Tom staggered in and lowered the jar carefully onto a bench.
“Who is he?”
“The caretaker.” Azrael was pulling complicated zigzags of glass out of a packing case. “Essentially harmless.”
“He seems to know you.”
“We’ve worked together before.” Azrael glanced over. “Set this up first. All right?”
“Whatever you say.”
It was better than scrubbing floors. All afternoon he assembled a vast mass of tubing, piecing it together from Azrael’s absentminded instructions; parts for distillation, filters, tripods. He unrolled diagrams and charts and pinned them up, and a huge periodic table with the names of the elements in strange text like a spell—iridium, rhodium, helium. There were boxes of labeled specimens that had to be arranged on shelves, and other things that he thought bizarre for a chemistry lab—a drawing of the human body, a statue of Anubis, small copper bells, a feathered dream-catcher. All the while Azrael unpacked notebooks and papers, riffling through them with muttered comments.
At last Tom looked around. “Is all this yours?”
“Just a few bits and pieces.”
“Doesn’t the school have stuff?” He tugged open a crate and saw rows of gleaming crucibles. “Some of this looks pretty old-fashioned. I don’t do chemistry, but is this the right sort of thing?”
Azrael smiled briefly. “Let’s say I have my own ways. What are your subjects, Tom?”
“History, English, math.”
“Math! Good. That will be useful.”
Behind him, Simon examined the telescope. “Not just a nutcase,” he muttered. “But a rich one.”
Outside, the short December day died quickly, the sun setting in a brief red hollow in the clouds. Finally, Azrael glanced up. Fiery light caught the edge of his face. “Right. That’s enough for now. And despite Scrab’s mutterings, I’m thirsty, aren’t you?”
He went to the fireplace and pressed an old button-push there. “None of those work,” Tom said. “Otherwise all the kids would be pressing them.”
Azrael shrugged gracefully. “You never know.”
He cleared a space on a bench, pulled up two chairs and sat on one, resting his feet on the other with a sigh. “So. This is a nice place. Do you enjoy living here, Tom?”
“It’s okay.”
“Sea. Beaches. The moor. Lots of wealthy visitors. Quite idyllic.”
“It could be,” Tom said shortly. He played with the computer cable. Azrael watched him closely. Then the door handle turned. Azrael sat up, delighted. “What did I tell you?”
Scrab must have been expecting the call. He came in with two mugs of tea on a tray and a chipped plate of shortbread biscuits, which he dumped on the papers with bad grace.
“As if I ’ad nowt better to do.”
“Your reward will come,” Azrael said coolly, “in the next world.”
“Aye. And yer so sharp yer’ll cut yerself.” The cat on the chair by the radiator stopped licking itself and stared at him.
“Any sign?” Azrael asked quietly.
“Not yet. Got till New Year, ain’t she?”
“Indeed.”
“What if she don’t show? If we ’as to go looking?”
“She can never go far enough.” Azrael poured the tea thoughtfully. “Not in all the twelve dimensions. Not from me.”
Tom listened. Simon was wandering between the benches; he came to the glass jar and gazed in, his face distorted in the thick, bubbled sides.
“Well,” Scrab said, sliding out. “She did all right with ’er time. One of yer better bargains.”
Azrael gave a sharp sideways nod at the door. Scrab spat in the empty fireplace, and went.
“Tell me . . .” Azrael leaned forward. “Do you have any brothers or sisters, Tom?”
The suddenness of the question threw him. “One.” Then, instantly, “None.”
“A bit confusing.” Azrael selected a biscuit daintily.
Tom shrugged. “I was one of twins. The other one—my brother—died. At least, he wasn’t born properly.”
Azrael’s hand was still. Then he dropped the biscuit back on the plate. “I see.” His voice was strange. He got up and wandered to the jar, holding it with both hands, looking in, as Simon had done. “That explains things. It must have been hard on your parents.”
Tom sipped uneasily at the tea. “I suppose.”
“And you.”
“I was just a baby.”
Azrael turned. The room was very dark now; he leaned over and plugged a lamp in, and the sudden glow woke reflections in hundreds of glass surfaces, and in the eyes of the Anubis statue. “And you go to this school?”
“No.” Tom stood, putting the mug down. “Look, I should be going.”
“No? But it would be so suitable!” Azrael’s hands spread wide on the jar. He turned. “Wouldn’t it? Wouldn’t you like to come here?”
Tom was at the door. “Yes,” he breathed, “but . . .”
Azrael took a step forward. To Tom’s surprise he pulled what seemed to be a playing card out of a pocket and laid it on the bench and looked at it. It was the Jack of Clubs. “But what?”
“I don’t know.” Tom’s voice was tight; he felt as if he couldn’t breathe. “I’ve got to go.”
“Look.” Azrael came up to him. “I need help with my work. I have vital research going on.” He smiled coyly. “You’d enjoy it, and you’d learn a lot. Five pounds an hour, when you can come. Is that fair?”
He was amazed and oddly relieved. “More than fair.”
“Excellent. Up to Christmas and after. Until . . . oh let’s say until New Year, shall we?”
Downstairs, the Hall was in darkness. Paula had gone; her overalls swung on their hook. Tom let himself out into the cold. Overhead, the frosty stars glinted; far out to sea a great cloudbank streamed from the west. As he stood on the porch, the gargoyles were openmouthed against the light. Behind, footsteps stirred the crisp leaves.
“I wondered where you’d got to,” he said. “Did you hear what he’s paying?”
There was no answer. He turned, quickly. “Simon?”
Cloud drifted from the moon; eerie light lit the eyes of the gargoyles, their gleaming teeth.
Under them, the blond girl from the post office was watching him curiously.
eighteen
He stared at her. “Where did you spring from?”
“Keep your voice down!” She glanced at the moon anxiously; cloud was drifting over it again. “Is Azrael in there?”
“Yes. But . . .”
“Blast.” She swung the backpack up; it seemed heavy. He remembered the cans of food she had bought. “One of those thugs in the post office said your mother was the cleaner here.”
He was annoyed. “So?”
“So you owe me a favor. I need you to get me inside. And I need a key. Someone’s changed all the locks.”
“I can’t!”
“Of course you can.”
Tom was silent. There was something about her that puzzled him. Something not quite right. Over his shoulder he said to Simon, “What is it?”
“Never mind him,” the girl snapped. “Give me the key.”
Astonished, they stared at her.
“You can see me?” Simon came out of the shadows, intensely interested. “You really can?”
“Why shouldn’t I?”
“This is brilliant!”
“Quiet!” Tom shook his head. This scared him. “If it’s thieving, forget it.”
The girl looked tired. She almost smiled. “I just need somewhere to stay. Till New Year. This place is empty till term. There are plenty of beds.”
An owl hooted; she looked up quickly. “You owe me. No one else needs know, not your mother. Especially not Azrael.”
“And Mr. Scrab?”
She sighed. “Him too.”
A window clattered above them. Instantly the three of them flattened into the shadows, Tom feeling Simon’s warmth at his shoulder. A slot of faint light shone out briefly into the dark trees, a man’s indistinct shadow flitting across it. Then the shutters were slammed.