The Singular & Extraordinary Tale of Mirror & Goliath: From the Peculiar Adventures of John Lovehart, Esq., Volume 1 (Notebooks of John Loveheart, E) by Ishbelle Bee Read Free Book Online Page A

was quite unexpected. Satisfying, almost.”
    “Throwing you out of the window was very satisfying.”
    Mrs Foxglove, who had been dusting the death masks while we were talking, reseats herself. “Mr Honey-Flower, when you die, do you think your face will remain human or morph into an animal?”
    “If you intend to have my face as part of your death mask collection then you are to be sadly disappointed.”
    She turns towards Mr Loveheart. “Perhaps, Mr Loveheart, we could come to some arrangement? The usual fee, of course. I have a spot over the mantlepiece free.” She looks towards Goliath, “It has a view of the garden.”
    “Madam, please. I intend to remain alive for quite some time,” Goliath growls.
    The small clock on the mantlepiece chimes, delicately. The death masks mutter amongst themselves. One of them speaks to me directly and I mouth the word “Aunt Rosebud.”
    Mr Loveheart looks startled. “What did you say?”
    “Aunt Rosebud,” I say again. The death mask smirks. “You should have killed her.”
    The death masks are laughing. Mr Loveheart grips the table; the teapot is shaking.
    “Perhaps you will have a second chance.”
    Mr Loveheart composes himself. “Clever girl.”
    Mrs Foxglove gathers the empty teacups. “And now I shall read the tea-leaves – my other great passion. Drink up, Mr Loveheart.”
    Mr Loveheart drinks the remains of his tea and hands over his cup. She views her own first, turning the cup in her hand, examining the dregs. “Well, it seems a sudden and unexpected event is about to befall me.”
    Mr Loveheart takes out a silver pistol from his waistcoat and shoots her in the head. She falls to the floor in a great heap, the lavender cake plopping off the table after her.
    Goliath stands up, a protective wall in front of me.
    “The lemon drizzle sponge was a little dry, don’t you think?” Mr Loveheart remarks. “Time for us to depart.”
    Outside we can hear the arrival of a horse and carriage.
    “You shot her because the sponge cake was unsatisfactory?” Goliath says, bewildered.
    “Of course. I’m a connoisseur of homemade cakes, you know. Now come along,” and he motions us to the door.
    “You’re insane,” bellows Goliath.
    “Of course.”
    The death masks watch us leave, happy as fat pumpkins in a field.
    “I should warn you. My carriage doesn’t understand the concept of time.” Mr Loveheart adjusts his cuffs.
    “And what do you mean by that, exactly?” asks Goliath.
    “Step inside. Let’s take a ride.” He bows, playfully.
    The carriage is lined with red silk, violent as a murder scene.
    The horses scream, and we are moving – the carriage juddering, moving into darkness. The landscape morphs into a hell realm: the sea turns black with bloated corpses floating on its foaming lips. I see an angel fall out of the sky, black-winged and screaming. It lands in a heap by the road, bones shattering, giant wings a mass of blood and broken architecture.
    “Whoops!” says Mr Loveheart, and shuts the carriage curtains, which are red silk.
    Goliath holds me tight and glares at Mr Loveheart, waiting for an explanation.
    “Short cut,” Loveheart answers. “Spot of black magic.”

Mr Fingers
    I have no heart , so to speak. I am made up of dark matter and clock mechanisms. I tick, I tock. I have arrived from the underworld because I am looking for something. Tick tock. It is a very precious thing. It holds time, it holds something I want.
    A god has become a clock. A clock has become a girl. A wicked little metamorphosis.
    I am really quite hungry, now.
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    T ick tock .

VI: Time