Gideon glared. He took the spoon, dipped it in, and tasted a tiny mouthful. His eyes widened. His whole body seemed to jerk.
Wharton grinned. “Well?”
“It tastes!”
“Tastes?”
“Of . . . things.” Gideon shook his head. How could he explain to them that he hadn’t known until now that everything in the Summerland was tasteless. That their food was like leaves and ashes. He sat and filled another spoonful, hastily, intent. Over his head Wharton raised both eyebrows at Piers.
Jake got up and wandered over to the fire. The cradle had been set up at a safe distance; the baby, changed and washed and full of warm milk, lay gurgling there in comfort, one chubby fist clutching the soft pink blanket.
Jake crouched. Quietly, so Wharton and the others couldn’t hear, he whispered, “Don’t worry. He’ll be back. Your dad. Mine. We’ll get him back, I swear.”
He touched the baby’s warm fingers.
His brother clutched him, tight.
In the lab, Maskelyne said, “You were right to rebuke me.”
“What did Janus mean? About you teaching him things? That you worked with him?”
He touched the green webbing. “One day I’ll tell you everything, Becky, I promise. About how I came to . . . find the mirror . . . and . . .”
“Find?” She came closer, a tall red-haired girl in jeans, so familiar to him, though sometimes it seemed only seconds since she had been a tiny child crying in the night. “I don’t think you found it. I think you created it.”
“Becky . . .”
She held his eye. “I think you were Mortimer Dee, and maybe many other people too, down the centuries. I think you and the mirror have been together a very long time.”
He put his finger lightly to her lips.
“Then keep my secret, Becky.”
They were silent a long moment. Until she said, “For now.”
Alone in his high tower room, Venn heard the spring arrive.
He heard the flowers open on the hawthorn bushes, the bees wake, the small furled buds of oak and ash and rowan rustle and uncurl. He felt the wind change and the breeze shiver, hedgehogs crisp through banks of leaves, tadpoles in the lake open their eyes and grow tails and swarm in the deep green water. Folding his arms, he watched the moon rise and the moths flutter.
He felt light and strange. As if the long dig out of the avalanche on Katra Simba had only ended now, and it was here that he burst out into the fierce blue air and breathed again.
He knew he had taken some step away from being human.
He waited until the hawk flew out of the night and landed on the head of a gargoyle on the sill.
Her bright yellow eye, black-slitted, unblinking, fixed on him.
Her talons gripped the stone.
Venn nodded. “Even you can only delay the spring. What is it you want from me, Summer? What’s your price for our survival?”
But he knew her answer, even as she turned and flew off, high into the purple twilight, and as he watched her, he allowed his eyes to widen to the hard blue of sapphire, let his glance shift, let his face become beaked, alert, fierce as a predator, let his whole body cast off the weight of the earth and the pain of loss.
And fly.
So when Piers slammed the door open moments later with the tea tray and said “Thought you might like some soup,” the room was empty, the window open, only a scatter of dark feathers drifting down on the sill.
Piers put the tray on the bed, came over, and leaned out into the twilight.
Two hawks were soaring high up over the trees. Far off, in the Wood, the strange rhythmic music of the Shee came to him, and he remembered that this night was Beltane, the eve of May Day, one of the magical cusps of the year, and that bonfires would be burning on the moor.
He closed the window and turned, looking up at the portrait of Leah.
Her face, pale in the moonlight, laughed down at him.
“He needs you,” he whispered. “He needs you now or he’s lost forever.”
But she was silent and he knew she could not hear him.
End of Book 2
About the Author
CATHERINE FISHER is a critically acclaimed author and poet and was named the first Young People’s Laureate for Wales. She graduated from the University of Wales with a degree in English and a fascination for myth and history, and has worked in education and archaeology and as a lecturer in creative writing. Her genre-busting novels, like the New York Times bestselling Incarceron and Sapphique, have given her the reputation of being “one of today’s best fantasy writers,” as noted by the London Independent. Ms. Fisher lives in Wales in the United Kingdom.