Suddenly he turned to her. “Though what if he never gets back, Sarah. What if . . .”
“Don’t panic.” She kept her voice firm. “Of course he will. Pass me that chair.”
It took ten minutes to coax Horatio down, but the grapes she found proved too enticing, and finally he jumped into her arms with a screech and snatched the fruit.
“Brilliant.” Wharton was delighted. “I knew he’d like you.”
She clambered down. The marmoset’s fur was soft and lustrous. It looked up into her face and chattered. Then it took another grape, held a handful of her hair, climbed onto her shoulder, and sat there, sucking. Its tail was a soft tickle around her neck.
She turned. “Right. Let’s go to the mirror.”
At first she was amazed that Venn had left it unguarded. Then, as she ducked through the viridian web that was spun about it, she noticed the new bank of security devices, the alarms and laser-thin beams of light that Wharton held her back from.
“Venn is more and more afraid of theft. Getting paranoid. There’s the control panel, and they’ve wired it up like the crown jewels. If there’s any sign of Jake coming back, the whole house will probably explode with alarms. This is what the portraits are paying for. We can’t go any closer than this.”
Sarah hissed in frustration. “Crazy.”
“Maybe. But that thing scares me . . . It seems to have a life of its own.”
The obsidian mirror.
It leaned, facing her, a dark sliver of glass in its jagged silver frame. In the angled shadowy surface, she saw a slanted image of herself, and her own face looked different, subtly altered. The mirror showed her herself, but for the first time a stab of doubt pierced her—did it show what was there now, or were its reflections warped and rippled through by time, so that she might be seeing herself seconds ago? Or did the mirror show not only the outward form but how a person felt? Their emotions? Their soul?
Wharton was talking. She dragged her attention back.
“. . . can do about any of it. I never thought I would miss that infuriating, arrogant wretch.”
She realized he was talking about Jake.
“Jake can look after himself.”
“So could his father. But what if we never see him again, Sarah?”
She patted his elbow, and walked as near as she dared to the network of lights. “Don’t worry. Keep believing. Gideon will find him. He promised.”
Wharton snorted. “If Summer knows that, Gideon might be torn into pieces by now.”
“You really have to . . .” She stopped. A brief glimmer, like lightning. “What was that?”
“What . . .”
“Did you see!”
She felt him hurry beside her. “I can’t see anything except . . .”
The mirror flickered.
For a brief, terrible moment it was not even there. They were in a place of utter darkness, the air a choking dust; all around them and over their heads, a crushing, suffocating mass of rubble and brick.
Sarah gasped.
Wharton swore.
Then the mirror was clear.
“What . . . where was that!”
Sarah stared at the obsidian glass, seeing her own eyes, wide and startled. She stared into the fear that the black hole had reached even here to engulf the world.
“That was death,” she whispered.
Jake sat on the wooden bed and gazed around the cell.
This was no police holding room—this was prison. They had brought him in a black police car, the bell on the roof jangling, and at least four heavy metal gates had clanged behind him. The air was stale and sour, the muted sounds of voices and the clatter of dishes marking other distant prisoners.
But it was still too quiet. Prisons should be noisy. He wondered if the military held him now, or whether Allenby had managed to keep him in his own custody, whether the blurted promise to tell all had tempted the man.
He scowled up at the cobwebbed ceiling. What a mess. What could he say? If Alicia had been running a spy ring, what the hell did he know about it?
He felt weary and out of ideas. His head ached and he was bitterly hungry—the empty plate by the door hadn’t been filled for hours. He would have given real money for a hot shower. Clean clothes. Even a toothbrush.
He scowled.
This was useless. All he needed to do was examine the room, learn the routine, make plans.
The prison that could hold Jake Wilde hadn’t been invented yet!
Ten futile minutes later he knew that it had.
And that he was in it.
On a gray day in early June my uncle summoned me to his study.
He said, “Well, my dear. It seems that today you finally come into your inheritance.”
I was astonished. “My inheritance?”
He cleared his throat. He seemed a little nervous. “Indeed. You see, it is exactly ten years to the day that your father had his, er, unfortunate demise.”
“He died? On this day?”
“Well . . . that is . . . An experiment must have gone wrong. The room was quite empty after the explosion. He could never have survived, of course, but his body must have been . . . entirely . . . My dear, I do not wish to distress you. Such details are not for ladies. Let us say his body was never found. Which made legal difficulties, as you must know.”
I sat tense with excitement. “I don’t know. No one has ever told me this before.”
“Er . . . yes.” He was very uneasy. My uncle was a small man, usually quivering with self-importance. I began to feel a strange hope creep over me.
He glanced down at a cream vellum envelope that lay on the desk. “A letter has come for you. I of course opened it, as your guardian.”
I gripped my hands together in anger. “I will take it now.”
“There’s no need. I will explain . . .”
I stood up. “I will take my letter, Uncle.”
He looked a little startled. I took up the missive and opened it eagerly. As he strode to the window and stood with his hands behind his back, harrumphing at the dismal scene, I read these fascinating words.
Messrs. Queenhythe and Carbury
Solicitors at Law,
Staple Inn, London
Madam,
I beg to inform you that my client, your father, Mr. John Harcourt Symmes, is from this date legally declared deceased and that his estate, house, and chattels now revert to you.
Should you or your representative care to apply in person to our premises, we will supply you with all further details.
May I offer my congratulations on your good fortune, and commiserations on your loss.
I remain, Your most humble and obedient servant,
Marcus Queenhythe
I held the paper with trembling fingers. I could nor believe what I was seeing. My dull life of drudgery was over. I was an heiress!
My uncle turned. “I will of course set off immediately. The London house will need to be sold, and any money—”
“No,” I said quietly.
“I beg your pardon?”
I drew myself up. This was a moment I had dreamed of for years. I was not going to lose it now.
I said, “No, Uncle. I shall take the train to London myself tomorrow.”