The Door in the Moon by Catherine Fisher Read Free Book Online Page A

they . . . ?”
    â€œThis lever, milord, will produce the desired effect. But perhaps we should discuss the price before . . .”
    â€œOf course! Come with me, good Englishman. I assure you, the Vicomte de Saligne pays his debts most promptly. Your gold is waiting in the château.” The tiny man almost capered toward her; Sarah moved back hurriedly as they passed, their voices fading.
    When they were gone, she crawled out and stood a moment in the astonishing heat. Then she moved to the nearest glass and rubbed a small running circle in the condensation, the warm water trickling over her fingertips.
    She looked out.
    And laughed aloud with surprise.

5
    Where ever the mirror has been, men have used it for their own needs. Janus is just the last of many. They are all responsible. They have all desired its power.
    Now it is a dark agony that is devouring itself.
    Time is ending. Humanity is ending.
    We are the ones who will see that happen.
    Illegal ZEUS transmission
    J AKE WAS PRETENDING sleep when the carriage finally rattled to a halt.
    They had traveled for a long time; twisting and turning and sometimes rattling down alleys so narrow he could hear the paintwork of the coach being scraped on both sides.
    Now the door was opened; he glanced at it from lowered lids, measuring the odds of escape. The big men climbed out, the vehicle swaying wildly.
    â€œHey,” one said. “Boy! Wake up.”
    Jake followed them out. He swayed, as if dizzy with hunger and travel-weariness.
    â€œWatch him,” one of the men muttered.
    Another laughed. “Nowhere to run.”
    Jake snatched his elbow from the man’s grip and looked around.
    They were in a dank alley. Even though the long summer twilight was only just beginning, it was already dark here. There were no streetlamps, just the pale sky-glimmer reflected in pools of water and stinking liquids that flooded the central gutter. Great dim houses leaned over him, their heavy gables darkly medieval. The stench of refuse and rot was worse than ever; rats scuttled openly between his feet.
    He realized he must be in one of the lowest sinks of the city, some slum so lost and dark that he felt all hope of rescue go out in his heart like a candle.
    Turning, he saw the men were lowering a long package from the roof of the carriage; they handled it carefully, as if it was precious.
    â€œYou, stand aside,” one of the men snapped.
    He didn’t move.
    They shoved him back, and the package, all corded in sackcloth, was carried past him. Tall as a man, a thin flat slab of something delicate and heavy. He felt a stab of fierce joy.
It had to be the mirror.
    They carried it down the alley, one man at each corner. The final man, the one with the pistol, nudged Jake to follow.
    Fog lurked in the doorways. Smoke clung to the rooftops. Under his feet the cobbles were treacherous with slime. Halfway down, he passed a huddled, miserable tent of rags; a half-starved child peeped out at him, then darted back in alarm. Jake stumbled on, trying to think, but he was so tired now his brain was numbed and he had to force himself to keep his head up and take notice. There was nowhere too dismal for Jake Wilde. But he wished desperately that Sarah or Wharton were here. Wintercombe Abbey seemed a thousand years away.
    The street sloped downward; the stench grew worse. Then he realized they were coming to the river. The Seine was a wide, black flood, its mud banks littered with refuse that a few beggars picked over for scraps of food.
    â€œDown the steps,” the man muttered.
    â€œNot much of a talker, are you,” Jake said.
Make some connection with the kidnappers. Get them to talk to you.
Scenarios from old books and films flitted through his tired mind. “That’s the mirror, isn’t it. But none of you are the two who came for me. And who’s behind this? Who’s paying you?”
    The nudge of the pistol against his cheek