Catherine Fisher: Obsidian Mirror

“Jake. Jake, listen…”

No answer. The man opposite was watching again, a handsome man, who turned his face quickly aside. Tugging out one of Jake’s earphones, Wharton said quietly, “Show me the photograph.”

Jake didn’t move. I’ve lost him, Wharton thought. But then Jake took the photo out and pushed it across the table.

Wharton turned it. It was a small grainy image, black-and-white, snapped with some ancient camera.

A tall man in a camel coat smiled out. He looked enough like Jake for Wharton to be sure this was David Wilde. He was standing on a street. Old-fashioned London buses and a taxi were visible behind him. He was holding up a newspaper.

“I wish I had a magnifying glass. I can’t make out the headline.”

“It says Beatles Storm America . The date is 1965.”

Wharton frowned. “Sixty-five? Even I was only a kid then. Your father…”

“Wasn’t even born.” Jake picked the photo up. “I don’t get it. It must be some mock-up, but why? And why send it to me?”

“He didn’t post it, clearly. Someone else did. Someone who waited two years after his…disappearance.”

“Death.”

“You don’t know that.”

Jake’s stare was bleak, and Wharton saw the fear behind it. “He’s my father. Something terrible has happened to him, because otherwise he would have called. He wouldn’t just have abandoned me. I know. ”

Warning lights pinged. “Ladies and gentlemen, please fasten your seat belts,” a voice said smoothly. “We are about to begin our descent.”

Wharton was glad of the chance to think. He wasn’t sure what to do about any of this. And why in God’s name hadn’t the Head told him about the boy’s father? At least he would have been prepared.

As the plane banked steeply and dropped through a long bumpy glide to Heathrow, he watched the clouds fleeting past and felt the deceleration build like an ache in his muscles. There was no question—he’d have to stay with Jake as far as Wintercombe Abbey. Someone needed to be there when the boy and his godfather met. Anything might happen, with this crazy stupid idea Jake had stuck in his mind.

Because, of course, it was crazy.

The plane touched, lifted, then bumped down hard. Wharton clutched the arms of his chair in rigid terror. He didn’t mind flying, but he loathed landing.

And there was one thing he couldn’t explain, that was an oddity in the whole mess. The photograph. What was the point of the photograph?

In the baggage hall they tugged the suitcases off the carousel and piled them on a trolley. Wharton reached for Jake’s backpack.

“No, I’ll take that.” Jake snatched the bag up quickly onto his back. But as he adjusted it, it made a strange, sleepy squeak. Wharton’s eyes widened.

“Oh no. Don’t tell me…. You couldn’t have.”

Jake shrugged. The backpack squeaked again. Wharton pulled the top open and looked in. A small furry heap of limbs disentangled itself and peered up at him. The monkey’s eyes were black-pupiled. It yawned.

He shut the bag instantly and glanced around.

“Don’t panic.” Jake pushed the trolley away calmly.

“Panic! What about quarantine? Rabies! Have you any idea of the absolute hoo-ha if you’d been caught.”

“Well, I wasn’t, was I. The vet gave me something to keep him asleep. He was fine.”

“But a monkey!”

“He’s not a monkey. He’s a marmoset.”

The casual arrogance was back, and it left Wharton furious.

“I don’t care if it’s a bloody aardvark. And we’ve got to go through customs!”

Jake shrugged. “It’ll be easy this end.” He eyed the teacher with dark amusement. “Venn can pay the fee, if they catch us.”

Trailing behind, Wharton sweated through the long corridors and moving walkways, and when they were waved through by a bored official, he felt as much relief as if he’d been smuggling diamonds.

Outside the airport, Jake opened the bag and the marmoset crept sleepily out and wound its arms lovingly around his neck. Its fur was a lustrous brown. It stared at Wharton like a baby stares, with total indifference.

“I wasn’t leaving him at that pit of a school,” Jake muttered. They stood in the taxi line, everyone staring at the animal.

“Put it away,” Wharton hissed.

“Him. His name is Horatio.”

By the time they got to their taxi, the thing was wide-awake and eating grapes. The driver looked at it doubtfully. “If that beast makes a mess…”

“Just get us to Paddington Station.” Wharton tossed the cases in, climbed after them, and sat on the warm squeaky seat, breathing in the smells and fumes of London. After Switzerland it felt like breathing fog. Glancing back, he saw the man who had been sitting opposite them in the plane was just behind in the queue; for a second their eyes met, and he was shocked at the deep scar that disfigured the man’s left cheek.

Their car edged out into the raging traffic.

“I can manage on my own after Paddington,” Jake said, without hope.

Wharton shook his head. “No chance.”

“I could bribe you.”

“I’m incorruptible. Just keep that thing out of my pocket.”

Under the garish Christmas lights, they crept through gridlocked London. Far behind, deep in the traffic, a taxi slowly followed them.

4

Fear not, fear not, my lord, said she,

the dead are dead and ever will be.

Dear is the ransom you must pay,

If her lost face you wish to see.

Fear not, fear not, my lord, she said.

For who can render to the dead?

Dark is the journey you must take

Her lost beauty to remake.

Ballad of Lord Winter and Lady Summer

W HAT STARTLED THEMboth was a knock at the door.

Venn’s gaze flickered; in that instant Sarah turned and was halfway out through the window before he lunged and grabbed her, hauling her toward him. “Piers!” he yelled. “Get in here!”

She kicked him but he held on; he had her arms now and his grip was bruising and tight. He dragged her back and she fell hard to the floor, the breath knocked out of her.

“Get up,” Venn said.

She was too stunned to move. After a moment he held out his hand. She took it.

He pulled her to her feet and stepped away. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

She shrugged. “Maybe I shouldn’t have kicked you either.”

He was silent. Aware of a draft behind her, she saw that a very small man in a white lab coat had opened the door and was staring at them both. He had a tiny goatee and a sharp, inquisitive face. “What’s going on?” he said.

Venn straightened. He was tense and pale. “Ask the most inept burglar in the world.”

“I’m not a burglar.” Keeping calm, Sarah faced him.

“So what are you doing breaking into my house? How did you get in here anyway?” He turned on Piers. “So much for your security.”

“I had her on camera all the way from the gate.” The small man looked at her thoughtfully. His eyes were bright as coins, missing nothing.

Sarah said, “It was you who opened the gate?”

“ And, ” Piers said, “the police are close behind her.” He turned to Venn. “One man, at the door. Calls himself Janus.”

Venn’s cold eyes moved back to Sarah. “That’s convenient. He can take her with him.”

“No!” She couldn’t stop the gasp of dismay. “Please! Don’t tell him about me. Don’t tell anyone.”

Venn stared at her, a long moment, then sat on the edge of the cluttered desk and said to Piers, “Let him in.”