Simon Green - Property of a Lady Faire

Shadows Fall. Carcosa. Sinister Albion. Lud’s Gate.

I was still getting my head around the sheer range in those destinations when the Doormouse came bustling back, carrying a tall glass of something hot and steaming in each furry paw. He thrust both glasses at me. I held Molly a little more securely, and she leaned her head on my shoulder and murmured something indistinct. I looked suspiciously at the proffered drinks.

“Oh, don’t be so mistrustful, Eddie Drood!” said the Doormouse. “It’s just a hot cordial, to restore your depleted energies. Perfectly safe, and very tasty. On the house!”

“Oh well,” I said, “if it’s on the house . . .”

Anywhen else, I would have held the Doormouse’s nose and made him take a good drink of the stuff first, but Molly needed something to help her, and there was nothing else on offer. I accepted one glass, and took a careful sip. Because bad as Molly was, I wasn’t about to give her anything I hadn’t tried myself first. It tasted like mulled cider, and it went down smooth and easy. Almost before I knew what I was doing, I’d downed the lot. A small and very pleasant explosion went off in my stomach, and a delicious warmth rocketed through my body, wiping out all my pains. It felt like someone had just kicked me in the adrenal glands. I snapped wide awake in a moment, and grinned broadly at the Doormouse, who sighed heavily.

“You’re supposed to sip it! Honestly, I go to all the trouble of brewing up something special, something you can savour, and you knock it back like it’s a cheap muscatel.”

“I like it!” I said happily. “What’s it called?”

“Rocket fuel,” growled the Doormouse. “Though that is of course metaphorical rather than descriptive. Go on, give Molly the other glass while it’s still hot.”

I handed him my empty glass and held the other to Molly’s mouth. I eased a little of the steaming beverage past her slack lips, and she swallowed slowly, and then her eyes shot open. I tilted the glass so she could get a good mouthful, and she immediately stood up straight and grabbed the glass with both hands. She chugged it all down in several large gulps, and the Doormouse shook his head bitterly.

“I don’t know why I bother . . . Next time I’ll just give you a bottle of Snakebite each, and you can rough it out. I’m wasted on you, I really am.”

Molly pushed herself away from me, tilted her glass all the way back to get at the last few drops, and then tossed the empty glass to the Doormouse. Her face was flushed with a healthy colour, and her eyes sparkled. She grinned at me, grabbed me and hugged me, and then pushed me away again so she could do her happy dance, right there on the spot. I couldn’t help but laugh.

“Damn!” Molly said loudly, stretching so hard I could hear all her joints creaking at once. “That is the good stuff! I feel great! And I can feel my magics coming back!” She looked at me. “And you don’t look like shit any more!”

I had to agree. All my bruises were gone, my muscles had stopped aching, and I felt like I could beat up a grizzly bear with both legs strapped behind my back. But since I have learned never to trust good luck or apparent miracles, I gave the Doormouse a hard look.

“Are we really back in top form, or do we just feel that way? Is this good feeling likely to wear off at some inopportune moment? Are there side effects we should be warned about in advance?”

“Typical Drood,” said the Doormouse, entirely unmoved by my suspicions. “It’s an old family remedy, nothing more.” He put the two empty glasses down on a handy side table that I would have sworn wasn’t there a moment before. He smiled benevolently on Molly and me. “It’s all natural, and very good for you, and almost certainly won’t cause any real damage on the genetic level. Though you might piss blue for a few hours.”

“Will it put hair on my chest?” said Molly.

“Not like mine,” said the Doormouse.

“Good to know,” I said.

Molly laughed, threw her arms around the Doormouse, and hugged him tightly. He suffered her to do that, his whiskers twitching occasionally, and then Molly stepped back and clapped him on the shoulder, hard enough to make him wince.

“Good to see you again, Mouse,” she said. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

“It has indeed,” said the Doormouse. “And this is your young man, is it? Eddie Drood himself! Delighted to meet you, dear boy, please don’t hug me. Any friend of Molly’s . . . I won’t ask what trouble you’re both in, because it’s none of my business and you probably wouldn’t tell me anyway, but I’ll do what I can to help. Please try not to break anything while you’re here.” He looked thoughtfully at Molly. “The last time I saw you we were in Strangefellows bar, and you’d just . . .”

“Not now,” Molly said quickly. “Not in front of the Drood.”

“Of course,” said the Doormouse. He looked me over carefully. “Eddie Drood . . . I am of course honoured, and fascinated, to meet such a legendary figure at last, but I have to say I am just a little . . . concerned, to see you here. In my humble and very fragile establishment. Might I inquire why you’ve come to see me, Sir Drood? Have you, in fact, come to shut me down? I mean, this is about those Doors I made, isn’t it? The Doors that open onto Drood property . . .”

“I would like to know what you thought you were doing, making such things,” I said. “You must have known my family would not be at all pleased. They might nuke your establishment from orbit, just to be sure. No one overreacts like a Drood.”

“I know!” said the Doormouse, wringing his paws together piteously.

“I think you’d better issue a recall,” said Molly.

“I will certainly try,” said the Doormouse. “Though I doubt anyone will listen. They are very popular. And no, I can’t shut them down from here. Not once they’ve left the Storeroom.”

“You don’t install a hidden override, or back-door command?” I said.

The Doormouse looked honestly shocked. “If my customers even suspected such a thing, my sales would plummet! All my Doors are guaranteed to be self-repairing and self-perpetuating. A Door isn’t just for convenience; it’s forever! That’s the point. That’s what I sell-reliability.”

“But why . . . ,” I said.

“I was tricked!” the Doormouse said shrilly. “The original order came from inside Drood Hall. Apparently from the Matriarch Martha Drood herself. It had all the correct signatures and security code phrases attached . . . I did check! And it came through all the usual channels, with nothing out of the ordinary about it. Of course I thought it was a bit weird . . . but you don’t challenge a Drood, after all. If this was what the Matriarch wanted, I had to assume there was a good reason.”

“Martha Drood has been dead for some time,” I said.

“I know that now! But I didn’t know it then! I don’t keep up with that sort of gossip. Don’t read those magazines . . . I only found out the Nightside had a new set of Authorities when John Taylor popped in to tell me he was the new Walker. I think it’s fair to say none of us saw that one coming . . . He’s off on his honeymoon at the moment, so if you want to get away with anything here, now’s probably a good time . . .”

“Didn’t you wonder why my family would want people to have Doors that gave them access to the Drood grounds?” I insisted, refusing to be sidetracked.

“I didn’t think it was any of my business,” said the Doormouse, holding on to what was left of his dignity. “You Droods have always gone your own way, and your ways have always been a complete mystery to outsiders. If you want to bury a dragon’s head in your backyard . . . I just made the Doors and started shipping them out to the addresses provided. And sent my invoice in to the Hall, as usual. Which is, of course, when the sawdust hit the fan. I had to shut my phone off. I don’t like being shouted at.”