“I’m afraid the time has come,” he’d said.
And the last few trucks in the world had roared up the drive, a convoy of them.
She always woke up then. It was as if her mind wouldn’t let her see the horror that followed. Her mother being dragged away, her screams. Dad running full pelt round the corner of the house with the axe still in his hand, face-first into the stun blast that sent him crashing.
The bruising thud of his body onto the mud.
And the careless way they had carried him, one arm dangling down.
She set her lips firmly and turned away from the window. This wasn’t helping. Her parents were alive, would always be alive, somewhere in that distant future. And only she could help them.
She bent quickly, before she lost courage, and opened the hiding place under the boards. There was the small black pen she had brought from the future, and the gray notebook. These and the diamond brooch she had given Venn and the half of the Greek coin Summer had taken were all that remained of that world. She took the pen out.
On its cap was the enigmatic letter Z. The members of ZEUS had used these for their secret correspondence, but no one was left to answer her.
None of her friends.
She uncapped the pen. For a long moment her hand hesitated; then she wrote quickly, savagely.
Is anyone there?
Janus’s reply was so prompt she drew in a sharp breath.
I WAS HOPING YOU WOULD BE BACK SOON, SARAH. I’VE BEEN WAITING SO PATIENTLY.
She loathed this. It felt like betrayal. But she had to know.
What’s happening there? The black mirror.
. . . HAS NOT YET DESTROYED THE WORLD! AFTER ALL, YOU HAVE BEEN GONE ONLY A FEW MOMENTS, SARAH.
She stared at the scrawled lines on the paper.
Another appeared, swiftly unraveling.
I DON’T WANT YOU TO BE LONELY IN THAT PAST LAND. ALL BY YOURSELF. SO I HAVE SENT YOU MY CHILDREN.
“Sarah!” Wharton’s knock made her drop the pen with a start. “Are you up? Piers says breakfast.”
“Fine. Be there now.”
His footsteps creaked away along the corridor.
She wrote: What do you mean?
WHY DON’T YOU LOOK AND SEE.
A sudden gust of wind rippled the pages and made the casement bang open.
She leaned out and grabbed it, and then stopped, astonished.
On the lawn, just at the edge of the Wood, three children were playing. Three small boys, dressed in old-fashioned school uniforms, their faces identical. Triplets. As she stared, one bent down, the others leapfrogging his back. Then they all stood and looked up at the window, a silent threesome.
“Who are you?” she said. “Where . . .”
They turned, as one. Even as she called “Wait” they were gone, walking calmly into the Wood, though the last one turned back as he ducked under the dark branches.
And waved.
“Stand back!” The sergeant’s key turned quickly in the lock. “And stop that bleedin’ racket!”
As he burst in, another bomb hit so close that the walls shuddered. Dust and plaster crashed from the ceiling.
“Right Wilde, move. All prisoners evacuated.”
The cell was dim.
A flicker in the corner of his eye. He turned, and swore. Because there was the boy spy. And next to him, like his shadow, a spirit so pale and thin the sergeant thought at once of his own dear dead brother, Albert, glimpsed years ago cold as marble in the narrow bed.
Then they were on him. He opened his mouth to yell—a filthy gag was shoved in. He fought furiously but the beggars were fast—and the spy knew a few fiendish Eastern tricks too, because his feet were knocked from under him by a savage kick, and his arms whipped back and bound even as he struggled.
They trussed him tight.
Then Jake sat on his chest and said, “Keep still. And listen.”
The drone of aircraft, high above.
“I’m sorry to leave you here. I hope you’ll be okay. But I have to go. I want you to tell Allenby that I’m not a spy—he’s got it all wrong. I just walked in on this. Understand?”
The sergeant swore again, furious and indistinct. Then his eyes slid with fear. Gideon leaned over him, a strange flint knife in his hand. “Why don’t we make sure he stays silent.”
“Are you crazy?” Jake stared in disbelief.
“If he gets free . . .”
“You’ve been with the Shee too long. You’re turning into one of them.”
“I’m as human as you are, mortal!” Gideon’s eyes were bright and fierce as a bird’s.
For a moment he and Jake shared a bitter doubt.
Then Gideon stood abruptly. “Do what you like. But let’s go.”
In the doorway Jake winced as the building shook again. He was worried about leaving the man here during the air raid, but there was no choice—he had to get away. “Sorry,” he said. “Really sorry.”
He slammed the cell door, and locked it.
Then, after a second of bitter hesitation, he turned and tossed the keys in through the grille.
“What are you doing!” Gideon grabbed him. “He’ll untie himself . . .”
“I’m being human. We’ll be long gone. But first, I have to find that suitcase.”
Wharton strolled into the kitchen just as Piers was saying “. . . must never know anything about it. But the teacher—”
“What about the teacher?”
Standing by the fire, Venn glanced up. His cold, clear gaze was an icy chill; it seemed to weigh Wharton in a second’s acute scrutiny. Then, surprisingly, he said, “I think the teacher is a man who can be trusted.”
Piers sighed. He was sitting on the inglenook bench, absurdly cross-legged, wearing a white chef’s apron splashed liberally with what looked like tomato sauce. His small alert face was twisted in thought. Then he shrugged. “Your call, Excellency.”
“Trusted with what?” Wharton demanded.
Venn didn’t answer. Instead he went to the door and opened it, looking cautiously up the dim paneled corridor. He shut the door and came back, one of the seven black cats pacing behind him. Striding to the fire and staring at it, his back to Wharton, he said, “There’s something you should know. Unless . . . Has Jake ever spoken to you about the coin?”
“What coin?”
Piers scrambled up. “I’ll make some tea. Or coffee?”
“He hasn’t told you.” Venn turned. “So he has some discretion.”
Wharton went and sat at the table. He pushed the unwashed dishes aside and said, “Coffee please, Piers. So maybe you should tell me, then.”
Venn was wearing his usual dark jacket; his hair was dragged back with an easy carelessness that Wharton envied hopelessly. To Wharton’s surprise, he came and sat opposite, leaning his long arms on the table, his fingers interlocked.
“The night Sarah left. Christmas Day. On that night the man called Maskelyne told Jake and me something important about the mirror.”
Wharton nodded. “The scarred man. He’s a strange character. He knows more than he’s letting on.”
“I agree. Clearly his connection to the mirror is an old one. He owned it before Symmes, remember. He traveled through it unprotected—with no bracelet—and just about survived. He hungers to get it back.”
“Have you seen him since then?” Wharton asked.
“Not a sign.” Piers put a steaming cup of coffee in front of him. “Not a whisker. Not on the cameras, not on the estate, not even in the village. As if he’s vanished from the earth. And that girl, Rebecca, with him.”
“Never mind her.” Irritated, Venn watched Wharton add sugar and stir, savoring the aroma. “Maskelyne told us that the obsidian mirror cannot be destroyed. Not by force or fire, by wind or water. There is only one way to destroy the mirror. Those were his very words.”