Mr. Jelliby made a complicated sound of annoyance. “I didn’t steal any money, won’t you listen? I stole a bird. A pisky-cursed mechanical bird.”
“A bird? From who? Mr. Lickerish? Darling, was it Mr. Lickerish?” She bit her nail. “Arthur, do you know what I suspect? I suspect you are reading crimes into his actions. Now, you will put your coat away-oh, it is sooty! Did you not have it brushed? — and sit down by the fire and drink some chamomile tea. Then you will take a hot bath and go to sleep, and tomorrow we shall see what must be done. Perhaps it won’t be necessary to rearrange the furnishings after all.”
That sounded sensible enough. Mr. Jelliby was in the safety of his front hall now. The window looked out on an emptying Belgrave Square, on carriages and people, shadowy in the dusk. The evening light was just touching the rooftops with copper and rose. What could Mr. Lickerish possibly do to him here? Out in the wilds of the city he could chase a million horrors onto Mr. Jelliby’s back. He could have him pushed from a bridge, or under a steam carriage, or order all the spiders in Pimlico to drag him to the roofs and spin him to a chimney. But here in Mr. Jelliby’s own home? The worst Mr. Lickerish could do was murder him in his sleep. And what were the chances of that. .?
Mr. Jelliby took off his coat and went to drink some chamomile tea.
Fog slunk among the headstones of St. Mary, Queen of Martyrs, that night. It smelled of charcoal and rot, and spread in slow shapes down the sloping graveyard. Above, clouds drifted, snuffing out the moon. Somewhere in the maze of streets beyond the wall a dog barked.
The watchman sat in his hut against the side of the church, fast asleep in the wavering glow of a lantern. Grave robbers had come and gone, finished their business hours ago and were well on their way to the physicians in Harley Street, and to certain faeries of delicate diet. No one heard the sudden shriek of wind, or saw the pillar of wings take shape out of the dark. No one saw the lady who stepped from among them. She looked around her, head snapping about like a bird’s. Then she turned and made for the gate, plum-colored skirts dragging over the damp soil.
The lady led a small child. It was a changeling girl, thin, with branches for hair. It was Hettie. She seemed to be falling asleep as they walked, stumbling over roots and sunken gravestones. Her head slumped to one side now and then, as if she didn’t know she was in a foggy graveyard, as if she thought she might nestle into her pillow and go to sleep.
“Stop dawdling, ugly thing,” the lady snapped, pulling her along. “We’re almost done.”
Her lips did not move as she spoke. The fog swallowed all sound, but even so the lady’s voice was distant, as if it were coming from behind layers of fabric. “One more little thing I must take care of tonight, and then you can sleep until your fingernails grow halfway to Gloucester for all I care.”
Hettie rubbed her eyes with her free hand and mumbled something about rats and houses.
“And hold your tongue.” The lady stepped through the gate of the graveyard, into Bellyache Street. She sniffed the air. Then she strode on over the cobblestones. Hettie could scarcely keep up, but the lady paid no attention. She dragged Hettie down Bellyache Street, into Belgrave Square. They hurried out across it, silent in the lamp-lit expanse.
They stopped in front of a tall house with a bicycle bolted to its fence. The house loomed, blacker than the night sky, not a single light tracing any of its windows. The lady eyed it a moment. Then she pulled Hettie toward the nearest lamppost and planted her under it, pointing up at the flame faery behind the glass and saying, “Do you see that? See how it presses its little orange hands against the panes and looks back at you? Now don’t move. I’ll return for you in seven breaths.” She whirled away, leaving Hettie transfixed under the streetlamp.
At the top of the steps, the lady paused and took from the folds of her dress a heavy metal cylinder. It was ancient, green with verdigris and forged with heathenish symbols. A smiling face, all fat cheeks and twinkling eyes, was etched on its lid.
The lady twisted the lid, winding it like a clock, and suddenly the face began to change. As it turned upside down it became angry, and its eyes began to darken, and its mouth drooped into a bitter frown. The cylinder sprang open.
“Arthur Jelliby,” the lady whispered, and smiled as something flew from the cylinder through the keyhole and into the plush darkness of the house. When there was nothing left inside the cylinder she tucked it back into her skirts, and collecting Hettie up off the curb, swept back toward St. Mary’s and the graveyard.
It was not a sound that woke Mr. Jelliby. Rather, it was the combined effects of being too cold, lying half out of his blankets, and feeling an uncomfortable lump in his mattress at the small of his back, like a broken spring poking out.
He sat up and felt about in the dark, trying to find the source of this discomfort. He was so tired. Had a man in pointed shoes appeared right then and asked him to sign his name in blood inside a black book, he would have done it just to be allowed to fall back into his pillows and sleep.
His fingers touched on something smooth and cold among the bedsheets. It wasn’t a bedspring.
With a groan, he heaved himself up and lit the lamp on the nightstand. He held it over the bed, surveying the wrinkled sheets. The thing that had woken him was a piece of wood. It was well polished and seemed to have grown from under the bed, piercing mattress and feather comforters until it had finally jabbed into his back.
Mr. Jelliby stared at it, his sleep-fogged mind stumbling, not understanding. Clumsily, he dropped to one knee and looked under the bed. It was a great old four-poster, built of dark wood and carved to look like a grove of weeping willows, their branches entwined to form a canopy. Now that he thought of it, the wood among the sheets looked very much-
He stiffened. Something was wrapping itself around his ankle. With a muffled yelp he jerked his leg around, whirling to see what it was. A brittle snap, like the breaking of a match. He looked down, and there at his feet was another piece of branch, lying still.
“Ophelia?” he whispered into the dark. “Ophelia, I believe you should have a look at this-”
But even as he spoke, another branch rose up behind him and snaked itself silently around his neck. With one swift movement, it drew itself tight. The lamp fell from Mr. Jelliby’s hands. It smashed to the floor and went out. His eyes bulged. He reached for his throat, gagging.
“Ophelia!” he croaked, snapping the wood from his neck. The branches were coming quicker now, left and right, crackling from the woodwork of the bed and slithering toward him. “
All of a sudden, the carpet under his feet gave a violent lurch and streaked out from under him. He struck the floor like a ten-ton stone. The carpet turned, flew back at him, and began wrapping itself around him, winding and knotting. With a cry, he kicked it off and started crawling desperately toward the door.
He managed to get out into the hall and would have lain there had not the floorboards begun flipping up, slamming him in the back, in the arm. He scooted down the front stairs and stood, trembling. This was a dream, surely. He
He glanced around the hall. Everything was quiet.
He went into the library and took up the decanter of brandy.
The creak of wood sounded behind him. He spun, just in time to see a claw-foot table bounding across the room toward him. It launched itself into the air. It caught him square in the chest. He was hurled back-decanter and all-against the far wall. The decanter burst, leaving a dripping blot on the wallpaper. Mr. Jelliby wrestled with the table, gasping, too stunned even to shout.
He saw the cutlass seconds before it struck. It came from the coat of arms above the fireplace, whizzing point-first toward him. He dragged the table up like a shield, but the cutlass sliced through it, singing past Mr. Jelliby’s cheek and burying itself in the wall barely an inch from his left eye.
“Brahms!” he screamed. “Ophelia? Wake up!
By the time Mr. Jelliby arrived at the front door it was already moving. The mahogany lions carved into its frame snapped at him, straining against the edge of the beams. He gripped the door handle, but it squirmed in his hand. He let go with a cry. A brass lizard launched itself at his face, and its tail caught him on the cheek, leaving a bloody streak. From the ceiling, a plaster vine spiraled into his mouth. He bit down hard, cracking it in two.
At the top of the stairs a light appeared. Brahms stood there in his nightcap, a great kerosene lamp held
