"But we do not matter?" asked Drache.
"I should miss you," admitted Ariadne, gently. "As you cannot do without the trees, who make the air breathable, the Kind cannot do without you, without your dreams. If the Cold spreads, we would outlive you — but eventually, starved, we would fade. The Cold has mind, but no memory. It would retain nothing of you."
"The world doesn't end in ice, but fire," said Jago. "This, I have seen."
"The Old Ones will return," said Karabatsos.
"Yes, dear, Old," echoed his wife.
It seemed to Catriona that everyone in this business expected a personal, tailor-made apocalypse. They enlisted in the Winter War out of jealousy — a pettish wish to forestall every other prophet's vision, to keep the stage clear for their own variety of Doom. The Cold was Professor Cleaver's End of the World, and the others wanted to shut him down. Derek Leech, at least, needed the planet to stay open for business — which was why Catriona had listened when he called a truce with the Diogenes Club.
The doorbell rang. Catriona would have hurried back to the hall, but David Cross gallantly went for her. Louise poured more tea.
It was not Genevieve and her party, but Mr Zed, last of the Undertakers. He brought another old acquaintance from the Mausoleum, their collection of oddities (frankly, a prison).
Mr Zed, eyes permanently hidden behind dark glasses, stood in the drawing room doorway. Everyone looked at him. The brim of his top hat and the shoulders of his black frock coat were lightly powdered with snow. Many of the Council — and not only those on Derek Leech's side of the room — might once have had cause to fear immurement in the Mausoleum, but the Undertaking was not what it had been. Mr Zed politely took off his hat and stood aside.
Behind him was a little girl who could have stepped out of an illustration from one of Louise's earliest books. She had an indian braid tied with a silver ribbon, and wore a neat pinafore with a kangaroo pouch pocket. She looked like Rose Farrar, who disappeared from a field in Sussex in 1872, "taken by the fairies". This creature had turned up on the same spot in 1925, and come close to delivering an apocalypse that might have suited Jago's biblical tastes. At least she wasn't playing Harlot of Babylon any more.
"Good afternoon, Rose."
Catriona had not seen the girl-shaped creature since the Undertaking took her off. She still had a smooth, pale patch on her hand — where Rose had spat venom at her.
The creature curtseyed. When she looked up, she wore another face — Catriona's, as it had been fifty years ago. She used the face to smile, and aged rapidly — presenting Catriona with what she looked like now. Then, she laughed innocently and was Rose Farrar again.
The procedure was like a slap.
The thing that looked like Rose was on their side, for the moment. But, unlike everyone else in the room — good, bad or undecided — she didn't come from here. If the Cold won, Rose wouldn't necessarily lose a home, or a life, or anything she put value on.
Catriona wasn't sure what Rose could contribute, even if she was of a mind to help. Ariadne, Louise and, perhaps, the Rodway girl were Talents — they could alter reality through sheer willpower. Jago and Paulette were "effective dreamers" — they could alter reality on an even larger scale, but at the whim of their unconscious minds. Rose was a living mirror — she could only change herself, by plucking notions from the heads of anyone within reach. She resembled the original Rose because that's who the people who found her in Angel Field expected her to be. She had been kept captive all these years by confining her with people (wardens and convicts) who believed the Mausoleum to be an inescapable prison — which wasn't strictly true.
"What a dear little thing," said Ariadne. "Come here and have some of Miss Teazle's delicious cake."
Rose meekly trotted over to the Elder's side and presented her head to be stroked. Jago turned away from Maureen, and was fascinated. Until today, he hadn't known there were other Talents in the world. Paulette perked up again, momentarily — the most powerful dreamer on record, now in a room with at least two creatures who fed on dreams.
End of the World or not, Catriona wondered whether bringing all these big beasts together was entirely a bright idea.
"More tea, Cat," suggested Louise, who had just given a steaming cup to the Undertaker.
Catriona nodded.
VIII
Jamie wasn't surprised when the snowmen attacked. It wouldn't be a war if there weren't an enemy.
The frosties waited until the five had tramped a hundred difficult yards or so past them, committing to the path ahead and an uncertain footing. They were in Sutton Mallet. It wasn't much of a place. Two Rolls Royces were parked by the path, almost buried, icicles dripping from the bonnet ornaments. Nice machines. His Dad drove one like them.
"What's that thing called again?" he muttered, nodding at the dancers.
"The Spirit of Ecstasy," said Sewell Head. "Originally, the Spirit of Speed. Designed by Charles Sykes for the Rolls-Royce Company in 1911. The model is Eleanor Velasco Thornton."
"Eleanor. That explains it. Dad always called the little figure "Nellie in Her Nightie". I used to think she had wings, but it's supposed to be her dress, streaming in the wind."
Everyone had fallen over more than once. It stopped being remotely funny. Each step was an uncertain adventure that only Gene was nimble enough to enjoy. Then, even she skidded on a frozen puddle and took a tumble into a drift.
She looked up, and saw the four snowy sentinels.
"What are you laughing at?" she shouted.
At that, the snowmen upped stumps and came in a rush. When they moved, they were localized, roughly human shaped blizzards. They had no problem with their footing, and charged like touchy rhinos whose mothers had just been insulted by howler monkeys.
"There are people inside," yelled Keith. "I think they're dead."
"They better hope they're dead," said Gene, flipping herself upright and standing her ground, adopting a fighting stance.
The first and biggest of the frosties — who wore a top hat — barrelled towards the Burgundian girl, growing into a creature that seemed all shoulders. She met it with an ear-piercing "ki-yaaa" and a Bruce Lee-approved power-kick to the midriff. The topper fell off and the frosty stopped in its tracks, shedding great chunks of packed ice to reveal a well-dressed gent with a deeply-cut throat and a slack mouth. He had bled out before freezing. The snow crawled back up around the corpse, cocooning it with white powder, building layers of icy muscle, growing icicle spines and teeth. It reached down with an extensible arm, picked up its hat, and set it back on its head at a jaunty angle. The coals of its mouth rearranged themselves into a fierce grin.
And the other three — who wore a tartan cap, a jungle hat and two bugs on springs — caught up with their leader. They were swollen to the size of big bruisers.
Jamie looked down at his hands. His gauntlets were mittened with black clouds, containing violet electrical arcs. Out in the open, with snow all around and cold sunlight, there was too little shade. Night was far off. He cast darkstuff at the Scotch Snowman, who was nearest, and sheared away a couple of icicles. They instantly grew back.
He would have to do better.
Fred Astaire Snowman patted its healed-over tummy, and shot out a big fist which clenched around Gene's throat. Astaire lifted Gene off the ground. She kicked, but floundered with nothing to brace against. Jamie saw she had longer, sharper nails than normal — but any tears she made in the snow-hand were healed over instantly. She gurgled, unable to talk.