“I am here.” My voice was quite changed. A high piping voice, a child’s voice. “Mother?”
At least half the women cried out. Of course, I knew they had all lost someone. And yes, you might think me cruel, to exploit them in this way. But my justification was that I felt, quite sincerely, that it helped them. That it was a comfort.
“Mother,” I lisped. “This is your own sweet one. I am happy. I watch over you.”
Tears. Sobs of astonishment.
I stared into the darkness of the mirror. I had planned the session to perfection; already I had become a husband lost in the Crimea and the great-great-grandmother whose descendant—a very spendthrift woman—had wanted to ask about a lost diamond necklace. My next spirit would be the recently deceased aunt of a nervous young man who, my maid had discovered, was deeply in debt. Her will had not yet been found.
I opened my mouth to whisper in an old lady’s voice.
And the mirror laughed.
I confess a shudder ran through me.
It was a sound so sinister, so truly dark that it made my imitations sound quite pale and weak.
My clients were utterly still. In the dark room the tiny flames of the candles seemed to dim. In the black glass a shadow moved.
I said, “Who is that? David? Is that you?”
My heart thudded. The fire crackled.
Then he said, quite calmly, “My dear madam. I don’t believe we’ve ever met. My name is Janus.”
Jake paused in the tiny dressing room. It lay between his father’s old room and the locked connecting door to Venn’s. For a moment he had thought he had heard a footstep out there in the corridor, but now as he waited, one hand on the cold marble washstand, there was nothing.
Just the drip of the leaking roof.
He straightened, took another key from the bunch of keys and tried that. He had stolen the keys from the kitchen half an hour ago, when Piers was far too absorbed in his papers to notice.
This one turned, softly.
He gave a grin of satisfaction, turned the handle, and very softly inched the door open.
The bedroom was as spartan as ever.
Venn lay on the bed. He was fully dressed, wrapped in his dark coat, his boots leaving muddy clots on the black-and-white quilt. He slept as if exhausted, a complete sleep, curled up, his breathing regular and shallow.
For a moment Jake watched him. He knew so little about Venn, about who he really was. All the stories of the explorer, the legendary TV series, the terrible solitary descent of Katra Simba . . . all that was the public face, the famous personality.
But who was this, lying here? This worn, changeable, guilty man? Was he mortal? Or was he Shee? Was he some strange forbidden mixture of the two? Because the Shee certainly felt no sorrow. And Jake wasn’t sure if they ever slept.
Venn stirred, murmured. He curled up tighter, rolled over.
Jake forgot everything. Because he could see the bracelet. It was fastened around Venn’s right wrist, and his sleeve had ridden up to expose its amber gleam.
Jake took a tentative step forward. The carpet in the room was thick; it muffled his steps. He reached the side of the bed, then leaned forward carefully.
The bracelet was surprisingly light—he knew that from wearing it himself. His fingers touched the coolness of its silver, the intricate serpent, the finely delicate clasp. With infinite care he crouched closer, using his very fingertips, barely breathing, unfastening the clasp with a smooth movement he could hardly believe himself capable of.
The bracelet opened.
Jake widened the gap, drew it up, over Venn’s bony white wrist.
So softly.
So carefully.
An explosion of knocking at the bedroom door made him leap back in terror.
“Venn! Are you there. VENN?”
Venn woke, rolled, stood.
Jake was already on the floor; he dived under the bed, thick dust in his hair and eyes.
His heart was hammering; he saw Venn’s feet on the carpet, the door opening.
“What? What’s wrong?”
“Sarah’s gone!” Wharton’s voice. Jake grinned. Those ridiculous slippers.
“Gone? Where?”
Wharton’s answer sounded breathless with apprehension. “Rebecca says she’s found out about the coin. I think she may have gone after it. Into the Summerland.”
Under the bed, Jake’s fingers gripped the bracelet tight.
Venn’s fury, when it came, was an animal’s fury.
An animal’s pain.
“Are you sure about this?” Gideon stood at the edge of the Wood, flint knife in his belt, his ragged coat green as lichen, his skin smeared with whorls and patterns of mud. Leaves clotted his pale hair.
“Yes,” she said. “I’m sure. Hurry.”
His eyes were restless, constantly glancing into the rain-swept Wood. She wondered, for a second, if he had betrayed her. But all he said was: “Right. Let’s go.”
The ground was awash, the small streams in the wood bursting their banks. She followed him to the edge, ducking under bare low branches, under the pliant stems of brambles.
Then she paused, tugged up her hood, and looked back.
In the Abbey the lights were lit in Venn’s room. Someone opened the window up there and yelled something, a command of anger and fear.
But the wind snatched the words away.
“That was Venn,” Gideon said. “I think he was calling you.”
She turned her back on the house, quickly, not to hear. “I know,” she said.
Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow to the last syllable of recorded time.
16
With Moll gone, I confess I feel somewhat low. So I have decided to attempt one last great exploit. I have no bracelet, and accept I may never return. But if I succeed I will see what no man living has seen.
Because, since I have spoken with Oberon Venn, only the mysteries of the future interest me.
Diary of John Harcourt Symmes
HE OPENED THE garage quickly, dragged the rickety doors wide.
A green tarpaulin covered the motorbike; he had tugged it off and was pulling the black helmet over his head when Rebecca’s voice came sharp behind him.
“Jake. Where are you going?”
He barely looked around. “The village.”
“Now? But Venn . . .”
“Stuff Venn.” He felt the bracelet safely inside his sleeve. Now he had to find them, those three replicants. He had to confront them. Before he left. Before he went for his father. He was in no mood to talk.
“I’m coming with you.” She was already tucking her long red hair into the other helmet, fastening the chin strap.
“No way.”
She sat astride Piers’s bike and looked at him. “Get on.”
“Look . . .”
“Have you got any sort of license? Because I have.”
He glared at her. “I thought you were busy helping Maskelyne.”
“He doesn’t need me.” Her voice was never this harsh. As she took the keys from him, found one and started the bike engine, he watched her, unmoving. Then, through the roaring revs he said quietly, “Are you really jealous of a mirror?”
Rebecca clicked down her visor so that he saw only his warped black reflection.