The Door in the Moon (7 page)

Through the hothouse window Sarah saw a paradise such as she had never believed could really exist. She opened the door and went out and stared.

A great park stretched downhill before her, its green lawns perfectly smooth. Between neat paths, formal gardens were laid out in squares and rectangles, immaculate with parterres of white shell, dark cinders, crushed terracotta gravel. Box trees, cut in precise balls or tidy triangles, stood in containers. Great urns of roses perfumed the summer air, and as she looked up, doves rose in a cloud from the roof of the hothouse.

“My message was for you to wait inside!”

Sarah turned.

The thin Englishman was back; with a shock she realized that he could see her.

Behind him a château, a vast white sugar-icing palace rose against the blue sky, its windows perfect, its symmetrical steps leading up to a pillared colonnade.

He glanced around. Grabbing her arm, he hustled her back into the steamy greenhouse. “Bloody stupid girl!” He hurried to the Conjurer automaton and pulled a parcel from under its seat. “These are your clothes. Your contact in the kitchen is the woman called Madame Lepage. She's in the plot. Get changed, quickly.”

She said, “But you. You're—”

“Long Tom. I'm inside too, with the metal puppets. You know all about the plan? You can do what we need?”

Baffled, she said, “Of course . . . But—”

“Good. Then hurry! Get dressed now.”

He shoved the parcel at her; she took it and ducked between the giant leaves.

The Scribe automata watched her with its vacant glass eyes; she wished it could truly answer questions because she had absolutely no idea at all what was going on here. Opening the parcel, she found the dark plain dress of a kitchen maid, a white apron, a frilly cap. As she changed quickly, bundling her own clothes into the bag, she said, “You snatched the boy Jake, didn't you?”

“How the hell do you know about that?”

“I heard . . . talk.”

“Yes, we got him.” The tall man laughed. “Went straight in and kidnapped him from his bed. Arrogant brat too. Don't know why she was so keen.”

Sarah paused, half buttoned. “She?”

“Some sort of twisted revenge, maybe? Some joke? You never know with our little contessa. Are you done?”

She hurried out, breathless.

“Why is your hair so short!” He glanced at her, anxious. “Well, maybe the cap hides that . . . Remember, your name is Adelie, you're madame's niece, just here tonight to help for the Midsummer Ball.”

She said, “I don't know a word of French.”

Long Tom swore a lurid oath. “Where in hell's dregs did they find you? Then just keep your mouth shut.
Okay?
”

Bewildered, she nodded. “Okay,” she said.

As he turned swiftly toward the château, she said, panicking, “About the ball . . .”

He glanced back. “The vicomte's invited half of Paris. You know what to do. The door in the moon has to be open by the stroke of midnight. Don't forget.” He pulled his hat on, wiped his sweaty forehead with his sleeve. “Too hot here. Too dangerous. We must be mad.”

Then he was gone, a flicker in the brilliant sunlight.

Sarah smoothed her dress with shaky hands. All right. Think. They—whoever they were—had mistaken her for some other girl. They could
journey
. They had the mirror, and at least one bracelet. And they were planning something for the Midsummer Ball, something that involved Jake.

Which meant, presumably, that they would be bringing him here.

To do what? What was this plot? To steal something? Murder someone?

She looked up. The glorious confection of the château stood serene under its blue sky. But a few miles back there, in Paris, the crowds were screaming around the guillotine. Blood was running in the gutters, and mobs roaming the streets. How long before the heedless aristocrats holed up here felt that wrath?

She had to find out more. About where Jake was, and about the mysterious
contessa.

Not to mention, she thought as she set off for the kitchens, about finding a door in the moon.

At last the Abbot himself said, “I will enter the dark Wood and face the demons in my own guise. And if our lost brother is there, I will find him, and with God's grace and the protection of the holy saints, I will bring him home.”

Wiser monks shook their heads and counseled him not to venture. Because they knew what fiends, what temptations, lurk'd in those desolate places.

Chronicle of Wintercombe

S
HE CAME FORWARD
, out of the shadows, small and smiling.

“Moll!” he said. “How can it—”

He turned, and stopped.

She seemed to transform. From a small dirty child to a girl, as if time accelerated before him. As she unfastened her hood and swung off the dark cloak, he stared with astonishment.

She said, “Time don't stop, Jake. I've been waiting an age for you.”

He saw a girl of about fifteen, dressed in a gown of maroon-and-black velvet.

Lace gloves covered her fingers. Her hair, dark and lustrous, was pinned up in an elaborate style. Earrings, glinting with diamonds, hung at her ears.

She was slim and beautiful and cleaner than he was.

His face must have shown only shock, because she giggled. “You should see your face, cully. Have I changed all that much, then?”

He swallowed. “No . . . but you've . . .”

“Grown up?” She came forward, her dress swishing on the floor, and he saw then that it was too big for her. “How long for you, then, Jake, since you went back through the mirror at Symmes's place? Five months? Six?”

“Six.”

“Not long.” She sat on a striped sofa and leaned back. “Not for you. Five whole years for me.” She winked, a coy, knowing look. “Catching up with you, Jake.”

He was devastated. The cheeky, bold urchin he had known was transmuted into a girl who had probably seen more of life than he had, and he felt bewildered. As if he was the child and she the adult.

He said, “They didn't kidnap you too?”

She giggled, gleeful. “Lord, there's no they, Jake, luv. Just me and the boys. Surprised?”

She sat on the sofa, demure, then tiring of that, swung her legs up and sat with them crossed.

Jake stared. “You mean . . . My God, Moll! I was scared stiff! He had a gun and—”

Moll laughed. “Empty, Jake. Wouldn't have had you hurt. But what a lark! I knew you'd love it. All that malarky with the gag and stuff.”

He had no idea what to say. He had forgotten her wildness, her fearlessness. He was angry, furious with her.

She tapped the seat beside her. “Come on, Jake. No hard feelings?”

And then he saw, under the lace of her glove, a slim edge. Grabbing her hand, he slid the glove down and stared at the bracelet.

“Moll, where did you get this? Did Symmes . . . But no, we know that Symmes never had one, because in the end he entered the mirror without one, so—”

“You don't know zilch, Jake luv.” She was looking at him as if she feasted on the sight of him.

He dropped her hand, realizing. “And to get me you'd have had to travel into the
future!
How is that possible? We've never been able to do anything like that yet!”

“I worked a few things out. You don't know half of what that black glass can do. But I do, Jake.” She shrugged. “I've just about sold my soul to the thing to find out. Because I had to, cully, once I worked out that you was never coming back for me.”

He sat, slowly, beside her. “Moll, like you said, it's only been six months. I would have come, I meant to, but things have gone crazy. I tried to find my father and ended up in World War Two—well, you won't know what that is—and then I did find him, but I lost him again.” He shook his head, stabbed suddenly by the pain of that, his father in the frayed doctor's robe, the terrible heat of the plague-ridden city. Then, looking up, he stopped, because what did any of that mean to her?

For her it had been years.

Moll put her lacy fingers together and said calmly, “I waited, Jake. Waited and waited. And you never came. I was a kid from the slums back then, the lowest dregs of the street. All I knew was cheek and snatching purses and being fast on my feet. And then you came. All big and brave and handsome. You crashed in like a hurricane—you and Venn—and blew my life apart. Little girls have stupid crushes, Jake, luv. Mine was with you. The boy from the future.”

“Moll . . .”

She ignored him. “I was so sure you'd come back. We'd
journey
off to some city of glass buildings and magic machines, and there'd be fun and adventures and food and friends. Symmes gave me some clothes and a bag and I kept it all packed ready, for weeks, Jake. Months. Before I started thinking you'd forgotten me.”

“I never forgot you!” He jumped, up, paced. “For God's sake, it's only been six months, Moll. I will—”

She watched him, calm. “It's been five years.
And you never did come
.”

That silenced him.

He said, “How did you get the bracelet?”

“Blimey. That's a tale. You'll have to read my diary. I'm going to leave it for you, Jake, somewhere you'll be sure to find it. Anyway, me and Symmes got hold of it.” She laughed. “And that was too big a temptation, Jake. Once a thief, always a thief. Symmes needed money for the experiments—he got married to this stuck-up piece what hated my guts. So I left, and I took the bracelet with me. Set up on my own.”

He sat back down. The room was shadowy, but he saw now it was sumptuous; hung with heavy drapes, its tables littered with lamps and precious porcelain, silver dishes and etched glass. A door opened and a manservant came in, powdered and silent in silver livery, and began to lay the table with fresh linen.

Moll took Jake's arm and cuddled up close. “Know what you made me, Jake? You made me the best jewel thief in all the world. Because with the mirror I can steal anything, all across time, and
journey
away and never get caught. Such adventures I've had, Jake, such close shaves! The Sultan of Oman's Yellow Opal, I stole that, and we robbed the Duchess of Lindsey in her carriage on the Dover road, and then there's the Charing Cross Bank job—ever hear about that one?”

He sat silent as she detailed amazing and daring exploits, as she jumped up and gleefully acted out how she'd climbed the wall at Chatsworth House, how her gang had tunneled under the vaults of Dublin Castle. And as he watched he saw that maybe he was wrong, maybe she hadn't changed, hadn't grown up at all.

The footman cleared his throat. “Grub's up, Contessa.”

“Thank you, James.” She stood, took Jake's hand, and led him to the table.

He said,
“Contessa?”

“Got to have a moniker, Jake, for this con. Like the spread?”

He sat, surveying the silver teapot, the plates of cakes and scones and sandwiches. For a moment he felt as if he was at a children's tea party, the chairs too big, the food pink and sweet.

“It's all for you Jake? It's okay, isn't it?”

“Great, Moll.”

“Go on, dig in. I know you'll be starving.”

He was still hungry, but first he sat back and put both hands on the table and looked at them. Then he raised his head. “Why did you really bring me here?”

She buttered a scone. “You and me, Jake, we're going to pull off the biggest, most sensational, most daring heist ever in the history of the world. A real adventure. Just like in the old days.”

“But—”

“Just listen, okay? On Midsummer Eve 1798, while Paris is all in riot, a bloke called the Vicomte de Sauvigne goes ahead with the Midsummer Ball at his château. He's the owner of a stonking great necklace called the Sauvigne emeralds—big heirloom, costs a king's ransom. At the ball, hundreds of guests, entertainment, fireworks, you name it. But that night the mob come marching out from the city and the château gets burned to a crisp. The Sauvigne emeralds are never seen again. Which is where we come in, Jake luv.”

He couldn't believe it. “Are you crazy, Moll! All I want is to find my father, that's all I'm thinking about, and you snatch me here for some stupid, what . . . jewelry theft? In one of the most dangerous times in modern . . .”

He petered out, because her face was so bright and excited.

“It's going to be such fun!” She dropped the knife with a clatter and leaned toward him. “It's not just the loot. It's you and me, out there, plotting and planning and escaping. I've dreamed of it, Jake, for years, and now it's here. We'll have such a time! And”—she sat back—“of course there's something in it for you. I've
journeyed,
Jake, been lots of places. Seen stuff. Found things out.”

He stared at her. “You mean . . . ?”

“Spot on, cully.” She took a huge bite of scone. Indistinctly, through the cream she said, “You help me out. In return, Jake, I tell you where I saw your dad.”

Wharton was lying on a striped recliner on a pile of sand among the trees. On his right was a round table and on the table a glass of bright orange fizzy liquid, a knotted straw angled in it. Next to that was a plateful of sticky cakes topped with icing, and an ice-cream sundae.

He frowned.

“What?” One of the Shee that Summer had assigned to look after him darted immediately from nowhere. There were four of them. His jailers. “What? What's wrong?”

“My ice cream's melted.”

The Shee, a pretty female in a brown dress as ragged as a moth's wings, stretched a dainty finger and touched the glass. A cold crackle of frost solidified it immediately.

“Better?”

The Shee, Wharton was beginning to realize, like children, took everything to extremes. They knew nothing about subtlety. He gazed at the impenetrable mass of ice and said, “Thanks for that.”

The moth-creature looked relieved. “Anything you want, mortal, you just say.” It turned sideways, became a patch of bark on a tree-trunk. Then he couldn't see it at all.

He wondered how many of them were all around, watching him. He reached out for the orange drink, and drew back. He broke off a lump of cake, crumbled it warily on the plate, and looked at it.

Best not.

All the folktales said if you ate the fairy food you were doomed to be in their power for all eternity.

Besides, the cake had the texture of mushy leaves.

He pushed it away. Lying back in the seat, he gazed up at the flawless blue sky and thought about that word.
Eternity.

How long had he been here? Had years passed in the outside world? He dared not think that. To him it seemed like an hour or so, but nothing had changed; the sun had not moved by a fraction. Presumably he hadn't grown even a second older, though, which was one good thing. He was in a timeless non-place, with no past or future, just an endless now.

It must have been like this for Gideon.

He pulled a face. He knew there was little chance of the boy coming back. Couldn't blame him. No, he, Wharton, had to take charge of the situation. He was a prisoner of war. He'd seen all the training films. He knew what he had to do.

You formed an escape plan. You dug a tunnel, made a disguise, fooled the guards. Made a run for it. He had to try something like that. Get a grip, think clearly, not be bamboozled by the bloody Shee.

Get back and find Jake.

Suddenly, the sunlight was blotted out. He opened his eyes, jerking awake from the surprising snooze, to find Summer smiling down at him.

He sat up.

“Were you dreaming, George? I couldn't quite see any dreams.”

“You can see them?” The idea appalled him.

“If I want to. I like to peep into the dreams of mortals, George. They're so wild and whirling, so colorful and confused! I can flit and wander and crawl into the darkest, craziest corners. The Summerland has nothing on them.” She tucked her arm in his. “Let's go for a walk. I want to show you my lovely country.”

He was hot and worried, but it would be useful to know the lie of the land, so he stood up and said, “If you say so. I'm your prisoner, after all.”

“My guest.” There was the tiniest edge of steel in that word.

“Whatever. Lead the way.”

Afterward, if there was such a thing as afterward here, he was not sure they had actually gone anywhere. It was more as if the world had moved past them, fracturing into a crazy kaleidoscope of smashed and splintered places, piled up around each other.

She took him through an empty Santa's grotto into the deserted spaces of a big store's furniture department, where some of the Shee were holding a wild dance, leaping hand in hand over the settees and beds and sofas, trampling the cushions and tangling in the curtains.

“Good Lord,” he said.

Summer danced a few steps. “Join us, George?”

“I'm . . . not much of a dancer.”

“You will be. Gideon trips a merry mazurka these days, I can tell you.”