By God! What a fool I’d been! What a reckless fool! Was there any way to save myself? What could I do?
In my panic, I nearly scrambled to my feet. But no! I stopped myself just in time. The one thing I must certainly not do was make any sort of noise. If Stark and Ferguson realized I was conscious, I knew they would activate their machine, and that ceiling would start to come down towards me. Struggling to master myself, I gazed around at my surroundings. The scant light came from a few cracks in the walls around me—that must be the where the doorways were. Yes, both sets of cracks defined rectangles and each featured a round gleam of light halfway up—a keyhole! There were no handles on the inside walls of the chamber—the falling ceiling would have sheared them off—but I had access to the keyholes. Then again, I had no key. If only I had a thin metal device I could insert into the lock! Might I perhaps succeed in picking it?
But what had I? Nothing? Wait! My belt! I could use the central pin to… But no. Moving my hand as silently as I could to my waist, I realized I’d been stripped to nothing but my underclothes. This made sense, I supposed. Who wanted to drink herringbone-flavored juice, after all?
As I sat, despairing, a second avenue of hope presented itself. From behind the other door, I could hear a faint tapping and a lilting voice absent-mindedly singing, “Joosy Joose, sweet Joose, you’re my friend.”
Mindful not to make a sound, I eased myself to my knees, then my feet, and padded softly over to Magerzart’s door. Hopeful that the hissing steam in the room behind me might cover my voice, I whispered, “Magerzart? Is that you?”
There was a moment of silence, then…
“I’m not supposed to talk to you, Joose.”
“No, no! My name is John.”
“Well… soon it will be Joose.”
Trying to ignore the horror of that statement, I focused on ingratiating myself with her. “Why are you over on this side? Why not be with your father?”
She gave a guilty little sigh. “The cracks on this door are bigger so, sometimes when the ingredients pop, I get a little preview that comes through the cracks. And I’m so thirsty! I must be sustained.”
“But you must save me!”
“No.”
“Why not? You saved Victor.”
“Yes, but he is much more handsome than you.”
“What? No he’s not!”
“And he’s nicer. You are only normal. He is wonderful and he’s going to come and marry me and we’ll have real crumpets! Not just Joose. Oh! But I do love you, Joose, of course!”
“Stop calling me Juice!” I insisted, and gave the door a little punch.
I should not have done it. It gave forth a significant rattle and from behind the other door, I could hear Ferguson crow, “Ah! He’s awake!”
“Finally,” said Stark. I heard him click a heavy lever into place and then—to my horror—the hiss of steam died away, replaced by a faint but regular chuff, chuff, chuff. The room gave a tiny lurch. The air filled with the subtle grinding noise of well-oiled metal pieces sliding against each other. Above me, the ceiling began to descend. Oh, how much more merciful it would be if it had suddenly leapt down and pulped me before I had the chance realize what was happening. But no. Time to dread. That was the whole point, wasn’t it? I had it on the highest authority that fear made the juice sweeter. With my hand stretched up above my head, I could just feel the cold teeth of the ceiling pressing down at me. I tried to push back, tried to keep my arm straight, but with no sign that it was even laboring harder against the resistance, the ceiling continued its descent.
I ran to Stark’s side and threw my body against the door. There was a loud metallic bang, but the catch held. My injured shoulder and ankle sang with pain. “You can’t do this!” I cried. This was met only with laughter.
I ran about the room, raking my fingers against the walls. Could I pull a panel loose? Use it to jam the ceiling? No, I could get no purchase. All I could hear were the voices of my tormentors.
“Juice, Juice, Juice!”
“We are what sustains us,” Stark murmured.
“Joose? Can you hear me? I’ve put my mouth down near the crack of the door. Can I have a preview?”
“You bastards! I’ll kill you!” I shouted.
In response, I heard Stark say in his most judgmental tone, “Hmm. This statement smacks of overconfidence.”
Was there something I could do with the locks? I turned to run to Magerzart’s side, but on my first step, my head contacted the ceiling. Its sharp steel pyramids tore into my scalp. By God it stung, but what was that compared to what was coming? I remembered Hatherley’s words about trying to judge what might be the least painful position to be crushed to death in. Now I wished I’d let him finish the thought; an expert’s opinion would have been most welcome.
Crouching beneath the ceiling, I ran to Magerzart’s door and clawed the lock. But to what end? My fingers could not fit inside, and I had no tool. I wasn’t like Holmes; I could not simply conjure what I needed.
But wait!
I could.
On the night we had imprisoned a sea-monster in my wardrobe, Holmes had shown me how to conjure my soul-blade. Compared to his own demonic implement, mine had been laughable in the extreme—a three-inch-long sliver of bone. But would that not fit into the keyhole?
What was its name? Argh! What was the damn thing’s name? I had only to speak it, and I would have it. The ceiling was on me now, pressing me down. I was bent over, staring at that keyhole, shouting nonsense words. I remembered that the name of my soul-blade had something to do with its material. Some scientific or medical word
