And so I do, and for a long time Icabod says nothing, his eyes glazed over, deep in thought. The little clock chimes.
“What you tell me is extraordinary. You are not a man to make up such a story. I–” He pauses. “I believe you. But you must tell me, have you always been able to change into the form of animals?”
“No,” I said.
“Then how?”
“It is Mirror who has changed me. The day I rescued her from the clock, she held onto me so tight, so tight. Squeezed me. And I felt it then, something passed between us. Some form of magic She gave me this power so I could protect her.” And I took the last crumpet. Devoured it as though it were Mr Fingers’ head.
IX: Death Pays Mirror a Little Visit
I wake up from my dream. Shout out for Goliath but no noise comes out. Only air.
Sitting on the end of my bed is a small boy with black hair with a silver pocket watch gently gripped between his fingers. He looks curiously at me. “You and I have a problem,” he says. His voice is as soft as marshmallows.
“Who are you?” I sit upright, rubbing the sleep from my eyes.
“I am the last page in the book. I am all the endings. I am the collector of the dead. I am the father of time.”
“What do you want with me?”
The boy spins the watch between his fingers. “You owe me.”
He stuffs the watch into my mouth
* * *
Time is fizzing, bubbles in water. I am melting.
* * *
When I wake up again, he’s watching me carefully. His eyes are endless tunnels. “You have a great deal of power. I am not convinced you can use it wisely.”
“I don’t fully understand what I am.”
“You can alter time, bend it to your will. You can open doorways to other universes. Do you realise how dangerous that makes you?”
I don’t know what to say.
“Let me make something very clear to you. I can destroy you if I choose. You are not above the cosmic laws.”
And we stare at one another. The pocket watch in my stomach ticks gently.
“I suppose I should say thank you for not killing me,” I say.
“You’re welcome, Mirror. It was most interesting to meet you.”
I go downstairs, calling Goliath’s name. The mirror in the hall shows my reflection. I have aged. Lost years. I am no longer a girl, I have become a woman. He just gazes at me, mouth open like a goldfish. And then he squeezes me so tightly, with so much love. The only noise is the clock in the hallway ticking softly, and I can’t hear it.
In the house of Loveheart, the guests begin to wake. Mr Fingers adjusts his spectacles and walks out into garden, the rain pounding the earth. The gods watching him from above.
X: Aunt Rosebud & Mr Loveheart
I was not born wicked and yet I have become something wonderfully sinister.
I think I look rather fetching today: the mirror shows me a picture of a handsome man. But I don’t really recognize him. Perhaps he is me. Perhaps he is something nasty. I do like my jacket, it is lilac velvet and very soft to touch. The devil is supposed to dress beautifully.
I am walking down the long path towards Aunt Rosebud’s home. It is time I paid her a little visit. In my hands are an enormous bunch of flowers, violent purple and orange, a sign of my enduring love. She holds a special place in my heart. My heart, a cage hanging in an abyss. An iron birdcage. Maybe it’s empty. Maybe I shouldn’t think of such things.
I have passed the spiked gates of Crake Manor. No demon dog guards the entrance. No riddle to be answered. Should I be surprised? A great white house with a flowerless garden. Another emptiness.
I wonder about the conversation we shall have. No doubt she will remark upon my sanity, parentage and outfit. She doesn’t like flowers, so the gift is inappropriate. Darling Auntie, are we the same kind of wrong, you and I?
Rat a tat tat!
A marvellously decrepit looking manservant opens the door.
“I have come to see my Aunt,” I smile. Those magic words open the door, and I enter her domain with all my colour and my wicked flowers. Into a deep white space. I am walking on the moon.
I am escorted into the conservatory, leaving a trail of flower petals behind me. Visiting a minotaur in its labyrinth, I must of course find my way out again.
She stands erect and unmoving, a bible resting like a prop on the side table and a stuffed little dog in a glass case on the wall. Obviously her last pet. Maybe she has a glass case prepared for me? Stuffed and mounted on the wall. That would please her very much. Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha.
“Auntie,” and I hold my hands out to the old dear.
She remains unmoved. “John, you look like a fool, some sort of clown.”
“Oh Auntie, you old charmer,” and I hand her the flowers, which she grasps rather wobbily and puts on her reading table.
“Frivolous.”
“I knew you’d like them.”