Catherine Fisher - Obsidian Mirror

He shrugged, bitter. “Where can I go? You’ve trapped me in this forest.”

“The forest contains everything.” She came up and put her arms around him, hugging him close, smaller than he was. “Always so moody, human child. Always so sad. But you know, you can go anywhere, do anything. We’ve given you freedom. Far more than the other poor souls out here have.”

He opened his mouth to speak, but she laid a cold finger on his lips. “Do you want songs, Gideon, or dancing? Rich clothing? Food from far lands? To fly with the jay and scurry with the mole? All that’s yours. You’ll never age, never be old, never be sick or corrupted with some cancer. You have the life that humans dream of in their religions and their myths. You have eternity. What more is there?”

He wanted to say Love. Pity. But she wouldn’t understand what the words meant. He wasn’t sure that he did either. He wanted to shout out that it wasn’t enough, that he wanted people, people with all their faults and irritations and compassion and arguments. He wanted a place where fear had boundaries.

Instead he said, “Why did you choose me, Summer? Out of all the children in the world.”

She laughed, stepping back. “You were mine from the start. We’d play our music to you even when you were in the cradle. When you were older, you wandered for hours in the Wood. They couldn’t keep you in their cottages, their tiny dull family. You were too bold for that. Too beautiful. Then I decided to bring you to me. To make you mine, Gideon.”

He remembered that day. The kindly girl in the green dress who had taken his hand and drawn him away, deep and deeper into the Wood, and how tight her slim white fingers had been around his, and how at first he had turned because he could still hear his mother, fainter, always fainter, calling and calling his name. How he had tugged and pulled.

How she had never let him go.

Now he shrugged. “Let me go back. You could, if—”

“It’s too late.” She smiled at him, perfectly, calm. “Our time is not their time. Out there, centuries have passed. Your mother is dead, Gideon, your father, your brothers, anyone who ever remembered you. Dead for centuries. You’ve become a story. A legend. The boy who wandered away never to be seen again. A picture in an old book. A warning to mothers not to let their children out of their sight.”

She shrugged, a slight, careless movement. “You can never go back. Take one step out of Venn’s estate and you crumble into dust. To fine desiccated bone. You don’t exist anymore, Gideon. You are eternal, yes, but you are also long dead.”

She turned away. “The subject bores me. Come and hear the singing. And later we’ll ride out and hunt under the moon.”

She held out her hand. After a moment he took it.

But as they walked into the Wood he looked back through the snow and heard the roar of a motorcycle up the drive, and his eyes were sharp with recklessness.

13

The Wintercombe estate has been in his family for centuries. Orpheus Venn, a Cavalier nobleman loyal to Charles the First, reputedly received the land as a reward after the Restoration, and the family has lived there ever since. The valley lies between Dartmoor and the sea, and has a mysterious air. The locals believe the Faery Host inhabit it, and that one of Venn’s ancestors once had an amour with the Faery Queen, and that the family are now only half human. When asked about this once at a book festival in Bremen, Venn gave his ice-chip stare, snatched off the microphone and stormed out.

His temperament is legendary.

Jean Lamartine, The Strange Life of Oberon Venn

R EBECCA WATCHED THEdusk through the twinkling lights in the post office window. “I’m dreaming,” the postmistress sang, “of a white Christmas…Can I get you anything else?”

“No. Thanks.” She went out reluctantly onto the sidewalk, the shop bell ringing behind her, and stood looking up the street. The half an hour was long gone. Obviously, Jake wasn’t coming.

It was already getting dark, and the lanes would soon start to clog with snow. She idled down toward the bridge, seeing how the heavy lid of cloud was a weight on the village; how the old houses and the church and the pub seemed to cower down under it. It was colder than yesterday. Her breath frosted in the air, and the river, when she came to it, foamed over rocks that gleamed with frozen spray.

She leaned on the parapet and gazed down.

The Wintercombe was a haunted river. It drew her always, its dark peaty water emptying from the moor, cutting its fast, deep gorge to the sea. Leaning out, she took a small object from her pocket and held it over the water.

It was a memory stick, and on it were all her notes from university, all her seminars and assignments. A whole year’s work. A whole year’s absence.

All she had to do was open her fingers.

And let it go.

Something touched her face. She gasped and jerked back, clutching the piece of plastic, but the touch came again, and as she stared up, she saw the long-expected snow had come at last.

It fell in the silent, relentless way she so loved, and as the flakes landed on the stone parapet, they melted very slowly into stars of damp.

Wintercombe would freeze tonight.

Another movement. This time it was behind her, and she turned to complain at Jake for being so late.

Instead she saw a man standing on the bridge.

He was a few feet away, wearing a dark coat and a hat that shadowed his face. In the glimmer of snow he stood still, watching her.

The bridge was narrow. There was no way past him. She took one step back, and he said, “Rebecca.”

Snow blurred him. She glanced back quickly; the village street was empty.

“Is he coming?” Maskelyne stepped closer.

“I don’t think so,” she said. Then, “What were you thinking of! That gun! Are you stark mad?”

“Probably. It was a desperate gesture, though it wouldn’t even have hurt him. Have I scared him away for good?”

Impatient, she shrugged. “Jake’s not the scaring type. But you shouldn’t be here. If he sees us together…”

He took the hat off and his dark hair was damp with the snow. “Rebecca, what was that in your hand?”

In her pocket, her fingers tightened on the memory stick. Then slowly she took it out and laid it on the parapet. The wind edged it; he came and grabbed it quickly.

“Your university work.”

“It’s not important.”

“Yes. It is.” He gave it back to her. “Don’t give up your life for a dream. For me. Don’t lose everything for a man who intends to leave as soon as he can.”

She shrugged, wordless.

Maskelyne leaned on the parapet. “Does Jake suspect you?”

“No.” Rebecca shoved her gloved hands deep in her pockets. “But they might be stopping him from coming. Venn might. Should I phone again?”

He shook his head. “Venn has the caution of a man used to danger. And, if, as you say, the Chronoptika even flickered with life last night, how agitated he must be. How eager to try again.” He looked up. “It will be tonight, because he thinks he can force the mirror with his guilt. With his pain. He has no idea at all of the damage he might do.”

“And you do?”

“None better.” He turned his face and she saw the terrible scar that cut its jagged way down his cheek.

She said unhappily, “Jake thinks I’m his friend. I am his friend. I don’t like…”

“You don’t have to blame yourself.” He stopped. “I should never have involved you in this.” She saw how his eyes suddenly focused, sharp, over her shoulder. He said, “Listen.”

She turned. The village was lost in a soft blizzard. She heard nothing but the crisp hiss of falling snow. And then, oddly magnified, a sharp bark. Quick and stifled. Footsteps. The panting of some large fevered animal.