At least the metaphor is consistent, Aubrey thought as they marched along the corridor. The stonework was weighty, gloomy and with the requisite amount of moss and spider webs in the corners overhead. Wall sconces held burning torches at intervals sufficiently spaced to ensure plenty of shifting shadows. They passed other cells, the doors of which were heavy timber, bound with iron. Several of the doors were open and Aubrey peered in as they passed, but the cells were empty.
He caught up to Sylvia. ‘Is there anyone else here? Any other prisoners?’
She walked in silence for some time; Aubrey took her head nodding as a sign she was considering the question. Eventually, she made a vague gesture with a hand. ‘I have had other guests here. I don’t know what happened to them.’
She looked at him with eyes that were pieces of night, and then she looked away. Aubrey shuddered.
Caroline sidled up to him. ‘Aubrey,’ she said softly. ‘How long have we been walking?’
Aubrey blinked. ‘I’ve no idea.’
‘Have you noticed how we haven’t turned a corner? This is the longest corridor I’ve ever been in.’
‘No cross-corridors either,’ von Stralick added.
George scratched his chin. ‘I wonder, if we keep going, whether we’ll end up back at our cell.’
Aubrey glanced at him sharply. Then he took a few brisk steps to Sylvia’s side. ‘Where are we going?’
She considered this while they walked on. ‘I’m not sure.’
‘You’re not sure?’
‘I like walking.’ She nodded, once. ‘I want to show you where I spend my time.’
‘Is it close?’
‘Of course. Here it is.’
Aubrey looked in the direction she was pointing. With a chill, he saw the corridor coming to an arch that he was sure hadn’t been there a moment ago. He looked back over his shoulder to see intense wariness from the others.
Well, he thought, we could go back to the cell. But then he wondered if it would be that simple.
Sylvia waited at the arch. ‘This way.’
Even though he was alert, Aubrey found himself stumbling with surprise when they crossed under the arch. George made a noise as if he’d been struck in the stomach.
We’ve left the prison, Aubrey thought as he gazed around. Or if we haven’t, penal theory has undergone a radical change.
They were – suddenly, shockingly – in a charming, sunny drawing room. The scent of roses came in through the open windows, which looked out onto masses of garden colour. Daisies and columbines grew thickly underneath the standard roses, which were the rich, dark red that is only seen in dreams. A stretch of lawn as flat as a bowling green led to an avenue of cypresses which screened off any further view.
The room was airy and pleasant, free of overcrowding knick-knackery. Four easy chairs and a sofa in cheery floral chintz, a glass-fronted bookcase, a tall clock against the far wall, three small tables. A tall vase of irises stood on one of them.
‘This is my favourite room.’ Sylvia stood gazing through the window, hardly even seeming to breathe. ‘It always was.’
Aubrey, without realising it, had spread his arms, as if he’d dropped from a height onto a surface of uncertain footing. Embarrassed, he brought his hands together and rubbed them.
Caroline and von Stralick stood just inside the arch. Caroline’s gaze was darting around the room, obviously looking for danger. Von Stralick was equally tense. The only one who looked at ease was George. He stuck his hands in his pockets, sauntered into the room and dropped into one of the armchairs. ‘No sense in letting these go to waste,’ he said as he made himself comfortable. ‘I say, Sylvia. Any chance of a cup of tea? And a bite to eat?’
Sylvia turned around and stared at George as if this was the most remarkable thing she’d ever heard. ‘Eat?’
‘You know. A scone, a slice of seed cake, something to make the tea go down.’
Aubrey shared a glance with Caroline and von Stralick. Caroline nodded slowly and advanced into the room.
Sylvia didn’t notice this unspoken conversation. She was absorbed with George’s suggestion. ‘That sounds like a good idea.’
She crossed the room and left through a door on the right-hand side of the room.
Aubrey swallowed. ‘That door wasn’t there before.’
Caroline nodded. ‘Before what?’
‘Before ever, I’d say. A seat?’ he asked Caroline.
Von Stralick watched them, then followed, not without a few backward glances.
Aubrey was pleased to see that Caroline had taken a position on the sofa. He battled with himself for a split-second before he managed to cut off von Stralick and take the seat next to her. She smiled at him tolerantly. He’d have preferred her smiling at him with admiration, or respect, or awe, but tolerance was acceptable.
Sylvia appeared. She drifted in carrying a large silver tea tray piled high with delights, which she placed on a small round table that was between the sofa and George’s chair.
That table wasn’t there earlier either. Aubrey sat back, frowning, and scanned the room, trying to catalogue every item in it.
He had a puzzle on his hands. Trapped, perhaps in danger, he still couldn’t help feeling the thrill of a challenge. His curiosity and his intellect were humming – probing, noticing, appraising, calculating.
He was willing to accept they were trapped inside Dr Tremaine’s pearl – the observations fitted with that hypothesis. Finding Dr Tremaine’s sister would be too much of a coincidence otherwise. But how were they to get out? Especially if the surroundings changed and flowed with Sylvia’s needs.
Sylvia sat on one of the chairs and poured the tea. Aubrey noted how her movements were slow, as if she were moving through something denser than air. George sipped his tea and made a face. His waggling eyebrows alerted Aubrey in time so that he wasn’t taken by surprise when he sampled it.
The tea was tasteless. No, not quite tasteless, he corrected himself. It had a faint tea taste, as if it had been diluted a hundred times, a memory of tea flavour lingering. And it was barely warm, too.
He put a hand on Caroline’s arm, stopping her from raising her cup to her lips. She frowned at him, but quickly saw the lie of the land. She put the cup back on the saucer and balanced it on her lap.
Von Stralick had his eyes on Sylvia and missed the unspoken warnings. He took a mouthful and grimaced. With the aplomb of someone who had been a diplomat, he managed to swallow it instead of spitting it out. He held the cup away from him and stared at it with disgust. Then he glared at Aubrey, who shrugged.
‘Cake, George?’ Aubrey passed the platter. It was piled with dark-brown slabs, but Aubrey couldn’t smell a thing. He felt a little guilty, but decided that George was the right man for any job concerning food.
George snorted, but took a slice. His expression and the shudder after taking a bite was enough for Aubrey to guess that it, too, was not what it appeared.
The awkward silence continued, only broken by von Stralick’s stubborn stirring of his tea. The ‘tink-tink-tink’ of the spoon on the fine china was loud in the room until Aubrey coughed. ‘Sylvia. Was it your brother who put you here?’
Sylvia was gazing at the garden. Slowly, she turned her head to Aubrey and, once again, he had the feeling she wasn’t all there. ‘My brother? Mordecai?’
‘That’s the one,’ Aubrey said.
‘Have you seen him?’ she said, with a touch of animation – the most feeling Aubrey had seen in the strange, wan woman. ‘I miss him so.’