The Door in the Moon (5 page)

“—are all open and the greenery is growing inside. As if the power of the Wood is groping and searching for someone. Or something.”

Piers made a face and looked at Gideon, who stood, quickly. “She doesn't have to search for me. She knows where I am. I'll go and close them. As for Venn . . .” He shrugged. “Do you still know, in this century, the tale of the war between Winter and Summer? The Shee tell it often. They had a bet as to who was stronger—the test was to take the coat from a mortal. The icy blasts of Winter blew and the mortal merely held his coat all the tighter. But when the sun shone hotter and hotter, he had to take it off. It's a true story. Venn can roar and flummox all he likes, but when Summer smiles, believe me, everyone obeys.”

He took a light step toward the door. But Maskelyne said, “Gideon. I smell a magic on you. Faint and strange. What might that be?”

“No idea,” Gideon muttered. But as he pushed past the scarred man, he thought of the flower in his pocket.

And smiled.

Curled beneath the stifling layers of the Scribe's dusty robes, barely able to breathe, Sarah felt the wooden lid being lifted away.

She kept utterly still, listening.

For an hour the automata had been rocked and rattled on some cart halfway across the city, through turns and twists of alleys and streets and secret courtyards, over cobbles and bridges and a long graveled path. Now she smelled wonderful, exotic scents, the perfumes of flowers, cloying and sweet.

Footsteps pattered close. She saw the tip of a small, heeled shoe. The voluminous robe of the automata made a purple tent around her, but if anyone lifted it off they would see her. Reluctantly, she again made herself invisible.

A thin, male French voice said, in English, “Astonishing!”

“This is the finest of the machines, milord, manufactured in London by watchmakers of the most delicate skill to delight your guests. It will answer simple questions and compute the answers to arithmetical problems. The ballerina will pirouette, perform a most wonderful dance. The Conjuror will entertain with magic.”

“I love them. I love them, monsieur. I love them so much I could weep tears of delight. Let me see them move! Show me how they operate!”

“Certainly. Shall we start with the Dancer?”

Carefully Sarah edged away a corner of the velvet. She was dazzled by sunlight. Greenery crowded her, a tropical jungle of lushness she had never imagined; she slid down onto hands and knees and slipped into it, crawling out hurriedly. Vast leaves as wide as she was hid her easily, great tree roots and trunks that rose high over her into the glassed ceiling of an enormous hothouse.

In only seconds she was soaked with sweat; condensation dripped from the leaves and twining stems around her, splashed on the terracotta-tiled floor.

Hearing music, she crouched, lifted a fern and watched the men.

They stood admiring as the Dancer turned and bowed and raised her arms, pointing her toes with exquisite grace.

The Englishman was tall, bony, his clothes dark and plain, his hair straggly under a tricorn hat. There was something about him that made Sarah sure he had been one of the two men who had taken Jake. He watched the other man as beadily as a crow watches a likely worm, head on one side, his contemptuous smirk barely hidden.

The French milord astonished Sarah. He was tiny, his suit the pinkest of satins, his shoes buckled with diamonds, his hair a powdered wig of pure white. He circled the automaton with his palms pressed together in wonder. “I will be envied by the world,” he breathed. “By the world.”

The mechanical dancer stopped, bowed her head gracefully, sank in a curtsey among a fluster of white taffeta skirt.

“How does it work? The clockwork, the cogs, how are they . . . ?”

“This lever, milord, will produce the desired effect. But perhaps we should discuss the price before . . .”

“Of course! Come with me, good Englishman. I assure you, the Vicomte de Saligne pays his debts most promptly. Your gold is waiting in the château.” The tiny man almost capered toward her; Sarah moved back hurriedly as they passed, their voices fading.

When they were gone, she crawled out and stood a moment in the astonishing heat. Then she moved to the nearest glass and rubbed a small running circle in the condensation, the warm water trickling over her fingertips.

She looked out.

And laughed aloud with surprise.

Where ever the mirror has been, men have used it for their own needs. Janus is just the last of many. They are all responsible. They have all desired its power.

Now it is a dark agony that is devouring itself.

Time is ending. Humanity is ending.

We are the ones who will see that happen.

Illegal ZEUS transmission

J
AKE WAS PRETENDING
sleep when the carriage finally rattled to a halt.

They had traveled for a long time; twisting and turning and sometimes rattling down alleys so narrow he could hear the paintwork of the coach being scraped on both sides.

Now the door was opened; he glanced at it from lowered lids, measuring the odds of escape. The big men climbed out, the vehicle swaying wildly.

“Hey,” one said. “Boy! Wake up.”

Jake followed them out. He swayed, as if dizzy with hunger and travel-weariness.

“Watch him,” one of the men muttered.

Another laughed. “Nowhere to run.”

Jake snatched his elbow from the man's grip and looked around.

They were in a dank alley. Even though the long summer twilight was only just beginning, it was already dark here. There were no streetlamps, just the pale sky-glimmer reflected in pools of water and stinking liquids that flooded the central gutter. Great dim houses leaned over him, their heavy gables darkly medieval. The stench of refuse and rot was worse than ever; rats scuttled openly between his feet.

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 took 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.”