We have no answer for him. Then in walks Mr Cherrytree, whose skin is as pale as my own. His beard as black as a fairy tale forest.
“Thank you for coming,” he says, and looks at Icabod who rises and shakes his hand. His voice has a foreign accent, rich and deep with something playful underneath.
“Thank you for seeing us.”
Mr Cherrytree approaches me, “Shall we get started?” and then looks to Icabod and Goliath, “If you could both wait here, we will be about an hour. My assistant will bring you up some refreshments.” And Mr Cherrytree escorts me out of the room, as though leading me onto a dance floor.
Inside his office is a large brown sofa, which he tells me to sit upon. He perches himself opposite, like a great black bird. He is not at all handsome, his forehead egg-shaped and his teeth quite crooked: glinting, hidden within that black bearded mouth. I imagine he likes to look at himself in mirrors.
Stare into me. Ogle your reflection.
He likes what he sees. Mesmerizes himself in the glass. And today I am his mirror.
There are no pictures of the dead in here. Only an odd, beautiful clock on the wall, decorated with tiny snakes coiling like orange peel. There is something about this clock that is wrong, unnatural. It is an object of horror but I don’t know why.
“Firstly, you have nothing to fear. I am experienced in dealing with, shall we say, peculiar cases,” Mr Cherrytree says, revealing a glint of razor white teeth. “I need you to relax. Take deep, slow breaths.” I do as he requests. He watches, perching on the edge of his seat like a crow.
“What if something goes wrong?”
He reaches across the table and picks up a little pink box, and, opening it, reveals chocolate truffles dusted with cocoa. “Take one and put it in your mouth.”
I do. It melts on my tongue. He’s a curious wizard, I think, luring little girls into his tower with sweets.
“Close your eyes, Miss Mirror,” he says, and my eyelids shut like a book.
I can smell his breath: peppermints. “Imagine that you are walking down a long corridor and at the bottom of the corridor is a red door. You feel comfortable and safe as you walk towards this door.”
I do not feel safe.
He continues, “You feel very light on your feet as though you are floating. You keep walking. The door is getting nearer and nearer until you are close enough to touch it.”
I can hear the clock ticking.
“Open the door Miss Mirror.”
I can see the red door. I can hear the clock ticking. I can smell the peppermint.
“Open the door and tell me what you see.”
I turn the handle and I say, “I can see a big red butterfly. It is dancing in front of me. It is very beautiful.”
“What is happening now?” His voice sounds far away, as though I am dreaming.
“The door has shut behind me. Someone has put the butterfly into a jar and it is dying.”
I am sure he is stroking my hair. I can feel his fingers.
“What can you see now?”
“I can see you. You are taking a photograph of me to add to your collection. You want me on your wall.”
I am starting to feel unwell. I think I am going to be sick. I grip the side of the chair but I can’t open my eyes.
“What are you?’ he asks.
“I was trapped in a clock. I am inside a little girl.”
I try to open the red door and get out. I try to open my eyes.
I can feel someone picking me up and carrying me. I try to shout out but my mouth opens and nothing comes out.
I am placed inside some sort of wooden box. I think I am inside a carriage. I feel the wheels move and the sound of horse hooves. I think he has put me in a coffin.
I scream the word Goliath over and over and over. I can hear the windows smash. I can hear gunshots.
A bird is screeching in the air above us, following the carriage. It is Goliath. I know it is him.
XII: September 1888
The Feast
My name is John Loveheart and I was not born wicked.
Tonight my ancestral home is full of demons. We are having a party. Isn’t that wonderful! I have chosen to wear red velvet this evening, to match the decor. There are red banners hanging from the battlements, red candles and lush volcano red tapestries and carpets. My favourite colour.
The decor may be my choice but the guests are not. Mr Fingers has chosen them all and every one of them is a variety of monster. The invitations were very pretty. Little red hearts like valentine wishes painted on them. A heart is the most appropriate symbol for this occasion, as this party is being held in my house and I am Mr Loveheart. Curious symbol, the heart, isn’t it? They are all over my clothes. They are all over the invitations. I even have my keyholes shaped as hearts. Every door opens a heart. What is my obsession with them really?
Sometimes I think I am quite mad.
Sometimes I think I am a strange key. Swallow me and I will unlock every door inside of you.