“There are very few people I can converse with in this state. Alexander is dreadfully boring, as always. Chandresh was interesting enough but that boy has altered his memory so many times that it’s not much better than talking to myself. Though it might be nice for a change of scenery.”
“You talk to Chandresh?” Celia asks.
“Occasionally,” Hector says, inspecting the clock as it turns within its cage.
“You told Chandresh that Alexander was going to be at the circus that night. You sent him there.”
“I made a suggestion to a drunk. Drunks are highly suggestible. And nicely accepting of conversations with dead people.”
“You must have known he could do nothing to Alexander,” Celia says. The reasoning makes no sense, not that her father’s reasoning often does.
“I thought the old man could use a knife in the back for a change. That student of his was practically screaming to do it himself, so much so that the idea of it was already in Chandresh’s head, all of that rage sneaking into his subconscious from being exposed to it over time. All I had to do was give him a push in the right direction.”
“You said there was a rule about interference,” Celia says, placing down her pen.
“Interfering with you or your opponent,” her father clarifies. “I can interfere with anyone else as much as I please.”
“Your
“There are other clockmakers in the world,” Hector says. “You could find a new one if you are in need of additional timepieces.”
Celia’s hands are shaking as she picks up a volume from the pile of Shakespeare and hurls it at him.
The cages around the doves and the clock begin to quiver. The glass over the framed photograph cracks.
“Go away, Papa,” Celia says through clenched teeth, trying to control herself.
“You cannot keep pushing me away,” he says.
Celia turns her attention to the candles on the desk, concentrating on a single dancing flame.
“You think you are making personal connections with these people?” Hector continues. “You think you mean anything to them? They are all going to die eventually. You are letting your emotions trump your power.”
“You are a coward,” Celia says. “You are both cowards. You fight by proxy because you are too cowardly to challenge each other directly. Afraid that you will fail and have nothing to blame except yourselves.”
“That is not true,” Hector protests.
“I hate you,” Celia says, still staring at the candle flame.
The shadow of her father shudders and vanishes.
THERE IS NO FROST UPON THE WINDOWS of Marco’s flat, so he inscribes lines of symbols in the shape of a letter
He sits staring at the door, twisting the silver ring around his finger in anxious circles until the knock comes early the next morning.
The man in the grey suit does not admonish him for calling. He stands in the hall outside the door with his hands on his cane and waits for Marco to speak.
“She thinks one of us has to die in order for the game to end,” Marco says.
“She is correct.”
Having the confirmation is worse than Marco had expected. The small glimmer of hope he had held that she might be mistaken is crushed in three simple words.
“To win would be worse than losing,” he says.
“I did inform you that your feelings for Miss Bowen would make the challenge more difficult for you,” his instructor replies.
“Why would you do this to me?” Marco asks. “Why would you spend all that time training me for such a thing?”
The pause before the response is heavy.
“I thought it preferable to the life you might have had otherwise, regardless of the consequences.”
Marco closes and locks the door.
The man in the grey suit lifts his hand to knock again, but then lowers it and walks away instead.
CHARMING BUT DEADLY
You follow the sound of a flute into a hidden corner, the hypnotic melody beckoning you closer.
Seated on the ground, nestled in an alcove on striped silk pillows, are two women. One plays the flute you heard. A burning coil of incense sits between them, along with a large black-lidded basket.
A small audience is gathering. The other woman carefully removes the lid from the basket before taking out a flute of her own and adding a countermelody to the first.
Two white cobras coil around each other as they rise from the woven basket, in perfect time with the music. For a moment they seem to be one snake and not two, and then they separate again, moving down along the sides of the basket, gliding onto the ground quite close to your feet.
The snakes move back and forth together in motions resembling a strikingly formal dance. Elegant and graceful.
The music increases in tempo, and now there is something harsher about the way the snakes move. Waltz morphs into battle. They circle each other, and you watch for one or the other to strike.
One of them hisses, softly, and the other responds in kind. They continue to circle as the music and the incense rise into the starry sky above.
You cannot tell which snake strikes first. They are identical, after all. As they rear and hiss and jump at each other you are distracted by the fact that they are both no longer stark white but a perfect ebony black.
Precognition
EN ROUTE FROM BOSTON TO NEW YORK, OCTOBER 31, 1902
Most of the train’s passengers have settled into their respective cars and compartments to read or sleep or otherwise pass the journey. Corridors that were bustling with people at departure time are now nearly empty as Poppet and Widget make their way from car to car, quiet as cats.
Tags hang by each compartment door, marked with handwritten names. They stop at the one that reads “C. Bowen” and Widget lifts his hand to knock softly on the frosted glass.
“Come in,” calls a voice from inside, and Poppet slides the door open.
“Are we interrupting anything?” she asks.
“No,” Celia says. “Do come in.” She closes the symbol-filled book she has been reading and places it on a table. The entire compartment looks like an explosion in a library, piles of books and paper amongst the velvet- covered benches and polished-wood tables. The light dances around the room with the motion of the train, bouncing off the crystal chandeliers.
Widget slides the door closed behind them and latches it.
“Would you like some tea?” Celia asks.
“No, thank you,” Poppet says. She looks nervously at Widget, who only nods.
Celia watches both of them, Poppet biting her lip and refusing to meet Celia’s eyes, while Widget leans against the door.
