would not have donned a skin-tight green suit and trained all the hedges in the village to throttle passerbys for their change purses.
No. Mrs. Heckinsforth had been content with her garden and afternoon tea and outliving her husband and a thousand other ordinary acts which made for a life well-lived. But these days, that doesn’t seem to be enough. Agnes despairs.
Her mood has not been helped by the success of the Cromoglodon. As a result of his runaway popularity, all manner of wannabe’s have sought out Edwin. Of course, that is where Lifto has come from, but there have been scores of others. All much worse. The job of insulating Edwin from all of them is wearing on her. On some days it has been impossible for her to get any other work done at all.
So when the elevator doors open, she knows what is coming. She doesn’t know exactly what he will look like or what absurd powers he will claim, but she knows, as surely as a rough beast is slouching towards Jerusalem to be born, that another idiot is coming.
The elevator doors open to blackness. Utter darkness. Not a darkness that is darker than any mortal has ever known. Agnes guesses that is the desired effect. Why else would anyone disable the elevator’s lights? An arm emerges from the darkness wrapped in a cloak of midnight blue. The arm drops and a smoke bomb bursts on the floor.
How utterly predictable, thinks Agnes as she watches the otherwise pristine lobby fill with smoke. How absolutely and completely not terrifying. How much more work for the cleaning crew.
A figure emerges from the smoke, and with a flourish of his cape he announces, “I am Mistevio!” He peers intently at Agnes over the corner of his high collar. He fancies that his eyes are dark pools in which the souls of lesser beings are swallowed. But Agnes is not afraid. She has long ago stopped reacting to men who wear eyeliner.
“Yes, Mr. Mistevio. And what can I do for you?”
“I am here to have a battle of wits with the one they call Windsor!”
“I fear Mr. Windsor would find little sport in such a contest.”
“Do you dare to trifle with Mistevio, Master of the Darkness, Holder of Men’s Souls, Sorcerer of Simulacra, Prism of Reality…”
Agnes can see that this man is unlikely to come to a timely conclusion on his own. So she cuts to the chase, “Do you have an appointment?”
“MISTEVIO needs no APPOINTMENT!”
“I am going to take that to mean that you do not, in fact, have an appointment.” Mistevio’s opens his eyes as wide as he can, and rocks his head side to side in a small, yet ridiculous motion.
Agnes holds up the appointment book. “Mr. Mischief, or whomever you are, is there any reason for me to check the appointment book?”
“Tell Windsor that I am here for him,” Mistevio says, ending with his most sardonic laugh.
“I do not want to open this book to find that you have been misleading me.”
Mistevio squints between eyeliner and mascara, “If you open the book, you will read what I wish you to read. If I wish you to see an appointment, you will see an appointment. If I wish you to believe that you are reading In Search of Lost Time by Marcel Proust, that is what you will find on the pages.”
“I think I would require a much thicker appointment book.”
“The strength of my mind will bend your reality to mine.”
“Oh heavens, mind control.”
“Mind control. Muahahahahahahahah!”
“Very well,” says Agnes, “try me.” She leans in and locks eyes with Mistevio. Contempt flows freely over the top of her reading glasses.
Mistevio does not wither. He reaches deeply into himself and imagines sinister forces pouring through his pupils, across the aether and into the very depths of Agnes’ soul. Down to the small child within all of us that is afraid of dark rooms with open closet doors. Agnes’ eyes defocus. Mistevio gets excited. This has never happened before. It was working! It was finally working!
But, Agnes is not falling under Mistevio’s spell. Agnes is watching the three television screens behind him. They all showing a variation on the same theme. A man wrapped in leopard skin emerging from a bank. He lifts a car and hurls it towards the police. And then another. And another. There is also some amateur footage of a car sailing though a bank teller. As the camcorder skews awkwardly to the right she can read the villain’s lips so clearly she can almost hear the words, “I am Lifto.”
The bad video is replaced by an animation that reads “Circus Man Crisis.” On another TV an old man wearing a cape shaped like a windsock is giving commentary. This is bad, thinks Agnes, very, very bad.
Mistevio is completely unaware of the televisions behind him. His eyes are locked on his prey. And, all in all, he thinks he’s doing pretty good. Agnes is in his thrall. That’s what those books on mesmerism had called it, “thrall.” Now it is time to command her.
“Arise woman!”
Agnes ignores him completely. She is watching S.W.A.T. vans surround the outside of the building. As a helicopter flies by on the screen, and she can hear it outside her window.
“Arise!” Mistevio says. Perhaps Agnes is partially deaf. Perhaps Mistevio is just desperate. Agnes set her jaw and stand up. She turns on her heel and makes for Edwin’s office. This was all her fault. If she had never asked him to meet with that horrible man… She just hoped Edwin wouldn’t be too angry with her.
“Woman, I have not commanded you to go!” Mistevio shouts, arms spread wide.
Agnes blinks and turns around. “My goodness, are you still here? I had forgotten about you completely.”
Mistevio deflates. He is a failure. Worse, he is a non-threatening failure. He slinks across the lobby and presses the call button for the elevator. But the waiting proves too uncomfortable. He bows his head and scuttles into the stairwell. It is a long way to walk, but Mistevio is familiar with downward mobility.
Chapter Forty-Two
The Death of Culture
Lifto is uncomfortable under Edwin’s gaze. The silence is terrifying. Why doesn’t the tall man say anything?
Lifto was going to explain that he had robbed several banks on his way over to the appointment, but somehow, he cannot. The words have frozen in his throat. And still, Edwin just stares at him. Outwardly, the tall man is emotionless.
Lifto knows he has screwed up. He can’t imagine why he should be afraid of Edwin, but all the same he feels threatened. They say that Edwin is not a man to be trifled with. But they never say why. When the door opens, Lifto jumps.
Agnes says, “Edwin dear, a moment?”
Edwin rises from his chair and walks to the door.
“I’m terribly sorry, but it would appear that Mr. Lifto—” Agnes began
“The Magnificent,” Lifto says without much force.
“—has been an exceptionally naughty boy.”
“Yes, I know. He was just about to explain it to me.” A helicopter roars by, rattling the windows.
“The authorities have surrounded the building. I’m afraid you will have to cut your meeting short.”
“Your meeting Agnes, yours,” says Edwin. He looks out the window. Far, far below he sees tiny figures in riot gear cordoning off the streets. The police do not concern Edwin. They are well-trained and well-leashed. The real question is why are they waiting? Edwin’s lobby should be overrun by men with mustaches and Lexan shields.
Edwin has no interest in protecting Lifto. Or even aiding him at all. There will be no stand-off. No negotiation. No daring last minute escape. He will tell Lifto to turn himself in. But how to get Lifto to take his advice? “Agnes, are you pleased with yourself?”
