Catherine Fisher - Obsidian Mirror

It looked so crammed and dusty. So neglected.

She crossed the room and tugged the curtains shut. They were heavy with dust; it drifted down on her lips and face. Then she crouched again by the hearth, comforted by heat. It was something familiar in this winter world.

All at once she felt incredibly tired. She wanted to lie on the rug and sleep away the heaviness in her limbs and eyelids. But the Replicant was out there in the dark, and it knew she was here.

Making a huge effort, she scrambled up and began to walk about, forcing herself to stay alert and look at things. Now, while she had the chance.

There were so many books and papers. They were stacked in untidy piles; she turned a few over but they meant nothing, were just columns of calculations, pages of algebraic formulae. The books were in many languages; some were old leather-bound volumes, their spines eaten away, but there were towers of softer, paper-covered books too, on mountain ranges and icecaps, with great curling maps that had tea stains and ink marks and scribble all over them.

He obviously didn’t use them anymore.

Quick and deft, she tried the drawers of the desk. Each was crammed full of junk—pens, keys, receipts, staples. In one a whole collection of fossils lay tumbled and disorganized. She picked up an ammonite, feeling the coiled ridges of the ancient creature. It had been dead for millennia, and yet here it was. Under it was a small gray notebook, the pages empty. Just what she needed. She slipped the notebook into her pocket.

A coal slid in the fire. She glanced at it, shutting the drawer. As she did, her eyes caught a glint among the papers on a side table; the ruby red reflection of flame in metal.

She inched the litter aside.

A battered tin box lay beneath. It was dented, as if it had been dropped more than once, and the initials JHS were painted on it in faded white letters. She stared at it in astonishment, then dragged it out. Papers slid. A few books crashed to the floor.

The box was not locked. Hurriedly, her fingers slid across the lid.

A rattle of the doorknob. She shoved the box back, threw herself down by the fire, grabbed a book and just got it open as Venn came in with a tray.

“Glad to see you’re not wasting your time.”

She looked up. “Even lunatics can read.”

“Upside-down, too. Incredibly clever.”

She threw the book down, annoyed.

“I’ve brought you some sandwiches. Cheese and ham.”

She snatched the plate quickly. They were big and clumsy but the bread was freshly baked. She had never smelled bread so good. She ate with ravenous concentration.

Venn watched her, leaning against the desk. “How long have you been on the run?”

“A few days,” she lied, through a mouthful.

He paced, turned abruptly. “Why were you in the Linton?”

“My parents died. I couldn’t cope. Had a sort of…episode. I’m fine now.”

She was afraid he’d ask again about her parents but he didn’t. Instead he came closer and said, “It’s a criminal institute, Sarah.”

“Maybe I went a bit crazy. Smashed up the place I was living.”

“What place?”

“What is this? An inquisition?”

He didn’t move. Then he said, “It’s an interview. For a job.”

She realized then that he’d already been online checking her story. She said, “What job?”

“When are you eighteen?”

“Next month.”

He began to pace again, long strides around the room, restless, moving papers. Seeing the box, he picked it up and put it into the lowest drawer of the desk, turning the key, preoccupied. As if it weren’t anything special.

“You can see the state of this place. Piers does what he can, but he could do with some help.”

She couldn’t hide her disappointment. “You want me to be a cleaner?”

“To help out. With other things too.”

She waited. He pulled the curtain back, gazing out into the dark. “I’m working on a project here. A very secret, very important piece of research. That’s what the gates are for, and the cameras. You won’t understand it, but it’s reached a critical stage, and I need another…subject. Another volunteer.”

It was as if he was talking to himself, a low, rapid, passionate mutter. It scared her. “Another? What happened to the first one?”

“He left.” He came and stood looking down at her. She got up and brushed the breadcrumbs off, because he was tall and there was a bleak, threatening urgency in him. He said, “I need you to work with me on the Chronoptika.”

Her heart leaped.

“It’s a device for…manipulating light. It’s faulty, but I know I can get it to work. I just need someone with no ties, someone who won’t be missed, won’t go out there and blab. Someone like you.”

She shrugged. “I don’t know anything about—”

“You don’t need to know. You’re just the subject.”

“In some experiment? With drugs?”

“No drugs.”

She shook her head. “No way. You’re not wiring me up with electrodes like some lab rat.”

“No electrodes.” His voice had gone hard and cold. He stepped back. “Maybe I’m not making myself clear here, Sarah. You have two choices. Work with me, or I phone the police. Right now.”

He took a phone from his pocket, thumbed a number in, and held it up. The faint square of light edged his face.

“Wait.” She wanted to say That man wasn’t the police. Instead she said, “Turn it off.”

“You agree?”

“I don’t have any choice.”

A gleam of relief was gone from his face before she could be sure of it. “There’s no danger. I promise you. And when it’s over I’ll give you a thousand in cash and a plane ticket to wherever in the world you want to go. You can do what you like with your life.”

She knew he was lying about the danger. And that he didn’t care. “How long will it take?”

He looked away. “A few weeks.”

The house seemed to wait around her. Outside its windows, the vast Wood bent under the slant of sleet. She remembered the shadowy green-eyed boy who had commanded the wolf.

“All right. I’ll do it. But I’m not a prisoner. I get my own room, and the run of the house. I’ll need some clothes too. And shoes.”

“Tell Piers what you need. He’ll see to your foot.” He went to the door, then turned. “You can go anywhere except the Monks’ Walk. And don’t go in the Wood alone. It’s a strange, scary place.” He seemed to want to say something else, and for a moment she wondered if he might be grateful, show some welcome that she realized she longed for. But all he said was, “Come on. I’ll show you the attic rooms. You can choose one.”

Later, in dry clothes and her stinging foot tightly bandaged, she sat on the small white bed in the attic and leaned back against the lukewarm radiator. Here they were, the wardrobe, the chest of drawers, the window safely shuttered against the night. The room wasn’t so different. Barer, colder. The blue chintz curtains were gone. Sliding down, she crossed to the floorboard near the window seat and touched it gently with her foot. It creaked.

She knelt, and felt for the tiny slot where her fingers had always fit exactly.

They still did.

She smiled, and carefully levered up the board. The cavity beneath was dark, full of dust. She put her hand inside and groped around but nothing was there. None of her secret writings, her private paintings.

Leaving it open, she sat back on the bed and curled her knees up. Then she placed the stolen gray notebook on the flowered quilt.

Next to it, carefully, from her pockets, she brought out the three treasures she had snatched from the Labyrinth.