Obsidian Mirror (7 page)

Venn stood rigid. Softly he said, “What exactly do you think I did?”

“He knew too much about your secrets. You made sure he’d never talk.”

“Secrets? What secrets?”

“The Chronoptika.”

For a moment Venn’s eyes were shards of ice. “What do you know about that?” he breathed.

Jake grinned, sour. “I’m sure you’d like to find that out. That’s what you killed him for.”

Wharton, appalled, held his breath. The force of the boy’s accusation was raw, like the aftermath of lightning in charged air. The evening hushed to listen, the crows cawed over the wood, a faint warm smell of oil drifted from the engine of the car.

Venn’s response surprised them. He seemed almost relieved; he shook his head and thrust his hands into
the pockets of his dark jacket and stood there, gazing at Jake. When he spoke, his voice was almost weary. “You’re so much like him.”

Jake didn’t move.

“Listen to me, boy, I loved your father. He was my only friend. You don’t seem to believe that, but it’s true. I would give anything to find out where he is.”

“You admit you’re responsible.”

“No…not in the way you mean.” Venn took a sudden step forward, his voice urgent. “David’s not dead. He’s alive, somewhere. And I’ll find him.”

Jake snorted, but he seemed shaken. “I’m not going from here until I know what happened.”

“I see.” Venn flicked a glance at Piers. “You! I suppose you’ve already got rooms ready.”

“South wing.” Piers scratched his thin scrap of beard. “But I didn’t expect an entourage.”

They all looked at Rebecca, who was standing by the car, staring at Jake. She seemed fascinated. Startled, she lifted her hands. “Oh, I’m just the lift.”

“Good.” Venn turned away. Then he swung back. “But you, Jack…”

“Jake. My name’s Jake.”

“I don’t care what your name is. Keep out of my way. Keep out of my business. Don’t go prying into things you don’t understand. You’re only staying because it’s what David would have wanted.”

There was a sting of scorn there, a whiplash of pain. With a glare at Piers, Venn turned and stalked away from the house, ducking down a path into the darkening Wood.

Piers blew out his cheeks in relief, and began gathering up luggage. “Well, I think that went quite reasonably under the circumstances. Welcome to Wintercombe Abbey, gentlemen.”

“No, wait!” Wharton turned quickly. “I’m not staying. At least…”

“Thanks for everything, and I’m sorry about messing up the play.” Jake held out his hand. “Have a great time in Shepton Mallet.”

Wharton stared at the outstretched hand and then beyond it, at the shadowy gloom of the house.

“Will you be all right?”

“Fine. Maybe Rebecca will give you a lift back.”

“Oh…right,” she said. “Why not use up all my petrol.”

Wharton hesitated. Then, over Jake’s shoulder, high in a tiny attic window, he saw a face, watching him. A small, white face, young, like a girl’s. It ducked away, and he saw that the window was barred.

He stared up. Had he imagined that? What sort of place was this dark house buried in wildwood? After all, the father had vanished here. What if the son did too? Around him the twilight had become night; there
were stars in the frosty sky, and the acrid smell of wood smoke. He cleared his throat.

“Well, now…it’s rather late. Perhaps I should stay…just till Christmas. See you settled in.”

Jake dropped his hand. He managed a wry smile. “Loco parentis.”

“Sort of.”

How could he leave the boy in this godforsaken place with a man as hostile as Venn? Besides, the Head would be avid to know all about it.

Piers was already crunching over the gravel with their cases under his arms and clutched in long, spidery fingers. Jake let the monkey out of the bag; it leaped wildly onto the car, shrieking with delight.

“Hey! Watch my windshield wipers.” Rebecca put her hands in her pockets. “Did you mean all that…about murder? That is so…weird.”

“My father went missing here. That’s all I know.”

She gazed at him a moment. Then she leaned into the car and came out with a torn envelope; she scrawled on it hastily. “Look. Here’s my phone number and e-mail. I live nearby. If you ever want a drink or a chat or anything.” She held it out. “I mean, this place is pretty isolated. Give me a call.”

He took it, feeling awkward. She meant well, and so did Wharton, but he just wanted them to leave him alone. Though as he watched her drive off he felt a
strange ebb of confidence, especially when the purr of the engine had faded and he and Wharton stood alone in the silent evening.

They looked at each other. The marmoset jumped down and ran to the lighted porch. “He knows where supper is,” Wharton said, too heartily cheerful.

Piers was waiting for them on the porch. Next to him, seven black cats, all identical, sat in a silent row. Their green eyes watched Jake gravely. Climbing the steps, Wharton said, “Does anyone else live here, Mr. Piers, apart from you and Mr. Venn?”

The small man gave him a mischievous, sidelong look. “My niece helps out. Otherwise, quite the bachelor establishment.”

Wharton nodded, stepping into the cedar-paneled hall.

Jake paused on the step. The faintest breeze touched him. He turned and looked out at the Wood. For a moment he had felt as if someone out there in the tangled greenery had called him, had silently spoken his name. But there was no one, and he was cold, so he went in and closed the door.

Standing high in the oak branches, leaning back against the trunk, Gideon watched the human enter the Dwelling. Green as moss, his eyes narrowed, and he practiced a laugh, as he often did, just to hear the
sound, to be sure he could still do it. Because one day he might forget how, and the Shee would truly own him. That fear tormented him.

First the girl, now these two.

Things were getting crowded in the winter world.

He swung himself down and landed light among the leaf-litter. His clothes were a patchwork of velvets and denim tagged with scraps of lace; his face and long hair streaked with wood dyes. The starlings saw him but didn’t rise in alarm, their beady eyes watching carefully.

Summer would need to know about this.

He turned. The birds blinked and squawked as he vanished into the Wood.

S
ARAH WAS EATING
toast in the kitchen the next morning when Piers came in. He had some cartons of milk and a newspaper, so he must have been to the village. How had he gotten there and back so quickly? She glanced anxiously at the paper. Then she said, “So who are they?”

“Who are who, exactly?”

“The man and the boy. They arrived last night. They’re still here. And Venn—he didn’t come back. He’s been gone all night.”

Piers arranged some breakfast things fussily on a tray. “You’re an observer, Sarah. That’s very good. His Excellency will need that. But don’t get ahead of yourself. He does what he wants, and I assure you, no one is safer in the Wood than Venn.”

She frowned. He was avoiding answers. “What about the others? If they find out about me…”

He was already working at the ancient range, pouring milk onto porridge. “They won’t. The boy is the son of an old friend of Venn’s who’s turned up out of the blue.” He looked over, a quizzical glance. “They’re not local. They don’t know anything about you. You’re quite safe.”

Unsatisfied, she sat at the empty table. It looked as if it had been made for a staff of forty. She pictured the room crowded with servants, bustling around the vast chimney, so big, you could sit on a bench inside it. Down from its blackened stones hung a collection of spits and pans and copper pots, all too heavy to lift and coated with a frosty soot. Spiders had constructed elaborate cities of web among them. Three identical black cats snoozed on a chair in a heap.

She pushed the toast crust around the plate. “Can I explore?”

“Please do. It’s an ancient, rambling house. But don’t go—”

“To the Monk’s Walk. I know.” She looked up. “Is that where it is?”

He smiled. “It?”

“This Chronoptika.”

Piers did not pause in his rapid stirring, but maybe
the spoon circled a little faster. “You’ll find out about that soon enough. Patience, Sarah.”

She got up and clattered her dish into the scullery sink. “So what about you? Are you the last of the staff or something? There were dozens here once—butlers, footmen. Maids.”

“You sound as if you’d seen them.”

She shrugged. “Even crazy girls read books.”

The small man gave a odd chortle of laughter and picked a scrap of soot out of the porridge. “Do they really? Well, as for me, I’m His Excellency’s slave. He rubs a lamp and I come out of it. He whistles and I appear. He bought me in a market in the wastes of the Kalahari for thirty camels and a bottle of whisky. He freed me from the eternal spells of an island sorceress.”

Was it a joke? If so, it was a bitter one. She said, “You work for him?”

“He owns me.” Piers voice was acid.

She didn’t know what to make of that. “You’ve been exploring with him?”

“Many times. In the Andes. In Antarctica. He always loved to travel. You might say we put a girdle around the earth together.”

She decided to try her luck. “But that all changed when his wife died?”

Piers stopped stirring. He turned and she saw all
his quirky humor had gone. “A word to the wise, Sarah.
Never
speak to Venn about Leah. Do you understand?”

For a moment she stared at him. “This is such a house of secrets. Is he so scary?”

“His anger is never pleasant. But the truth is, he’s eaten up with grief and shame. I don’t want you adding to that.”

In the corridor, a bell rang. To break the moment, she went and looked out. There were two rows of bells in the corridor, old spiral coils, each with the name of a room above it in faded gilt letters, almost worn away. But she knew them. The one that was trembling said
South Breakfast Room
. She came back, disgusted. “Do they think this is some sort of hotel?”

“Maybe they do.” Piers had the porridge, toast, and tea on a tray. “And maybe we’ll indulge them for the first morning. Why don’t you take it up.” He held the door open. “You can see the fierce boy and the shrewd teacher for yourself.”

Jake watched Wharton pull the bell again. “You’re wasting your time. He’s not going to treat us like guests.”

Wharton sighed and came to the table. He leaned his arms on it and gazed out through the window. The bitter night had left the lawns coated with a
stiff, frozen rime. If you walked on it, he thought, it would wheeze and crack underfoot. He said, “Sleep well?”

Jake shrugged. In fact, he had tossed and turned until well past midnight, twice sitting up wide awake and alert, listening to soft creaks and movements somewhere deep in the unknown house. He said, “Being under the same roof as my father’s killer makes it hard to relax.”

“Jake, you have to rid yourself of this obsession.” Wharton turned to him anxiously. “You really can’t…”

“No?” He took out the folded letter. “This is my proof. Don’t tell me to forget,
sir,
because I never will. If you want to leave, leave. I can look after myself.” He laughed, bitter. “After all, I’m safely home now.”

Wharton sighed again and scratched his rough chin. He hadn’t slept well either. The house was uncomfortably damp and cold, the water had been too icy to shave with, and, oddly, neither his room nor the bathroom had a mirror.

“I’m going to find some food.” Jake jumped up and crossed the room, flinging the door open. He walked straight into a girl with a tray, who gasped and almost dropped it. They both grabbed at it. Cups and saucers slid. Porridge slopped hot on Jake’s hand.

The girl snatched it from him. “That was so stupid! I could have dropped the lot!”