The Empty Grave (Lockwood & Co. #5)(37)
‘Didn’t know you had a sister,’ the skull said.
‘I’ve got six.’ I didn’t mention that I hadn’t seen any of them for years; that only Mary still wrote to me from the north of England. I tried to ignore the dull pang that accompanied the thought. It made me seek distraction. ‘Ooh, look at this,’ I said.
At the far end of the room, near the exhibition exit, was a square glass box. In it was the most intricate toy of all. It took the form of a traditional travellers’ caravan, with bow roof, large wooden wheels and sides gaily painted in red and gold. The model stood on a field of fake grass, with dark trees and a full moon behind. There was a window along one side, with net curtains drawn across it. I could just make out the shape of someone hidden inside. Above the caravan was a sign: ONE POUND. YOUR FORTUNE TOLD. There was a slot below, and a silver hatch beside it.
I looked at it. I had a pound.
‘Go on,’ the skull said. ‘You know you want to. What harm can it possibly do?’
‘It’s just a silly machine.’
But I was bored and lonely, and wanted something to happen. I took off the rucksack and set it on the floor, with the skull’s jar peeping out. Then I took the pound out of my pocket and sent it clinking into the slot.
At once a light came on inside the caravan, illuminating a hideous witch-like silhouette, all pointy nose and chin. There was a deranged cackling. With rhythmic jerks the side of the caravan swung open. Lights disguised as candles hung from the ceiling; these sprang into flickering life, revealing a badly painted crone hunched over a table, a crystal ball clutched between her gnarled hands. As I watched, a milky brightness flared in the ball. The cackling came again. The hands moved across the surface of the crystal. A mechanical cat chased a mechanical mouse round the back of the fortune teller, and a mechanical crow on her windowsill cawed loudly. The candles flickered; cupboard doors opened and closed, revealing concealed skulls and demons. The light in the ball flared and went out. A tinny bell rang somewhere, and something rattled into the hatch at the front of the cabinet. Cogs whirred and spun. The caravan began to close.
I put my fingers into the hatch. Whether it was a glitch or not, two pieces of paper had emerged instead of one. I took them out and read them in the light coming from the fortune teller’s window.
The first read:
He will go into the dark.
The second:
He will sacrifice his life for you.
I stared at the slips of paper for a moment, then crumpled them abruptly in my hand. What kind of fortune was that? That wasn’t a fortune. It was stupid. It was a stupid machine.
‘What did it say?’ the skull asked. ‘Bet it was something terrible.’
‘Oh, shut up. Why don’t you ever shut up? You’re always on at me.’
The skull said nothing. I waited for the inevitable retort. Nothing. Even in my anger and disquiet this struck me as slightly odd. When I glanced down at the jar, I saw that the ghost’s face was indeed animated, the bug-eyes rolling, the mouth moving urgently. Yet I heard nothing. That’s when I noticed that the lever at the top of the jar had swung closed, blocking the psychic contact.
I hadn’t turned the lever.
A breeze ruffled my skirt against my legs; chill air parted my hair and brushed around the contours of my neck. A soft white glow extended out across the floor, sparkling on the glass of the cabinets like the light of a cold new dawn. It was a gentle light, and the face of the smiling woman standing close behind me was gentle too. As I turned, I’d been scrabbling for my sword, but one look at that radiant lady was enough to make me recognize how silly and inappropriate such an action was. I let my fingers hesitate on the hilt; hesitate, then fall away.
10
The woman was all fair and shimmery, with a pearlescent wasp-waisted dress that flowed down tight against her legs before spilling out like plunging foam. Her shoulders were bare, her long slim arms as white and sweet as sugar. She did not stand still, but swayed from side to side – her arms and body stirring separately, like reed fronds in an underwater current. Her pale hair fell in waves around her neck, cascading over her shoulders, moving, always moving, as if to secret music. And how enticing the face was! I wasn’t especially sickly, or a lovelorn boy, so I frankly wasn’t La Belle Dame’s target audience, but even so I felt the tug of longing as I looked into those fathomless dark eyes.
What was it that made me yearn to walk across? What was it that made me want to give myself to her? It wasn’t just that she was exquisite. Sure, you had the gently smiling mouth, the soft full lips, the set-square straightness of that lovely nose. I could take or leave all that. You could see similar blandly beautiful young people in any fashion magazine. But she was flawed too. That was the brilliance of it. There was a homeliness to her, something ordinary in the lines of the face that made her seem accessible. It was the flash of Doris Blower behind Marianne de Sèvres. You sensed that deep down she understood what it was to feel imperfect and unspectacular. She understood your need for love.
‘Come …’ a soft voice said. ‘Come with me.’
It was as if she spoke directly to my deepest sorrows, those parts of me I guarded from the world. The pang that I’d experienced when I’d thought about my sisters, the anxiety I’d felt when Lockwood sat beside the empty grave – she could smooth such doubts away. I had an overwhelming urge to share them, let her listen to my fears. I opened my mind to her willingly. I let her sympathy pour in.