built in the old style, and there were hedges and flowers and topiary trees. A splash of vivid colours in such a grey setting. We stopped before the wrought-iron gate that was the only entrance to the garden. Beyond the gate, a narrow gravel path led straight to the cottage’s front door. A simple sign beside the gate said, TRESPASSERS WILL BE VIOLATED
“I can feel industrial-strength protections and defences hanging in the air, waiting to be triggered,” said Molly. “They feel . . . strange. No magic, no tech, only the power of one person’s mind. I get the feeling we’ll be safe as long as we stick to the path. She knows we’re here, Eddie.”
“I’d be disappointed if she didn’t,” I said. “Stay put for the moment. Let her get a good look at us and our protections.”
“She’s been watching us from the moment we arrived,” said Molly, shuffling uncomfortably from foot to foot. Molly’s never been one for standing around. Not when there’s dashing in where angels fear to tread to be done. “I can feel her attention, like a great weight pressing down, or like staring into a blinding searchlight. The sheer power I’m sensing is downright scary. And I don’t usually do scary. Ah!”
“What?” I said, looking quickly around.
“It’s gone. She’s not watching us anymore.”
The wrought-iron gate swung slowly open before us, the hinges making soft protesting noises. I knew Ammonia could have oiled those hinges, but chose not to, as a simple extra warning system. It was what I would have done. I strode forward, doing my best to exude confidence, and Molly stuck close beside me, head erect, eyes glaring in all directions. The gate swung noisily shut behind us, but I wouldn’t give it the satisfaction of looking back. Our feet crunched on the gravel path as we headed for the cottage. The garden really was delightful: open and attractive, with all kinds of flowers, neat hedgerows, and trees trimmed into perfect geometric shapes. Someone had put a lot of work into this garden.
“A peaceful setting,” I said. “For such a famously unpleasant woman.”
“So all the stories I’ve heard are true?” said Molly, still scowling arond her.
“If they’re distressing, awful and appalling stories, almost certainly yes,” I said. “This is a woman who once called the current Anti-Pope a big-nosed idiot. To his face.”
“An accurate description,” said Molly.
“Well, yes, but you don’t say something like that to a cult leader with a private army of fanatical followers. Not to his face.”
“I do,” said Molly.
“Well, yes again, but you’re weird.”
“You say the nicest things, Eddie.”
“I do my best,” I said.
The cottage loomed up before us like a dentist’s waiting room; it might look pleasant enough, but you know there’s trouble ahead. Actually, the cottage, in its delightful setting, looked as though it should be a photo on the lid of a jigsaw box. Say about a thousand pieces, nothing too difficult, you know the sort. A charming, old-fashioned cottage with a brick chimney poking up through the neatly thatched roof, roses curling round the front door, long vines sprawled across the creamy white stone of the facing wall. Two large bay windows on either side of the front door, which, as I drew closer, I could see had no bell or knocker. Ammonia Vom Acht always knew when visitors were coming.
Bees buzzed loudly over the flower beds, and brightly coloured butterflies fluttered by, but no birds sang. Which struck me as a bit odd. And possibly even disturbing. I stopped short of the front door and listened carefully.
“It’s quiet,” said Molly. “Perhaps even too quiet.”
“Why aren’t there any birds?” I said. “Even the gulls are steering well clear of this place. You’re always saying you’re one with the wild woods; what’s wrong with this picture?”
“You’re right,” said Molly. “I’m not picking up a single living creature bigger than an earthworm anywhere near here. Not even a mole or a dormouse. And that’s not natural.”
“This means something,” I said.
Molly looked at me sideways. “Why are you so nervous, Eddie? You’ve faced far worse than this in your time. I know; I was there. This isn’t like you.”
“I’ve always preferred dangers I can hit,” I said steadily. “Telepaths . . . are sneaky. They come at you in unexpected ways, and they don’t fight fair. And this is, after all, Ammonia Vom Acht we’re talking about. You must have heard the stories. . . .”
“Pretend I haven’t,” said Molly. “Get it out of your system. What stories?”
“Some of her more famous cases, then,” I said. “Just the high points. She was once asked to help resolve a case of split personality in a very important and well-connected person, where the two personalities were in conflict with each other. The dominant good guy versus the usually subordinate trickster type. Ammonia decided she liked the trickster personality better, so she made that the dominant personality and put the other one to sleep. Lot of trouble there, until he was finally removed from office with a lead ballot. Another time, she was hired to investigate an amnesiac, only to discover he’d already paid a substantial amount to a previous telepath to wipe all his memories, because he couldn’t stand being the kind of man he’d become. Ammonia agreed, destroyed his memories again, only even more thoroughly, kept all the money the man’s family had paid her, and defied them to do anything about it!”
“So far, I have no problem with any of this,” said Molly.
“You wouldn’t,” I said. But it gets worse. Having decided that she now knew better than anyone else what was good for people, Ammonia then went through a phase of overhauling the personalities of everyone she met. Rewriting their minds for the better . . . according to her lights. More like telepathic muggings. Some of these rewritings were successful; others weren’t. A lot of people ended up killing themselves, because they knew they weren’t who they were supposed to be. Some of them killed other people, because some subtle restraint had been removed. But by then Ammonia had moved on, never around to clean up the messes she’d made. She stopped only because practically every other telepath in the world got together and ganged up on her and made her stop. Such a gathering was made possible only through my family’s intervention, and I’m not sure we could make it happen a second time. Getting telepaths to work together is like herding cats. It is possible, but only with the continued threat of immediate extreme violence. Which can be very wearing . . . I’m pretty sure Ammonia still blames us for stopping her fun. Anyway, after all this she went into a bit of a sulk and retreated from the world. Only comes out to work on cases no one else can manage; and then only for the challenge, and a truly massive fee.
“She lives all the way out here because she knows too many secrets. No one can keep anything from her, you see. And since she’s met pretty much everyone who matters, at one time or another, there are always agents and assassins on her trail, either to kidnap her to force those secrets out of her, or to kill her to make sure her secrets die with her. She could hide herself so completely that no one could find her, but her pride won’t allow that. And she does so love to prove she’s still as powerful as everyone’s afraid she is. So she stays here, and lets her enemies get close enough that she can have some fun playing with them. Sometimes she lets them get right to her gate before she makes their heads explode. Sometimes she mind-wipes them, and leaves them to wander the world as horrific living examples. And sometimes she rewrites them and sends them back to murder the people who sent them to kill her.”
“Okay,” said Molly. “You’ve said your piece. I feel very thoroughly lectured and warned. Do you feel better?”
“Not really, no.”
We headed for the front door again. I didn’t hurry, taking my time. Molly frowned.
“You’re actually scared of her, aren’t you?”
“Not scared, not as such . . .” I said, and then stopped. I could feel my heart hammering in my chest, and the cold sweat beading on my forehead. “If my torc isn’t enough to protect me, the first I’ll know about it is when Ammonia slips inside my head and makes me do things. Think what she could do with my armour. . . . All the terrible things she could make me do to you, or my family, while I was held helpless inside my own head . . .”
I stopped, because Molly was smiling at me fondly. “I have never known anyone who could find so many ways to feel guilty about things you haven’t even done! None of that will happen, because I won’t let it happen. You may not be able to trust your torc, but you trust me, don’t you?”
