; they were a pair, and a pair must exist in our time too, somewhere. They simply must!”
He went off into a mumble and then a dream and I let him, Jake, because I like looking out at the streets, all them crossing-sweepers and peelers I used to know. We drove past Hayes, the butchers what set his dog on me once and he saw me and stared and I waved like the Queen. Then stuck my tongue at him.
It’s hard to get used to, being upper clars.
And why did the bracelets have to exist in our time? What if there was only one pair and they were the same ones all through . . . but then it all got too complicated and my brain went giddy.
You’d know, Jake, I’ll bet . . .
At the station we got the 9:30 train for Oxford. I sat opposite JHS in First. A woman got into our compartment and looked at me through her specs like I was an ant with measles.
JHS read the letter over and over and then fell asleep with it on his lap. It fell off and I picked it up and read it. Lots of guff, lots of long words. But the bracelet sounds the same.
Won’t let myself get all excited, though.
Won’t let myself think about you, Jake.
At Oxford we got out. Gave the old biddy the finger. Doubt she even knew what it meant.
The Ashmolean is a big museum full of all sorts of junk, and Bill the Brick (they called him that because he could smash one with his fist), who used to fence my stuff, would pop his eyeballs at some of it. JHS made a fuss in the entrance hall and they got a little foreign-looking cully with glasses that made his eyes wide as an owl’s, to come down.
The Door in the Moon Page 5
