The Door in the Moon Page 9

  Venn came and stood beside her. “You should look for a human lover, Rebecca. He’ll never make you happy.”

  She looked at him, straight. “You’re hardly the one to give me that advice.”

  His laugh was dark and bitter. He lifted the bracelet, laid it on the bench. “Piers. Take a look.”

  The little man was there in a second. Lovingly he fingered the exquisite silver band, the snake’s head and tongue. Then he touched the amber stone of the eye.

  “Oh yes. Definitely. All sorts of odd currents. Not sure if . . . no. Well, maybe this . . .”

  It opened.

  Silently, on a minute silver hinge, the amber stone opened like a tiny door, and at the same time there was the softest chime of sound, so melodious that Gideon shivered, remembering the songs of the Shee.

  He stepped closer, peered over Piers’s shoulder.

  The mirror rippled.

  Maskelyne, deep in his coma, murmured a word and then lay still.

  Venn said, “What is that?”

  Inside the tiny cavity under the stone was a spiral fossil, an ammonite, marked with tiny numbers. They seemed to spiral inward, growing smaller and smaller, into the heart of the coiled creature, so impossibly infinitesimal that even when Piers prised it out and put it under the microscope and they took it in turns to stare in, there was no end to the sequence. Gideon looked up, dazzled. “It goes on forever . . .”

  “Maybe it does. Maybe we’re looking at infinity right there.” Venn walked back to the mirror and stared at his warped reflection. “I saw it once before, in a bottomless crevasse on Katra Simba. White and deadly and never, never, ever coming to an end.” He turned. “Can we use this?”

  “Ooh, I think so.” Piers was agitated with excitement. “Because you may not have noticed this, Excellency, but . . .” He ran over and dragged a stool to the mirror, stood on it, and examined the top of the frame. “Yes! Right here . . . do you see? There’s a small cavity. I’ve spotted it before, but it’s quite empty and I never had a clue what it was for. Maybe that little spiral galaxy would fit in . . .”

  “Be careful!” Gideon muttered. Fear had made him nervous; it was that word infinity that had triggered it, his buried terror of being with the Shee forever and ever, coming back now like a pain in his bones and teeth. He hugged himself tight. He would not give in to it.

  “He’s right.” Rebecca watched, uneasy. “It might do anything.”

  “Piers?”

  “I think it will tell us things.” Piers sounded almost greedy. “We’ve never been able to configure the Chronoptika accurately. As if there was always some component missing, something we hadn’t done right . . . but now. We can be exact. Know where Jake is. Snatch Leah with seconds to spare . . . Please let me try, Excellency. Please!”

  Venn hesitated. He said, “Why didn’t Maskelyne suggest it? It may be dangerous.”

  “Maybe there’s a price to pay for accuracy,” Rebecca murmured.

  “Or it could just blow the whole house up.”

  “Venn.” It was Gideon’s voice, so amused they all turned to him, surprised. “Venn, the house is being eaten. Devoured by the Wood. The doors and windows won’t close, ivy is tangling inside, there are saplings sprouting in the outhouses, splintering the cloisters . . . If you don’t do something, there will be no Abbey. No Dwelling. Just some ruin lost in the Wood, a place of legends, a place sliding into the Summerland. And Summer will rule here.”

  For a moment Venn looked at him. Then at Rebecca, who nodded.

  Then he said, “All right. Do it.”

  Piers gave a squeak of delight. He took some tweezers and very gently lifted the ancient coil from the plate of the microscope, carrying it across the room as if it was a jewel of great price. At the door two of the Replicant cats watched, like sentinels.

  He climbed on the stool, took a deep breath, and placed the ammonite in the space on the silver frame, delicate as a leaf.

  It fitted exactly.

  And the mirror spoke. It said, “Where are we?”

  “Where are we?”

  “Paris. Same date. Place de la Bloody Révolution, Jake.”

  She held his hand in hers and they stood together in the crowd of screaming, howling people. He had no idea how many were here but it must have been thousands, and as Moll dragged him through the crowd, it wasn’t the dreadful smell that horrified him, the spattered mud and dung under his feet, even the hatred and mockery in the savage voices.

  It was another sound.

  A sudden, sliding slice of sound from somewhere up at the heart of the crowd, repeated with dreadful regularity, and each time followed by a raw, bloodthirsty scream that stopped his heart.

  “Moll . . .”

  “Quiet, cully.”

  “Moll, is that . . .”

  She looked up at him, her eyes dark and fierce under the rakish red cap.

  “Sorry to bring you here, Jake, but you had to know. That up there’s what they call the guillotine. A machine for killing people. That’s what’s facing your dad, soon, maybe tomorrow, if we don’t snatch him. You and me, Jake. Like in the old days.”

  He stared at her, too appalled to answer. And behind her, over the baying, clambering crowd, over their raised fists and tossed caps, he saw the blade being jerkily winched to the top of its wooden frame.

  Blood dripped from its edge.

  The mirror darkened.

  Venn looked at Piers, then Rebecca. “Paris. The Terror, 1792,” she breathed.

  10

  Down hollow ways he followed her

  Down ferny banks they came.

  They rode as swift as summer storms,

  the forest’s fearsome flame.

  They rode as swift as sorrow,

  As fast as birds will fly.

  Until he saw the door of death

  Rise up against the sky.

  Ballad of Lord Winter and Lady Summer

  THEY WERE TREATING him well.

  Very well, even.

  He had to admit that.

  But he was bored out of his mind.

  Wharton tapped his fingers together. He needed to act. He needed to get the temptations Summer had put in his head, out. Because of course there was no way he was going to help her get the coin from Sarah, even though a small part of him was shocked and disappointed. Why hadn’t Sarah told him she had the coin? Where was it hidden? And what if she managed to find the other half?

  He couldn’t let that happen.

  He shook his head. Then he said, “You! Moth-creature.”

  The small Shee slid from nowhere and stood looking at him around an oak bole. “Mortal?”

  “I want something.”

  “Anything.”

  “Anything at all?”

  “That’s our orders.”

  “Right. Come with me.”

  He stood up and marched out of the clearing along the path. It took a while to find the gnarled tree, the Shee flitting anxiously behind him, and in the end he had to call out, “Monk . . . er, Brother. Where are you?” before the quiet voice said, “Here.”

  The tree looked as contorted and velvety brown as before. Wharton stood before it. “How are you feeling?”

  “Just the same. After all, you were here only a few moments ago. I should be getting back, because of Compline. I am so often late.”

  Wharton scowled. He turned to the Shee. “Right. If I can have anything, I want him turned back into his own body and sent home.”

  The creature raised a beautiful eyebrow. “Why?”

  “Why? What do you mean, why! Because keeping him here is cruel and heartless, that’s why!”

  “He’s quite happy. He doesn’t even feel time passing.”

  Wharton planted his feet, stubborn. “I want him free.”

 
“It’s a mistake.”

  “Well, I don’t think so.”

  The argument was attracting interest. He became aware of them rather than saw them at first, the side of a face peering out, a silvery hand, and then there they all were, lounging and leaning among the trees, a crowd of languid and vaguely interested beings, their clothes a patchwork of velvets and lace, of denim and leather, all the greens and grays of the summer woodland.

  “Can you do it?”

  “Yes. But Summer won’t—”

  “Did she or did she not say explicitly that I was to have anything I wanted. Anything?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I want him free.”

  The moth-Shee shrugged and consulted with a few others. One was very tall with hair like thistledown. Another wore a coat the color of cobwebs, and a pair of buckled biker boots. Their eyes were green and unreadable. They murmured together, soft as flies.

  Under his breath Wharton said, “Don’t you worry, Brother. I’ll get you out of this.”

  “Thank you, my son. I’m getting a little stiff, standing so still.”

  Did he even know what they’d done to him? Wharton had no idea.

  He watched the group of Shee divide. The thistledown one said, “We’ll do it, but if she blames anyone it will have to be you.”

  “Agreed.”

  Summer scared him stiff, but he wasn’t about to show them that.

  They looked at one another. One giggled. “Fine,” they said.

  The moth one came forward and touched the tree lightly with a delicate finger. Three times it paced around the mossy trunk. Then it stood back.

  “Is that what you want?”

  Wharton saw the tree become a thin man in a worn brown robe. He almost swore with astonishment, because there was no transformation, no slow morphing like in the films. As if the tree had always been just a thin man in a brown robe, if you looked at it properly.

  “Wow,” he said. “Great. Yes. Thank you.”

  The monk stretched his fingers and then surprisingly, yawned. “Bless you, my son. I can go home now?”

  “Well, I would. Fast. But—”

  “I can’t thank you enough. I must hurry, or I’ll be late.”

  He bowed, his tonsure a bald patch in a thatch of straw-colored hair; then before Wharton could speak he was gone, hurrying along the path.

  The Shee took to instant flight, some as birds, some beetles.

  “Where are they going?”

  “To watch,” the moth creature giggled. “Me too. It’s always such fun.”

  A sudden, terrible dread entered Wharton’s soul. He yelled, “Hey you! Brother! WAIT.”

  The monk was already out of sight. Wharton swore, and raced after him. He was sweating in the heat; the path twisted, he had to leap over tree roots. “Wait! You need to stop.”

  “I’m so sorry, but I’m already late.” The voice drifted back.

  “Hell,” Wharton gasped. He turned a kink in the path and saw the edge of the Summerland.

  He knew it was the edge because the sunlight ended in a straight line; beyond that the Wood continued, but to his astonishment it was still night out there, a mothy warm twilight. And before him, as if the Shee had deliberately twisted the path, was the wall at the edge of the estate, its stones crumbling and falling into the lane beyond.

  The monk was climbing awkwardly over.

  “That’s not the way,” Wharton yelled.

  “No, but I’m a bit lost . . . It’s a shortcut to the Abbey.” As he spoke, he slid down the earth bank. Wharton came scrambling up, the Shee flitting and darting behind him. He yelled, “Stop!” with all his strength. But it was too late.

  The monk’s sandal touched the tarmac of the lane.

  For a moment he was still there.

  Then he was older, old, ancient, a skeleton.

  Then he was nothing but a pile of dust on the roadway.

  The moth-shee put its head on one side. “Oops,” it said, gleeful.

  Behind it another giggled.

  Wharton stood frozen in horror. Then, just as he moved to get down there, one of the things caught his elbow with cool fingers. “I wouldn’t, mortal.” Sly green eyes watched him sidelong. “After all, you don’t know how many centuries might have passed for you, either.”

  He shook the creature off. But he dared not climb down into the lane.

  And into his heart came a whole new level of terror.

  “I saw them take him to prison. I was doing a reccy for the heist.” Moll crouched by the empty fireplace, her knees up under the dark skirt. The mirror leaned in the corner of the room, as if it eavesdropped. Jake was too shattered to care. Since they had come back through it, the ominous slice of the guillotine had been rising and falling like a heartbeat in his chest. Now he stood at the window, looking out at the dark flowing river, the wharves where fires had been lit.

  Moll settled comfortably. “This is what happened. We’ve been in Paris a few weeks, setting up this crib, working out details. A job like this one takes a lot of planning, cully, you wouldn’t believe . . . Anyhow, that morning I was tailing the mark—like I said his name is the Vicomte de Sauvigne.” She said the name with great care. “Codename—SNOB. He’s the one with the emeralds. Typical tyrant. Bleeds the poor dry—be a pleasure to rob. So I’m hitched up like, stealing a ride on the back of his carriage. And it stops at this fortress. These prisoners are going in. About ten, men and women, all aristos and scared stiff. They walk past me. The last one is a skinny, anxious-looking man with brown hair, in russet court dress, feathered hat, gold ring, the works. Looked kosher, but Lord, I knew, Jake, straight away. There’s something about a journeyman. As if he don’t quite fit in the world. Symmes described your dad to me often. And he looks just like you. The clincher was, I saw it. On the lace under his sleeve. I saw the bracelet, Jake.”

  Jake looked up, eyes sharp. “He still has it?”

  “Did then. My eyes nearly popped, I can tell you. So I tried a trick. I shouted David! as loud as I could. He jumped like something had stung him. Stared round. Then he yells, ‘Who is that? Is that you, Jake? Venn?’ Course I couldn’t answer. But when they’d dragged him inside I jumped off and asked around. Seems this English doctor made a nuisance of himself. Wouldn’t stop demanding justice and the like. Someone high up got fed up, and he’s for the chop at dawn tomorrow.”

  He stared at her. “They can’t just do that! Surely there must have been a trial.”

  “This time, this place? They’ve gone mad. Crazy like animals. Killing all the nobs, they are. Trial or no.” She snuggled over to him. “But don’t fret, cully. It’s all sorted. I was only going after the gems at first, but we can do both, Jake. We can spring your dad too, I promise. Easy as kiss-me-hand.”

  He wondered then, for a bewildered moment, if any of this was true, or whether she just wanted him mixed up in her crazy adventures, and David was an excuse. He felt angry and confused, but one thing was sure. If he found his father, they would never be separated again. He would get him home. He would.

  He said, wearily, “How, Moll?”

  She scrambled up, ran to the table, and came back with a scroll of filmy paper, which she spread out on the dusty floorboards, weighing down the corners with apples. He came over and crouched down, staring at it.

  “Okay,” she said. “Look. This is a plan of the Château-Snob’s place. A big house, out in the Marais, just outside the city. These are the three salons, one leading into another. And this is the ballroom here, the dining room here, the kitchens there, the formal gardens. Upstairs, along this corridor, milord’s boudoir.”

  He grinned at the way she said that, so she nudged him back, serious. “The Midsummer Ball is held every year, but a lot of people thought this year it would be crazy to have it, with all the hoo-ha kicking off in Paris. But this Sauvign
e—he thinks he’s safe. So there’s dancing and fireworks and puppets and all sorts of games and sideshows. Long Tom—he’s the cracksman—gets by bringing the automata into the house. You and I are inside already.”

  “Are we? How?”

  She shrugged. “As guests, Jake! Crowd of hundreds, all masked? Nothing easier. The problem is, getting up to the private rooms. There are only two points of access—a secret door direct from the ballroom, and the main stair, which will be too heavily guarded. A few of the servants are onside, the housekeeper and her niece—we’re paying them serious dosh to have the keys ready. We get to the boud—the bedroom, open the safe—”

  “What if we can’t?”

  “Tom will. He’s the best and it’ll be a patsy.”

  “And my father . . .”

  “Coming to that. At exactly midnight the fireworks go off. Lots of noise. Everyone staring at the sky. At the same time, a very important message arrives for Snob—top secret, read-it-all-by-himself jobbie. He dismisses the servants. Then the mob hit. Panic. We snatch him, stuff him in his own carriage, drive to the fortress. All under the summer moon. Use him to get us in and snaffle your dad out from under their noses. Can’t go wrong.”

  He stared at the map with such despair that when a creaky little laugh escaped her, he was shocked.

  He whispered, “Will it really work, Moll?”

  Moll put her hand on his arm, and said pityingly, “Jake luv, I’m not that little kid anymore. I’m the contessa now, an adventuress across time and space. My gang, my people. My obsidian mirror. I know what I’m doing.”

  “I hope so.” He closed his eyes. “Because I couldn’t lose him again, Moll. I think I’d rather be trapped here forever than that.”

  She tapped his arm consolingly. “Time to get some shut-eye. We want you all fresh and arrogant and stroppy for tonight. And then Jake, all you have to do is watch the experts. Watch. And. Learn.”

  By seven o’clock, Sarah was too tired to stand up; she had chopped and cleaned and mopped and sliced until her fingers were sore and her back bent. She found Madame Lepage and whispered, “I need to sleep, or I’ll be no good to you tonight.”