The stars this evening are really something special. The sky looks like it has been sliced open like a belly and they are all falling out. We are always half in another world, I suppose. When I look through my telescope I still keep an eye out for my father. Dear Daddy, if only you had been made of stronger stuff. You’re floating out there like a limp-winged angel. Not much help really. The planets tonight hang on wires like a theatre curtain. I just need to turn the wheel to make them move. We are all in some ways collectors of oddities. I happen to like stars and hearts. Mr Fingers, on the other hand, likes his clocks, tickety-tock.
We are having someone special for dinner tonight. She’s in a cage hanging over the dining table. She’s a lot bigger than she was before and she doesn’t look very happy. Dearie me. The lace trim on my sleeves has fallen into the chocolate pudding, now that is a problem. You must always look your best for parties such as these. And you should see the dining hall, it looks splendid. Enough food for a hundred guests. A feast to feed a hundred demons in dinner suits. We all have big appetites and sharp teeth. And I am one of them.
A great mirror hangs in the dining room. Shall we look at our reflections? Am I the only one who doesn’t want to look too closely? And what does that make me, a half monster? I look at them all, eyeing up the buffet, wanting to get started. Mr Fingers sits in my father’s chair, seated like a king. While my real father is lost in space somewhere.
The woman – Mirror – stares at me from the cage. Drugged by the cowardly Dr Cherrytree. Her eyes are open, she is aware of everything going on. Something inside me wants to stroke her face, something inside me wants to save her, save myself. I wander over to the great table of food to be near her.
“Hello, Miss Mirror, how you’ve grown.”
Mr Fingers rises from his chair to make his speech. “Welcome, friends.” A hundred pairs of eyes turn to look at him. The woman, Mirror, sits slumped in the cage. I stand next to her, dressed in my bloodiest red. Daddy, the Demon Lord of the Underworld, is speaking, so we must all be quiet and listen.
“Thank you so much for coming to my home,” he preaches.
It is my home. It does not belong to him. I glance at Dr Cherrytree standing by his side. He continues, “Tonight, friends, we have a very special guest. You may have noticed a woman in a cage over the table,” (and he laughs – oh, how funny he is!) “Well, she is our dinner. It has taken me quite a while to find her. She has moved from an Egyptian tomb to a grandfather clock to a little girl. And now here she is. And once she is eaten, I will absorb the soul of the Egyptian princess!” A round of applause.
Mr Fingers looks over to me. “And this would not have been possible without the help of my son, Loveheart.”
Another round of applause. Why are they clapping? Why do I hear teacups breaking?
The drug inside her makes it hard for her to speak, but she tries. She looks through me like light through a diamond. Blinding me momentarily. What witchcraft is this? I can see my mother’s face reflected on hers. I can feel my father’s body frozen in space. All the noise around me, a hundred voices and yet it is her silence that is making me listen.
I was born a prince in a great kingdom. My mother and father were murdered by monsters. I was kidnapped and changed by a demon. My soul is a black hole. And yet she is making me want to kill every wicked thing in this house until a great pile of bodies is left with Mr Fingers on the top of the heap. I look at the dinner guests; child killers, rapists, fraudsters and they are inside my father’s house, they are inside MY house. I can hear her speaking to me. She is making me remember my name.
* * *
Loveheart Loveheart
Loveheart
Loveheart Loveheart
Loveheart Loveheart
Loveheart
Loveheart
Loveheart Loveheart
Loveheart Loveheart
* * *
She reaches her hand through the cage and touches mine. “Mr Loveheart,” she says with difficulty, “the lemon drizzle sponge is a little dry.”
“Yes it is,” I reply, and take my pistol out. There are tears running down my face.
I point it at Mr Fingers.
Part Two
July 1888
I: The Clockmaker
TICK TOCK