Catherine Fisher - Obsidian Mirror

Wharton looked up. “Listen!”

They froze. After a while he said, “Sorry. Thought I heard something.” Still fascinated, he glanced at Maskelyne. “How long before you…arrived fully?”

“In Becky’s time, eight years. By the time she was fourteen I was here constantly, barely flickering. Then it got difficult—I took to living in an old mill—house on the edge of her father’s farm, up on the edge of the moor, because by then I needed food, warmth. Sleep. Slowly, I became a real person, not a ghost anymore.” He was looking at her, smiling sadly.

She said, “He told me about the mirror. So we started to research. We knew it must be close by. Then we realized Venn had it.”

Maskelyne said, “I went to Switzerland and found Jake and you on the point of leaving. I followed you onto the plane and phoned Rebecca from London. She got on the train. I think you know the rest.”

Wharton gave him a hard stare. “So you want the mirror for yourself.”

Maskelyne glanced quickly at Rebecca. She said, “It was his. It belongs to him. And when he goes, I go too.”

Astonished at the change in her face, Wharton looked away. She wasn’t at all the ditsy girl who had nearly crashed that car. She was a young woman in love with a ghost.

Then Maskelyne said, “There it is again.”

Wharton wriggled out of the labyrinth and inched his way to the door; now he was leaning against it, his ear to the ancient wood. He looked up. “I can hear voices. Someone’s out there, talking to him.”

He turned his head and listened again, and his face darkened. He said, “I think…It is. It’s Sarah.”

Then he took the glass weapon and held it out.

Maskelyne’s fingers closed around it.

“Thank you,” he said.

22

If a man be replicated, can his soul accompany him? Without a soul, is he even human?

And if he is not human, what evil may inhabit him without hindrance?

Does my blacke mirror open the world to vile spirits—is it a pathway for demons? And therefore should I shatter it or bury it deep in the earth?

Alas for my dremes then.

From The Scrutiny of Secrets by Mortimer Dee

S ARAH STOOD RIGID.The Replicant’s smile was charming. It held her arm in a tight grip. “You’re a little wet,” it said.

She threw a quick glance behind it. The door was locked—hopefully barricaded. But she was the one putting them all in danger. “Let me go.”

“Both of us having come all this way?” It shook its head. “I don’t think so. I have to say, I’m surprised. I presumed you were locked safely in there with them—the worthy teacher, and Venn’s clever genie.”

She looked stricken, but she thought fast. Venn and Jake weren’t back. But she couldn’t afford to wait for them.

“It would have been a shame to burn the place down.” It tipped its head sideways and smiled again. “All this ancient timber.” It took its hand out of its pocket and she saw it had a small lighter; a tiny blue flame flickered.

“I mean, look…” The Replicant wandered away to the curtain that hung over the door. “So much dust, so many old fabrics. What an inferno, Sarah.”

Carelessly it held the flame close to the curtain.

“Don’t.”

As soon as she said it she knew it was a mistake. Janus’s hand did not move. It said, “You could ask them to open the door.”

“They won’t. They know you’re here.”

“Yes, but now you are too.” It watched the edge of the curtain; with a shiver of fear she saw it had begun to smolder. “Tell them to open the door, Sarah.”

“Put that thing out first.”

Behind the spectacles, its eyes flickered to her. “Don’t defy me. Don’t pit your will against mine. Tell them to open the door.”

Smoke was rising from the worn fibers of the curtain. In an instant it would whoosh into fire. She clenched her fists.

“Put the flame out. Then I’ll talk to them.”

The Replicant did not blink. Its hand did not move. Red fire spurted in the damask folds.

Sarah ran. She snatched at the curtain and dragged it down, the worn cloth tearing as easily as tissue. Even as it fell it was already a mass of flame; small wisps scattered, scuttering down the bare wooden boards of the gallery. She stamped and beat at it, gasping, jerking back, heat on her face. Sparks danced around her hair.

The Replicant watched her. As she dragged the singed cloth into a hasty heap she saw from the corner of her eye how it lounged, waiting. When the last spark was out, she whirled around. It was even faster; it had her arm and had dragged her close, hauling her over to the door, and she felt the small silver click of the lighter; jerked away in terror from the hot glow under her ear.

“Listen to me, in there,” it yelled. “I have a friend of yours. Open the door.”

The flame was raised; she fought to pull away.

“Tell them.”

Gritting her teeth, she struggled, lashing out with her free arm, but it held the flame closer and the heat of it under her eyes made her gasp with terror.

Then, with a crack, the door unlocked.

“Let the girl go,” Wharton growled. “Or I blow you to kingdom come.”

Venn and Jake thundered up the stairs.

At the landing the butler came out of a room carrying a silver tray; before he could jump back Venn had shoved him aside in a crash of china and raced past, Moll tight at his heels.

Jake glanced back. Hassan had dragged out a whistle; he blew it, three shrieking, terrified blasts.

Venn stormed down the corridor, flinging open doors, finding only bedrooms. The last door was firmly locked.

“That must be it!” Moll hissed.

Venn stood back. “Jake.”

Together, they shouldered the door, and burst through.

“Get away from there!” Venn yelled.

Symmes turned. He was standing before a complicated assemblage of brass; a creation of springs and oscillating pendulums. Some ornate construction made of bands of metal had been fitted to encircle the mirror, like the meshed orbits of tiny planets. The glass itself was held steady in a frame ratcheted to the floor.

Jake saw at once that Symmes was wearing the bracelet. He leaped forward, but Symmes moved first.

He caught a smooth lever that was set into the machinery and shoved it down.

“No!” Venn said.

“I have to.” Symmes was breathless. “You know. You—an explorer. You know I have no choice.”

And he was gone, into emptiness, a great silent implosion that tore Moll and Jake into a rolling tumble of limbs, and made Venn cling to a chair as it was dragged across the floor.

The mirror rippled and closed behind Symmes.

Venn swore. He scrambled up. “Get that door closed!”

But Jake was too appalled to move. For a stricken moment his mind seemed as black as the glass; until Moll started dragging the chest of drawers across the door. “Don’t just stand there, Jake! Come on!”

He grabbed the furniture and hauled. Men were running up the stairs outside; a heavy fist pounded on the door. “Mr. Symmes! Sir?”

“Keep them out.” Venn stared at the mass of brass components in bewilderment. “What in hell’s name has he done to this?”

The door shuddered. The chest of drawers jerked, even with Moll sitting on it. “Come out of there! We are armed men, and if you resist, we’ll shoot.”

“Do something,” Jake muttered, his back braced against the barricade.

Venn grabbed the lever. With one firm jerk he put it into reverse.

The mirror spat. For a moment the whole room seemed to turn. And then it opened, like a black hole in the world’s heart.