The Door in the Moon (4 page)

“Liberté!”
he heard. And then, clearly,
“Vive la Révolution!”

“Bloody French lunatics,” one of the men beside him muttered. Another, the one with the pistol, said, “Shut up,” and rapped the ceiling hard with one fist. The carriage speeded up, turned a corner, throwing Jake back in his seat. The window blinds were yanked firmly down and fastened.

But he had seen enough.

This was Paris, surely, sometime during the Revolution, a time of riot and anarchy. They'd called it the Terror. And he had managed to lose Sarah in it.

He spoke up. “Where are we going?”

Silence.

“Why have you brought me here? Who sent you? Is it money? For a ransom?”

No one answered, so he said, “Venn will never pay it. He wouldn't care . . .”

One of them snorted. “No one wants your money, boy.”

A thought struck Jake like a joyful blow. “Is my father behind this? Dr. David Wilde? Did he—”

A huge hand took hold of his jaw. Strong fingers pushed into his cheeks, squeezing them together.

“Shut your mouth, cocky little
monsieur,
or I'll see to it you'll be missing a few teeth to talk through. Deliver you whole, she said, but a bit of damage in transit wouldn't be my fault. Get that?”

He nodded.

When the hand withdrew he sucked his cheeks in, still feeling the bruising grip. As the carriage rattled on, he thought about that single word.

She.

Who was she? Summer? Was this the Summerland after all?

Conserve energy, he told himself. Watch, listen, stay alert. He was suddenly so hungry his stomach churned, but no one spoke to him again, and as the coach turned corners and rumbled under archways, he sensed that they were crawling deeper and deeper into the dense mass of the city, into its packed and stinking heartland, the filthiest slums and alleys.

Jake swayed beside the morose men.

He was in a lot of trouble here.

And this might just be the start of it.

Sarah sat wearily against the wall among the waxworks. She felt sick, a little giddy. A point of pain was beginning behind one eyebrow. She had been invisible too long.

Back in the Lab, there had always been stories and rumors about the children who died, about the early failed experiments, when Janus's scientists had been inexperienced and the powers he had designed untested. She remembered too the terror of the white blankness creeping over her whole mind, as if her whole personality would somehow vanish away if she let it.

Two hours—two and a half at the most—was the safe limit. She might be over that already. With a sudden panic she raised her head, terrified even as she made it that the
switch
might not work anymore, that she might have to stay like this forever.

But her arms and legs and feet and hands were there. She gazed at them in relief.

She felt better at once.

There was no way out. The building was a locked tenement, empty and derelict. The main door was firmly bolted. So she just had to . . .

Something clanged.

She leaped up and darted into the crowd of waxworks.

With a rattle of keys, two men hurried in. Ragged, dirty, roughly dressed in soiled aprons and breeches, one big and one stooped, they walked between the waxworks, talking loudly and laughing boldly, as if to keep away the silent stares of the still figures.

Sarah's eyes watched them. These men were nervous, in a hurry to get out.

They hurried to the three automata, dragged out a wooden packing case lid and fitted it over the Conjuror, carefully, then lifted it on two poles and staggered out with it, locking the door behind them.

After a few minutes they came back for the Dancer, the case wobbling as they lifted it.

One of the men glanced around, clearly scared.

“Hear that?”

“What?”

“Thought I heard something. Like breathing.”

Standing among the crowd of waxworks, Sarah let her eyes go still and vacant. She stared ahead, fixed.

When the men came back for the third time, the big one gazed at the waxwork crowd uneasily. “Bloody glad to be out of this lot,” he muttered.

The stooped man cackled. “Tell that to the contessa.”

Over the third figure, the Scribe, they placed the wooden lid, carefully, wary of its waxen face, its poised fingers holding the plumed pen. A corner of the purple velvet cloak got snagged in the packing case; the men shoved it in, impatiently.

Then they lifted the heavy wooden box.

“Lot heavier, this one,” the smaller man complained.

Awkward, they staggered out with it.

On the final, terrible night of the Kebron expedition, halfway down the glacier, when the men were in the last stages of exhaustion, one of them looked up and thought he saw a woman, small and slender, walking beside Venn on the top of the ice, and talking to him. She wore summer clothes and was barefoot.

He knew he was hallucinating. The temperature was 30 below zero.

Later, at base camp, he mentioned it.

Venn managed a wintry smile. “We can never get away from our nightmares” was all he said.

Jean Lamartine,
The Strange Life of Oberon Venn

W
HARTON STRODE THROUGH
the silence of the midnight Wood.

It had never looked more beautiful.

Above the leafy canopy of the trees, the sky was darkest blue and scattered with stars. An owl hooted; below, to his left, almost hidden in its deep bed, the Wintercombe rippled over rocks and lichened boulders, its surface glinting with bubbles.

The path he walked was ridged with tree roots, the undergrowth on each side sweet with night-scented flowers and ghostly foxgloves. Moonlight slanted in brilliant diagonals through the dark masses of the trees, and once, when he stumbled and put his hand against a trunk, the moss was so deep and wet that his fingers sank into it.

Of course, the Shee knew he was here.

At first it had been the lightest of touches, on his hair, his face, as if he had snagged invisible cobwebs. Then a moth landed on his shoulder. A gnat bit him gently on the cheek.

Grim-faced, he walked on. Moonlight lit the depths of the forest, showing him green, treacherous, enticing places off the path, secret clearings, the glimmer of dark crags.

On midsummer night the Wood scared him, maybe more than any place he'd ever been. Its stillness, its watchfulness, its complete Otherness, crept into him. Nothing here was human. It was ancient and unconquered and he knew it would watch him live or die without the slightest vestige of emotion. Just like the creatures that lived in it.

He stopped.

Quite suddenly the path divided before him into three, each track twisting away between the trees.

He cleared his throat.

“Is anyone here? I need to speak to Venn. Oberon Venn.”

Stupid. They knew who Venn was.

Only a high rustle answered him. Looking up, he glimpsed a scatter of dark bats, circling the branches.

He caught hold of a tree branch to duck under it.

It became a long, slender hand
.

Wharton yelled, leaped back. A shock of sweat broke out all over him. His heart slammed in his chest.

“I'm so sorry, sir,” the tree said. “It's just that I heard you call.”

It was an ancient, crooked specimen, maybe a rowan. Now he looked carefully, it seemed a bit like a wizened old man, all bent up, the bark crumbling like leprous gray skin. A few sparse leaves clung to it.

“You can speak?” he said.

“Indeed. My voice is all that is left to me.”

Wharton glanced around. The Wood fluttered with moths. “Left of what?”

“My mortality, good sir. Of my human life.”

Fascinated, Wharton edged closer. The voice was a faint breeze in the branches. One gnarled knob of trunk watched him like a blinded eye.

“Summer did this to you?”

The tree rustled with anxiety. “My Lady Summer was good enough to be angry with me, yes. But I deserved it.” A leaf drifted sadly down. “It happened just a few days ago. I am a monk of the Abbey here. They warned me, the Abbot and my brothers, but I still love to leave the precincts and wander in the Wood. And so I began to encounter the fiends.”

Wharton nodded, grim. “You poor devil.”

“Not that They are, in fact, true demons. Some of the holy Fathers say these beings are angels that fell between Heaven and Hell. Neither good nor evil, they infest the waste places. And she . . . she is so beautiful. No mortal woman could so have tempted me.” The tree bowed a little. “In sooth I became besotted, and for days have lived wild and crazed here in the Wood.”

“But what made her turn you into . . . ?”

“I saw her bathing unclothed in the stream.”

Wharton winced. “Ah. Right.”

“You can imagine her anger.”

“I'd rather not.”

“They saw me and dragged me forth. Then—”

“Yes. I'm sorry. But look, I have to find her. Or at least Venn, and—”

The tree shivered. “You should not look for her. Now is the time she is strongest, when the sap is high and the leaves are green, when the hare dances and the owl hunts all night. Don't seek her out, sir, I beg of you.”

“No choice, I'm afraid. Which of these three paths should I take?” Suddenly Wharton felt foolish. Was he going mad, asking advice of a tree?

“It does not matter. She will be at the end of all of them. Good sir . . .” The murmur came close to his ear. “If you gain her favor, ask mercy for me, I pray. My brothers will be so concerned. I am gone nearly a week now.”

Wharton grunted, thinking of the ruined cloister at the Abbey, the hundreds of years that had passed since this poor crazed man had fallen foul of Summer. But he said, “I'll do my best.”

“You promise me?”

“I er . . . well, yes. I promise I'll try.”

The tree was silent a moment. When it spoke again he heard only the most desolate whisper. “But will God also forgive me? For I have longed for such deadly things.”

Wharton had no answer to that. He turned quickly and walked into the right-hand path, cursing his own soft-heartedness for promising anything. Ask Summer for mercy! May as well ask the sun to turn itself off. He'd end up as a log or a stone himself. He was trying to imagine how that must feel, when a cloud of silvery butterflies came down and danced all around him.

He stopped.

Before him was an open clearing in the Wood.

Deep in its stillness was the hum of summer bees.

He knew at once that it was a trap. He knew that if he took one more step he would have entered the Summerland, and that he would see those slanted worlds again, and the temptation to turn and run was so strong, he almost heard it like a warning voice. But George Wharton, he thought bitterly, was no one's wimp. So he squared his shoulders, lifted his chin, and stepped in.

Instantly, he was in sunshine, and there was a summerhouse.

It was a fragile construction, of gaudily painted trellis-work, and it was thatched with a complex iridescent thatch that glimmered like kingfisher feathers. As he came closer he saw it was, in fact, made of the wings of countless birds, all woven together.

The structure stood on a bank of wild thyme, the smell of the herb cloyingly sweet. Columbine grew there, and honeysuckle wreathed the tilted veranda.

The Shee came down around him in clouds. He watched how some of them stayed butterflies and how others transformed, wholly or in part, to the pale tall people he had seen before, their clothes now brilliant scarlets and turquoises and oranges. With soft rustles and crackles their bodies unfolded. Abdomen and antennae became skin and smile.

Wharton stood still, hands clenched.

Then one moved aside, and he saw Summer lounging elegantly on a wooden cruise-ship deckchair.

The Shee queen wore a short dress of shimmery gold, her feet were bare, a smile of delight lit her pert, pretty face. “George!” she said. “What a wonderful surprise!”

Wharton didn't answer.

He was looking at the man standing behind her chair.

Oberon Venn seemed taller, thinner here, his hair as blond as sunlight, his eyes cold as ice. Wharton was shocked at the change in him. Rumor had it Venn was half Shee. Well, certainly he was paler, somehow less solid. As if his human half was being sucked out of him, like bees suck honey from a flower. As if the curse on his family was coming true right now.

But his voice was still sharp as flint. “What the hell are you doing here, teacher?” Wharton stood his ground.

“I'm wondering that myself,” he said. “Because when I tell you the reason, you probably won't even care.”

Maskelyne walked quickly down into the black-and-white-tiled hall, crossed to the Bakelite telephone, and dialed. While the ringtone sounded, he glanced around, dark eyes wary.

A single black cat sat at the top of the stairs.

He turned away from it as she answered.

“Hello?”

“Rebecca? It's Maskelyne.”

“Oh . . . hi . . .” She sounded breathless, sleepy.

“Did I wake you?” he said.

“It's the middle of the night! What do you think? Even students have to sleep sometimes.”

He imagined her hair, all tumbled on the pillow as she sat up and said, “What's wrong? Is it the mirror?”

She could always tell a lot from his voice, he thought. “In a way.” He stared unseeing at the open casement, where a frond of ivy was growing in. “It's Jake. He's been kidnapped.”

“What!”
He felt her shock.

“Someone came through the mirror tonight and took him. Sarah's gone too; it seems she followed them. Do you understand what I'm saying, Becky? They've
journeyed
and have no bracelet to come back with. They could be anywhere. It's a disaster.”

Her breathing. Then: “I'll come straight back.”

“Not if . . .”

“I'll come now. I'll be there in an hour.”

“Don't wreck your degree. That's more important.”

She said, “Writing essays on the past is pretty dull after
journeying
into it. And I can skip one lecture. How's George taking this?”

“Hard.”

“Where is he?”

“In the Wood.”

She seemed to laugh, uneasy. “Wharton-in-the-Wood. Sounds like a lovely little village. Why on earth is he—”

“He's gone to get Venn.” Maskelyne's husky voice was quiet. “But, between us, I don't know if Venn even cares anymore. About Jake, about any of it. Venn is with Summer now. She has her claws tight in him, and this is her season. He's been changing. Becoming more Shee. He hasn't been at the house for over a week. I fear we've lost him, Becky, and with him any chance of saving his wife and Jake's father.”

“I would have thought that wouldn't worry you too much,” she said tartly. “If Venn loses interest in the mirror, you get it.”

Silence.

Maybe she was sorry, because she said, “I didn't—”

“I deserved that. But the mirror is already mine, and always has been. And I am beginning to think that defeating Janus and regaining Leah are two aspects of the same problem.” He smiled, weary. “Come as quick as you can. This eruption from the past has energized the Chronoptika. I hear its anger in the corners of my mind. That worries me.”

She said, “I'll be there.”

He nodded, put the phone down, and stood still. Then he crossed to the open window and tried to shut it. But the casement would not close. Ivy had grown thickly inside; already a long bine of glossy leaves had attached itself to the woodwork of the sill, leaving clinging fragments as he pulled it away.

He gazed at the leaves, then walked down and looked at the other windows. In the hot weather they were all open wide. Their hinges were clotted with greenery. In one, a tiny diamond pane had been cracked by a bramble. Moths fluttered around the hall.

Maskelyne turned and went quickly down to the kitchen.

Piers had the baby, Lorenzo, in one arm and was feeding him from a bottle. Horatio, Jake's cheeky little marmoset, was hanging upside down from the chimney among bubbling saucepans, spitting nut shells into the fire.

Gideon was eating biscuits dipped in coffee, savoring each mouthful intently, as if it would be his last.

“Is she coming?” Piers asked.

“Straightaway. Look at this.” Maskelyne put the ivy branch on the table. Gideon's hand paused in midair as he saw it.

“The Wood is starting to creep inside. The windows in the hall—”

Gideon said, “I shut them every night.”