The Map of Chaos (Trilogía Victoriana #3)(159)

“The book is in the Chamber of Marvels!”

The knife paused.

“And where the devil is that?” growled the voice.

“I’ll take you there . . . ,” said Wells, “when you tell me who you are and why the book is so important.”

Behind Jane’s head, the silence hesitated for a few moments.

“Didn’t the old lady explain that when she gave it to you?” the Villain asked suspiciously. “I find that hard to believe, George . . .”

Wells looked with infinite weariness at the empty space looming behind his wife. Then he shrugged.

“I wasn’t given the book by any old lady . . . Why would I insist on lying to you? However, I know where it is. That is all I know, apart from the fact that you, once you have the book, will kill us. Which is why I don’t intend to plead for our lives. All I ask is that you do it quickly and that you grant us the right to know why we are going to die . . .”

The knife appeared to reflect.

“Very well, George,” the voice purred. “But I warn you, if you are trying to buy time, it won’t do you any good. I have all the time in all the worlds at my disposal!” Suddenly the knife moved away from Jane’s face, slicing through the air as if the creature had spread his arms in a theatrical gesture. “So . . . you want to know who I am!” the voice roared. “Are you sure you want to know? I am the most powerful being in all creation! I am the epilogue of mankind! When the universe comes to an end, only I will remain . . . presiding over all your accursed graves. My name is Marcus Rhys, and I am the God of Chaos!”

And he began to tell his story.





32


HOWEVER, DEAR READER, UNLIKE THE Wellses, you already know Rhys’s story, and so in the meantime I will take the opportunity to scan the board in search of one of the other pieces in this game. What would you say if we jumped forward to dawn and took a look at Doyle, whose carriage has just this minute dropped him off outside Murray’s London town house? Despite the early hour, Doyle already has his habitual air of contained energy, like a cup of coffee about to spill over. After taking a few deep breaths to allow the cold morning air to purify his lungs, he stepped through the ornate entrance gates. But he had scarcely taken a few steps when something made him come to an abrupt halt. He glanced uneasily down the drive leading to the house, as though unable to believe his own eyes. Yet they weren’t mistaken: hanging from the branches of every tree bordering the path were hundreds of mirrors of all shapes and sizes, swaying in the breeze like a new species of fruit, stretching the boundaries of the world they reflected and creating fresh, dizzying perspectives. Doyle stood for several minutes, shaking his head in disbelief, before heaving a sigh and carrying on walking. So that was how Murray intended to find the Emma that existed on the other side of the looking glass. And it also explained why he hadn’t attended the meeting with Inspector Clayton or returned any of Doyle’s calls . . . How could he, if since their return from Brook Manor he had been trawling through all the stores and antique emporiums in London in search of that colorful assortment of mirrors. And that wasn’t all. He had ordered his army of servants to keep watch over them, too, as Doyle discovered when he saw the maids, footmen, and other domestic staff dotted along the drive, sitting on chairs in front of their assigned trees, each holding a bell in his or her hand. No doubt they had been ordered to ring if Emma Harlow, their master’s hapless fiancée, appeared before them in defiance of every law of physics. It was no surprise that their expressions alternated between bewilderment, tedium, and even superstitious fear. Unsure whether to be amazed or alarmed at this foolishness, Doyle continued down the path, his burly frame reflected from every conceivable angle.

When he reached the house, he discovered that the front was also plastered with mirrors, glittering in the sun like the scales of some enormous dragon. The front door was wide-open, so he walked in without ringing the bell. Doyle wandered round the hallway and the spacious main reception room, which were also infested with mirrors, calling out to Murray in his booming ogre’s voice. In one of the rooms, he came across Murray’s dog, Buzz, sitting very still in front of a huge mirror leaning against the wall, as if he, too, were convinced that sooner or later his mistress would appear there. Doyle snorted. This was ludicrous. He patted the dog’s head resignedly.

“Mr. Doyle, we weren’t expecting you today!” a voice behind him rang out.

Doyle wheeled round to find Elmer, Murray’s valet.

“Well, in fact, we weren’t expecting anyone,” the young man added with a shrug, as though apologizing for having been unable to stop the house from being turned into a fairground attraction. Elmer was accustomed to his master’s eccentricities, but this was beyond even him.

“Yes, I see, Elmer,” Doyle said, sympathizing. “Where is he?”

“In the garden next to the conservatory, sir.”

Doyle left the sitting room almost at a march, determined to put a stop to this madness. The gardens to the right of the house were also overrun with looking glasses. Leaning against fountains, tied to hedgerows, and even floating in ponds, hundreds of them reproduced the world around them, amplifying it and endowing it with secret corners. The leaves were beginning to turn, and the fiery red of autumn multiplied by the mirrors gave the impression that some lunatic had set the garden on fire. Doyle shook his head as he walked toward the conservatory, an impressive glass replica of the Taj Mahal. He spotted Murray standing in front of it in his shirtsleeves, busy arranging what looked like a Stonehenge of mirrors around an armchair, from which he would be able to survey twenty at once simply by turning his head. At that moment, he was trying to prop up a gigantic Venetian mirror with the aid of several stones.