Catherine Fisher - Obsidian Mirror

They looked at each other. The marmoset jumped down and ran to the lighted porch. “He knows where supper is,” Wharton said, too heartily cheerful.

Piers was waiting for them on the porch. Next to him, seven black cats, all identical, sat in a silent row. Their green eyes watched Jake gravely. Climbing the steps, Wharton said, “Does anyone else live here, Mr. Piers, apart from you and Mr. Venn?”

The small man gave him a mischievous, sidelong look. “My niece helps out. Otherwise, quite the bachelor establishment.”

Wharton nodded, stepping into the cedar-paneled hall.

Jake paused on the step. The faintest breeze touched him. He turned and looked out at the Wood. For a moment he had felt as if someone out there in the tangled greenery had called him, had silently spoken his name. But there was no one, and he was cold, so he went in and closed the door.

Standing high in the oak branches, leaning back against the trunk, Gideon watched the human enter the Dwelling. Green as moss, his eyes narrowed, and he practiced a laugh, as he often did, just to hear the sound, to be sure he could still do it. Because one day he might forget how, and the Shee would truly own him. That fear tormented him.

First the girl, now these two.

Things were getting crowded in the winter world.

He swung himself down and landed light among the leaf-litter. His clothes were a patchwork of velvets and denim tagged with scraps of lace; his face and long hair streaked with wood dyes. The starlings saw him but didn’t rise in alarm, their beady eyes watching carefully.

Summer would need to know about this.

He turned. The birds blinked and squawked as he vanished into the Wood.

A forged process of my death.

6

Christmas at Wintercombe—how wonderful! The great Christmas tree in the hall, the masses of presents, the vast arrangements of holly and ivy and mistletoe all down the stairs and decking every windowsill. The whole house warm with the smells of baking and sweetmeats. I am living in a dream, my dear!

Letter of Lady Mary Venn to her sister, 1834

S ARAH WAS EATINGtoast in the kitchen the next morning when Piers came in. He had some cartons of milk and a newspaper, so he must have been to the village. How had he gotten there and back so quickly? She glanced anxiously at the paper. Then she said, “So who are they?”

“Who are who, exactly?”

“The man and the boy. They arrived last night. They’re still here. And Venn—he didn’t come back. He’s been gone all night.”

Piers arranged some breakfast things fussily on a tray. “You’re an observer, Sarah. That’s very good. His Excellency will need that. But don’t get ahead of yourself. He does what he wants, and I assure you, no one is safer in the Wood than Venn.”

She frowned. He was avoiding answers. “What about the others? If they find out about me…”

He was already working at the ancient range, pouring milk onto porridge. “They won’t. The boy is the son of an old friend of Venn’s who’s turned up out of the blue.” He looked over, a quizzical glance. “They’re not local. They don’t know anything about you. You’re quite safe.”

Unsatisfied, she sat at the empty table. It looked as if it had been made for a staff of forty. She pictured the room crowded with servants, bustling around the vast chimney, so big, you could sit on a bench inside it. Down from its blackened stones hung a collection of spits and pans and copper pots, all too heavy to lift and coated with a frosty soot. Spiders had constructed elaborate cities of web among them. Three identical black cats snoozed on a chair in a heap.

She pushed the toast crust around the plate. “Can I explore?”

“Please do. It’s an ancient, rambling house. But don’t go—”

“To the Monk’s Walk. I know.” She looked up. “Is that where it is?”

He smiled. “It?”

“This Chronoptika.”

Piers did not pause in his rapid stirring, but maybe the spoon circled a little faster. “You’ll find out about that soon enough. Patience, Sarah.”

She got up and clattered her dish into the scullery sink. “So what about you? Are you the last of the staff or something? There were dozens here once—butlers, footmen. Maids.”

“You sound as if you’d seen them.”

She shrugged. “Even crazy girls read books.”

The small man gave a odd chortle of laughter and picked a scrap of soot out of the porridge. “Do they really? Well, as for me, I’m His Excellency’s slave. He rubs a lamp and I come out of it. He whistles and I appear. He bought me in a market in the wastes of the Kalahari for thirty camels and a bottle of whisky. He freed me from the eternal spells of an island sorceress.”

Was it a joke? If so, it was a bitter one. She said, “You work for him?”

“He owns me.” Piers voice was acid.

She didn’t know what to make of that. “You’ve been exploring with him?”

“Many times. In the Andes. In Antarctica. He always loved to travel. You might say we put a girdle around the earth together.”

She decided to try her luck. “But that all changed when his wife died?”

Piers stopped stirring. He turned and she saw all his quirky humor had gone. “A word to the wise, Sarah. Never speak to Venn about Leah. Do you understand?”

For a moment she stared at him. “This is such a house of secrets. Is he so scary?”

“His anger is never pleasant. But the truth is, he’s eaten up with grief and shame. I don’t want you adding to that.”

In the corridor, a bell rang. To break the moment, she went and looked out. There were two rows of bells in the corridor, old spiral coils, each with the name of a room above it in faded gilt letters, almost worn away. But she knew them. The one that was trembling said South Breakfast Room . She came back, disgusted. “Do they think this is some sort of hotel?”

“Maybe they do.” Piers had the porridge, toast, and tea on a tray. “And maybe we’ll indulge them for the first morning. Why don’t you take it up.” He held the door open. “You can see the fierce boy and the shrewd teacher for yourself.”

Jake watched Wharton pull the bell again. “You’re wasting your time. He’s not going to treat us like guests.”

Wharton sighed and came to the table. He leaned his arms on it and gazed out through the window. The bitter night had left the lawns coated with a stiff, frozen rime. If you walked on it, he thought, it would wheeze and crack underfoot. He said, “Sleep well?”

Jake shrugged. In fact, he had tossed and turned until well past midnight, twice sitting up wide awake and alert, listening to soft creaks and movements somewhere deep in the unknown house. He said, “Being under the same roof as my father’s killer makes it hard to relax.”

“Jake, you have to rid yourself of this obsession.” Wharton turned to him anxiously. “You really can’t…”

“No?” He took out the folded letter. “This is my proof. Don’t tell me to forget, sir, because I never will. If you want to leave, leave. I can look after myself.” He laughed, bitter. “After all, I’m safely home now.”

Wharton sighed again and scratched his rough chin. He hadn’t slept well either. The house was uncomfortably damp and cold, the water had been too icy to shave with, and, oddly, neither his room nor the bathroom had a mirror.

“I’m going to find some food.” Jake jumped up and crossed the room, flinging the door open. He walked straight into a girl with a tray, who gasped and almost dropped it. They both grabbed at it. Cups and saucers slid. Porridge slopped hot on Jake’s hand.