Obsidian mirror, p.1
Obsidian Mirror, page 1
CATHERINE FISHER
OBSIDIAN
MIRROR
DIAL BOOKS
An imprint of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
Published by The Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014, U.S.A.
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3 (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) * Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England * Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd) * Penguin Group (Australia), 707 Collins Street, Melbourne, Victoria 3008, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd) * Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India * Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd) * Penguin Books (South Africa), Rosebank Office Park, 181 Jan Smuts Avenue, Parktown North 2193, South Africa * Penguin China, B7 Jiaming Center, 27 East Third Ring Road North, Chaoyang District, Beijing 100020, China * Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
First published in the United States 2013 by Dial Books
Published in Great Britain 2012 by Hodder Books
Copyright © 2012 by Catherine Fisher
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Fisher, Catherine, date.
The obsidian mirror / Catherine Fisher.
p. cm.
Summary: When his father disappears while experimenting with a black mirror that is a portal to both the past and future, Jake encounters obstacles when he tries to use the mirror to find his father.
ISBN: 978-1-101-60313-0
[1. Time travel—Fiction. 2. Fathers—Fiction. 3. Missing persons—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.F4995Ob 2013 [Fic]—dc23 2012019459
Table of Contents
The son of a dear father murder’d.
1
2
3
4
5
A forged process of my death.
6
7
8
9
10
Like the hectic in my blood he rages.
11
12
13
14
15
If like a crab you could go backward…
16
17
18
19
20
The time is out of joint; O cursed spite That ever I was born to set it right.
21
22
23
24
25
About the Author
The son of a dear father murder’d.
1
I have discovered something totally impossible. I will be rich. Celebrated. A hero of science.
And yet in truth I am so bewildered that I can only sit for hours in this room and gaze out at the rain.
What can I do with such terrifying knowledge? How can I ever dare use it?
Journal of John Harcourt Symmes, December 1846
THE BOY PUT on the mask outside the door. It was a heavy black fencing mask and inside its mesh he felt different.
It made him dark, supple, dangerous.
An actor.
An assassin.
He was wearing the costume for Hamlet, Act 5, the duel with Laertes, and he had the fencing sword ready in his hand. He had to be very careful. This could all go badly wrong, and not just in the way he wanted. He took a deep breath and peered in through the glass panel. The rehearsal seemed to have paused; people were sitting around and Mr. Wharton was explaining something, waving an arm expressively to Mark Patten, who was playing Laertes.
He opened the door and went in. At once, as if someone had switched it on, he burst into a world of chattering voices and music and loud hammering behind the scenery. Mr. Wharton turned around and glared at him. “Seb! Where have you been?” Without waiting for an answer he swung back. “Well, maybe now we can get on. Are you sure you’ve got the blunt sword? And you remember the jump over the table?”
The boy nodded and climbed up on the stage. It was shadowy there; the lights weren’t set up properly, and the cardboard scenery leaned at awkward angles. A mirror reflected him, slanting. He saw he was too tall, that the costume was a little tight. His eyes were dark and steely.
“Ready?”
He just nodded.
“Please yourself,” Wharton muttered. The Head of Humanities—a big man, ex-army—looked hot and harassed, his collar undone, hair sticking up where he’d run a sweaty hand through it. “Right, boys. All set to run through the duel?”
Run through. That was apt. The boy put the foil tip to the floor and carefully flexed the supple steel blade. He watched Laertes come up onstage. Patten, the one with the big-shot father. The one with the mouth.
“Okay.” Wharton glanced at the script. “So. Let’s go from ‘I’ll be your foil…’ And let’s have it sad, Seb, really sad and noble. You’re confused, you’re angry—your father has been killed and all you want is revenge, but instead of the real killer, you have to fight this guy you hardly know. You’re sick to the soul. Got it?”
He nodded, silent. They had no idea how much he got it.
The others took their places. He waited, inside the mesh of his hatred, his heart thumping like a machine out of control, the leather grip of the foil already sweaty in his hand.
Wharton scrambled down and sat in the front row. The lights flickered, a shudder of scarlet in the shadowy hall. His hand on the sword-hilt was suddenly bloodred.
“Sorry,” someone shouted from the back.
“Okay. Laertes and Hamlet duel. Do the moves exactly as we practiced yesterday.” Mr. Wharton tipped his glasses to the end of his nose. “In your own time.”
Patten faced his opponent. “Get it right this time, prat,” he whispered.
“Oh, I will.” The answer was a bare breath, intent.
Patten stared. “What…?”
But the boy dressed as Hamlet had already lifted his sword and was speaking, his voice hoarse with the built-up tension of weeks. “I’ll be your foil, Laertes; in mine ignorance, your skill shall, like a star in the darkest night, stick fiery off indeed.”
“You mock me, sir,” Laertes snarled.
“No. By this hand.”
He moved forward. They gripped fists, but he squeezed too hard, crushing Patten’s fingers.
“What the hell.” Patten stepped back. “You’re not Seb!”
The boy smiled. And instantly he attacked, slashing with the foil. Patten’s sword came up in alarmed defense. “Hey! Idiot! Wait!”
He didn’t wait. He shoved against Patten’s chest, sending him flailing back into crashing scenery.
Wharton jumped to his feet. “That’s all wrong. Boys! Seb!”
Thrust. Parry. Attack and keep on attacking. Fight the anger. Fight the pain and the loss. And then his head seemed suddenly to clear, and he was free and laughing, breathing easier, knocking away Patten’s wild blade, ignoring the shouts, the people jumping up onto the stage, Wharton’s roar of “Stop this at once!” He chose his moment and aimed coldly above the guard, at the bare white flesh between sleeve and glove. Then, as if it weren’t even him doing this, he struck.
Patten howled. A great howl of pain and fury. He leaped back, flung down his foil and grabbed his wrist. Blood was already dripping through his fingers. “He’s sodding mad! It’s a sharp sword! I’ve been stabbed!”
Clatter. Shouts. The cardboard balcony rippling backward into a dusty, oddly muffled collapse. Hands grabbing him, tight around his neck, hauling him back, snatching the weapon from his fingers. He let them. He stood calm, breathing hard, in a circle of staring boys. He’d done it. They couldn’t ignore him anymore.
Abruptly, as if a spotlight had come on, brilliant glare blinded him. He realized Wharton had snatched the mask off him and was standing there, staring in astonishment and fury at his white face.
“Jake. Jake Wilde! What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
He tried not to smile. “I think you know the answer to that. Sir.”
“Where’s Seb? What have you…”
“Locked in his room. I haven’t hurt him.” He made himself sound cold. Icy. That’s what they should see, these staring, brainless kids, even though he wanted to scream and shout in their faces.
Behind the teacher, Mark Patten had crumpled onto the stage; someone had a first-aid kit and was wrapping his wrist in a tight white bandage that immediately went red. Patten looked up, his eyes panicky and furious. “You’re finished in this school, Wilde, finished. You’ve really flipped this time. My father’s one of the governors, and if they don’t expel you there’ll be hell to pay. What are you, some sort of sodding nutcase?”
“That’s enough.” Wharton turned. “Get him down to the med room. The rest of you, out of here. Now! Rehearsals are canceled.”
It took a while for everyone to go, an explosion of gossip and rumor roaring out into the corridors of the school, the last boys lin
“I hope so.”
“They’ll expel you.”
“That’s what I want.”
Eye to eye, they faced each other. Mr. Wharton said, “You can trust me, Jake. I’ve told you that before. Whatever it is, whatever’s wrong, tell me and—”
“Nothing’s wrong. I hate the school. I’m out of here. That’s all.”
It wasn’t all. Both of them knew it. But standing in the ruins of his stage, Wharton realized that was all he was going to get. Coldly he said, “Get out of that costume and be at the Head’s office in five minutes.”
Jake turned. He went without a word.
For a moment Wharton stared at the wreckage. Then he snatched up the foil and marched. He slammed through the fire doors of the corridors, raced up the stairs and flung open the office with HEADMASTER printed in the frosted glass.
“Is he in?” he said, breathless.
The secretary looked up. “Yes, but…”
He stalked past her desk and into the inner room.
The Head was eating pastries. A tray of them lay on the desk, next to a china mug of coffee that was releasing such a rich aroma that it made Wharton instantly nostalgic for his favorite coffee shop back home in Shepton Mallet, where he’d liked to read the papers every morning. Before he’d come to this hell-hole of a school.
“George!” The Head had his elbows on the desk. “I was expecting you.”
“You’ve heard?”
“I’ve heard.” Behind him, outside the huge window, the Swiss Alps rose in their glorious beauty against a pure blue sky. “Patten’s gone to the hospital. God knows what his father will do.”
Wharton sat heavily. They were silent a moment. Then he said, “You realize what this means? Wilde’s got us now, exactly where he wants us. That was criminal assault and there were plenty of witnesses. It’s a police matter. He knows if we don’t get him out of the country, the publicity for the school will be dire.”
The Head sighed. “And Patten, of all boys! Are they enemies?”
“No love lost. But the choice was deliberate. And clever. Wilde knows Patten will make more fuss than anyone else.”
There was deep snow on the alpine valleys, gleaming and brilliant in the sunlight. For a moment Wharton longed to be skiing down it. Far from here.
“Well, we expel him. End of problem. For us, at any rate.” The Head was a thin streak of a man, his hair always shinily greased. He poured some coffee. “Have a pastry.”
“Thanks. But I’m dieting.” How did the man stay so skinny? Wharton dumped sugar in the coffee gloomily. Then he said, “Clever is one word for him. Sadistic is another. He’s wrecked my play.”
The Head watched the spoon make angry circles in the mug. “Calm down, George, or you’ll have a heart attack. What you need is a holiday, back in dear old Britain.”
“Can’t afford it. Not on what you pay.”
“Ha!” The Head stood up and strolled to the window. “Jake Wilde. Bit of a problem.”
Wharton sipped his coffee. The Head was a master of understatement. Wilde was the absolute rebel of the school and the torment of everyone’s life, especially his. The boy was intelligent, a good athlete, a fine musician. But he was also an arrogant schemer who made no secret of his loathing of Compton’s School and everyone in it.
“Remind me,” the Head said grimly.
Wharton shrugged. “Where to start. There was the monkey. He’s still got that stashed somewhere, I think. The fire alarms. The school concert. The mayor’s car. And who could forget the Halloween party fiasco…”
The Head groaned.
“Not to mention writing his entire exam paper on Hamlet in mirror-writing.”
“Hardly in the same league.”
“Bloody annoying, though.” Wharton was silent, thinking of Jake’s hard, brittle stare. You did say you wanted something totally original, sir. “If it was me, I’d expel him just for the way he says sir.”
“I’ve bent over backward to ignore all of it,” the Head said. “Because his guardian pays top whack to keep him here, and we need the money.”
“I don’t blame the man. But we can’t ignore this.” Wharton touched the foil; it rolled a little on the table and the Head picked it up and examined the sharp point.
“Unbelievable! He could have killed someone. I suppose he thinks as he’s the school’s fencing champion he could handle it. Well, if he wants to be expelled, I’m happy to oblige.” Dropping the sword, the Head came back and touched the intercom button. “Madame. Would you please send for—”
“He’s here, Headmaster.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Jake Wilde. He’s waiting.”
The Head made a face as if he’d eaten a wasp. “Send him in.”
Jake came in and stood stiffly by the desk. The room smelled of coffee, and he could see by the gloom of the two men that he’d defeated them at last.
“Mr. Wilde.” The Head pushed the pastries aside. “You understand that your actions today have finally finished you at Compton’s School?”
“Yes. Sir.” Now he could afford to sound polite.
“Never in my career have I come across anyone so totally irresponsible. So utterly dangerous. Have you any idea of what the consequences could have been?”
Jake stared stonily in front of him. The Head’s tirade went on for at least five minutes, but all of them knew it was just an act that had to be played. He managed to tune out most of it, thinking about Horatio, and how tricky it would be to get him on the plane. A few phrases came to him distantly. “Incredible folly…honor of the school…returning home in disgrace…”
Then the room was quiet. Jake looked up. The Head was looking at him with a calm curiosity, and when he spoke again his voice was different, as if he meant it now.
“Have we failed you so badly, Jake? Is it so absolutely terrible to be here?”
Jake preferred the riot act. He shrugged. “It’s nothing personal. Any school—it would have been the same.”
“I suppose that should make me happier. It doesn’t. And what will your guardian have to say?”
Jake’s face hardened. “No idea. I’ve never spoken to him.”
The men were silent. Wharton said, “Surely in the holidays you go home….”
“Mr. Venn is very generous.” Jake’s contempt was icy. “He pays for a very nice hotel in Cannes, where I spend the holidays. Every holiday. Alone.”
Wharton frowned. Surely the boy’s mother was alive? This seemed an odd situation. Was it behind this bizarre behavior? He caught Jake’s eye. Jake stared icily back. The old Don’t ask me any more questions stare.
“Well, it’s about time we informed Mr. Venn all that’s about to change.” The Head turned to his computer.
“Headmaster?” Wharton edged in his chair. “Maybe…even now, if Jake…”
Jake’s gaze didn’t waver. “No. I want to go. If you make me stay I’ll end up killing someone.”
Wharton shut his mouth. The boy was mad.
“Let’s hope he’s online.” The Head typed a rapid e-mail. “Though I suppose your guardian has a big staff to run his estate while he’s off exploring the Antarctic or whatever?”
“He doesn’t do expeditions anymore. He’s a recluse.”
The Head was busy, so Wharton said, “Recluse?”
“He doesn’t leave home. Wintercombe Abbey.”
“I know what recluse means.” Wharton felt hot. The boy was such an annoying little…But he kept his temper. “Since when?”
“Since his wife died.” The words were hard and cold, and Wharton was chilled by Jake’s lack of the least sympathy. Something was very wrong here. He’d read about the famous Oberon Venn—polar explorer, mountaineer, archaeologist, the only man to have come back alive from the terrible ascent of the west face of Katra Simba. A heroic figure. Someone young men should look up to. But maybe not the best person to be suddenly landed with someone else’s child.
“Your father knew him?”
Jake was silent, as if he resented the question. “My father was his best friend.”
Far off, a bell rang. Footsteps clattered down the corridor outside. The Head said, “He seems a man of few words. Here’s his answer.”
