The Slanted Worlds (2 page)

“What the hell are you talking about?” he snarled.

I will seek both high and low

both near and far and farther

In summer sunshine and in snow

in wood and field and water.

I will search and I will ride

all the wide world over.

I will scour both time
and tide

until I find my lover.

Ballad of Lord Winter and Lady Summer

“A
RE YOU SURE
this is all the ID you've got?” The young man at the desk looked at her research student card doubtfully.

Sarah gave him her most winning smile. “Your receptionist said that would be enough. My tutor at Oxford made the appointment by phone. Professor Merton?”

“Ah. Right.”

He glanced at the computer screen, typed something. She held her bag tight and watched his doubt dissolve.

“It's here. Can you sign in, please.”

She wrote
Sarah Venn
in round letters and put the pen down. He tore the label off and fixed it in a plastic clip. “You have to wear this. And the white gloves. Please remember it's strictly forbidden to take photographs of delicate materials and manuscripts, or to remove anything from the museum.”

She nodded as she fixed on the label. The words
Oxford
and
Professor
were certainly enormously effective. The fact that she had made the appointment herself, faked the ID, and invented the professor, even more so.

She crossed the room and sat in a chair by the window.

It looked down into the vast interior courtyard of the British Museum, the transparent latticed roof high above pure blue in the cold spring sunlight. She had never been here in her own time—the time she was starting to think of as the End Time, the days at the end of the world. Back then, London was—would be—Janus's territory, and this place part of his vast, forbidden Halls of Lore.

She took off her coat and unwound her scarf. Below, tourists browsed the bookstalls, munched on sandwiches at the tea stalls. Their children ran and screeched in the echoing space.

She couldn't get used to it.

The freedom.

The way they lived as if nothing would ever happen to them.

And yet within a generation or two, all this would be totally . . .

“Here we are.”

She looked up, startled.

The young man was back, with a gray cardboard box file. He laid it carefully on the desk; she gazed at it in intense satisfaction. A peeling label on its surface, obviously years old, read:

11145/6/09 DEE, MORTIMER
.

“Who was he?” The curator sounded curious.

She licked her dry lips, suddenly nervous. “A medieval scholar.”

“Is it for a thesis?”

For a moment she had no idea what he meant. Then she said, “Oh . . . yes. Yes. My thesis.”

He nodded and moved off, but not very far; he spread a sheaf of papers at a nearby table and began to work on them, giving her a quick, watchful look.

Nothing she could do about that.

Eagerly she pulled on the white gloves.

She took out a notebook and pencil. Then, her fingers trembling, she opened the file.

It contained a yellowing manuscript.

She was almost afraid to start. It had taken so long to get here. Weeks of research in stuffy libraries, hours of lying awake in her damp room in the hostel, worrying, thinking, planning.

It had become an obsession, more important than eating, sleeping, even surviving in this busy, dangerous city; the obsession of finding out everything possible about the obsidian mirror.

She was thin and worn out with it.

But she was a Venn, and they were an obsessive family.

She took out the manuscript; it was a single page, light and crisp at the edges, some sort of thin skin, terribly fragile, smelling faintly of mildew. On top was a more recent note on blue paper. She already knew what that was, and smiled at the familiar handwriting of John Harcourt Symmes, the stout, rather pompous Victorian seeker after magic whom Jake and Venn had met in the past, whom she had once seen burst through time into Wintercombe Abbey.

On the covering page he had written:

This Page is the only surviving fragment of the work of the legendary Mortimer Dee. His book,
The Scrutiny of Secrets,
is of course, lost, known only in brief quotations by other writers. But this small scrap seems to be in his own hand. My attempt at transcriptions is below. Dee's work is in some fiendishly difficult code, which I confess baffles me. I can only guess at its meaning, and find it endlessly frustrating. . . . But the man certainly had some secret knowledge of the dark mirror I have obtained and which he names the Chronoptika.

If only I could find out what it was!

She flicked her eyes sideways. The curator was absorbed in his work.

She lifted her bag onto the table, took out a handkerchief, and blew her nose.

He took no notice.

So she slid the tiny camera from her palm and quickly photographed the single tightly written fragment. The camera made the softest of clicks, but in the hushed silence they sounded huge.

She coughed, cleared her throat, had it hidden away before he glanced up, eyes glazed with words, not even seeing her. Then he looked down again.

A desk magnifier stood nearby; she moved it closer and clicked the light on, aligning it over the piece of brittle parchment. Looking in, she gave a great sigh of dismay.

Fiendishly difficult code
was something of an understatement.

How could she ever read this? The page was covered with Dee's tiny, black, indecipherable writing. In places it seemed written backward; in others it ran up and down in random diagonals, or curved into the margins. Everywhere, there were diagrams in strange spindly lines, sigils of lost meaning, alchemical signs, formulae, scraps of what might be Latin and certainly Greek. And all over it, as if the man had doodled and drawn and daydreamed his visions too fast to write, was a interwoven web of drawings, of strange landscapes, towers against the moon, edges of castles and corners of rooms, and trees, many trees, tangled and hollow and gaunt as the ancient oaks in Wintercombe Wood.

She stared, fascinated. The confusing perspectives, the slanted worlds, reminded her of something . . .

And then she remembered, with a sudden chill of fear.

The Summerland.

The kingdom of the Shee, in the heart of the haunted Wood.

She frowned, brought the magnifier closer.

In the curved surface she saw her own blue eye, made huge. As sunlight slanted through the window, one of Dee's smallest, darkest drawings held her attention.

Ruined buildings, black and smoking, silhouetted against a lurid sky. Searchlights swiveling like pale cones in the darkness.

Sarah's heart thudded.

Had Dee managed to
journey
into the future? Had he seen what Janus's tyranny had done? That place where her parents were chained, where the black mirror pulsed with uncontrollable power, collapsing endlessly inward to a black hole that was devouring the world?

She blinked, pulling back.

She had to decipher this. This single page might give her the information she needed. It might solve her problem, her obsession, her mission.

It might teach her how to destroy the mirror.

Too agitated to keep still, she turned and gazed down at the crowded court below. More tourists were queueing for coffee.

And, outside the bookshop, she saw a man. A big, stocky man, his hair neatly combed, his coat an old no-nonsense ex-army parka, his scarf the colors of Compton's School.

Her eyes widened. “No! It can't be!”

He was talking to an attendant and she breathed his name in a whisper of dismay.

“George Wharton!”

Jake's tutor was unmistakable. But what was he doing here?

The attendant nodded, as if in answer to a question, and pointed up at the window. Wharton turned and looked. Before she could move, he saw her.

Their eyes met; a second of startled recognition.

Instantly he was running for the stairs.

Sarah jumped up so quickly the magnifier slid over with a thud. She snatched her bag, grabbed her coat, and raced for the door.

“I'm so sorry! Emergency! Just realized. Have to go!”

“What about the papers!”

“I'll be back!”

Shrugging into the coat she ran out, turned left in the corridor and then right, found the stairs and raced down them, praying desperately Wharton wasn't thundering up. She had to get out. H
ow on earth had he known where she was?

Since leaving Wintercombe on Christmas night, she had kept herself hidden in London. There was no way they could have found her . . . it must be sheer coincidence . . .

Unless he had been looking for Mortimer Dee's papers too.

She stopped. Far down the stairwell heavy footsteps were thundering up. She glanced over the rail.

“Sarah!”

He was a flight down. His face was lit with satisfaction. “I knew it was you!”

She turned, hit a door marked
Fire Exit
and crashed it open, bursting into a huge echoing space packed with people. Colossal Egyptian statues frowned down at her; she ran between gods with crocodile heads and jackal faces into a gallery so jammed with excited and chattering schoolchildren she had to fight her way between their small warm bodies.

She glanced back.

Wharton was at the door. Over the heads of a class in green blazers he yelled, “Wait! Sarah! Wait!”

She twisted away, shoved on, muttering “Sorry . . . Excuse me . . . Sorry . . .” getting caught in photos, bumping into tourists deafened with audio guides.

Plate glass stopped her, a wall of it. She almost slammed against it, spread her hands and saw, beyond it, the mummies.

They lay on their backs in gaudily painted cases, blind eyes staring upward, their shrunken desiccated bodies wrapped in tight bands of ancient linen. For a fatal second she stopped, staring in awe, because these were travelers from a time so distant she had no words for it, fragile
journeymen
her father would have loved to have seen, treasures that, despite their dreams, had never made it to the world's end.

Then, over their painted stillness, Wharton faced her.

The crowd hemmed her in; there was nowhere to run.

He yelled something, his breath misted the glass.

Furious, she shook her head. “Leave me alone!”

He found space; he shoved people aside, powering his way around the mummy case toward her. She stepped on someone's foot, wriggled out, found a wall, a fire alarm. Her hand shot out to the small glass disc.

She hit his fleshy palm instead.

“That would be a really foolish thing to do, Sarah,” he gasped. “And not at all like you.”

She was sweating. Her hair was in her eyes. She felt as if some long wearying effort, some exile had come to an end.

“No,” she said. And then, “You know, George, I'm really tired.”

He could see that. As she sat in the café drinking the tea he had insisted on buying her, he thought she looked thin and worn, her eyes red-rimmed, her blond hair lank. Hungry too, if the way she demolished the egg mayo sandwiches meant anything.

For a while he let her eat. Then he said, “Where have you been living?”

“A hostel.”

“Student?”

“Homeless.”

He stared. “Sarah, why . . .”

She swallowed a mouthful. “I'm stuck here now. In this time. I have to find a way to destroy the mirror, and that's the last thing Venn wants. How can I go back to Wintercombe . . .”

“He wants you back. He's been searching for you.”

That was an understatement. As he watched her sip hot tea, Wharton thought of the night, four months ago nearly, when she had slipped, invisible, from the window at Wintercombe Abbey and walked off into the night, leaving behind only her footprints in the snow and those last, astonishing words.

Now he said, “Did you think Venn wouldn't move heaven and earth to find you? You told him you were . . . would be . . . his
granddaughter
. Even though his wife is dead and he has no children. You tell him that not only is it possible for him to change the past, but that in your time
he's already done it!
And then you disappear!” He shrugged, and sipped his coffee. “Come on, Sarah. Even for a normal man that would be unbearable. For Oberon Venn, it was like the descent into madness.”

She nodded. He realized he didn't have to tell her that Venn had had his strange servant, Piers, virtually chained to the computer, spending every waking second combing every missing persons database, every police record he could hack into, phoning every hospital for miles around for news of her. She was far too intelligent. Nor could he, Wharton, even begin to express the utter relief he had felt seeing her pale astonished face up at the window. Because there was no way they could let her destroy the mirror.