The Map of Chaos (Trilogía Victoriana #3)(169)
“Then hear this: I love you and I will never stop loving you.”
She beamed with joy, choking back her tears as she placed her hands on the surface of the glass. Murray did the same, and the two lovers realized despairingly that they couldn’t touch each other this time either. They were close enough to embrace, and yet once more they were locked inside their separate prisons.
“I am so sorry about what happened,” she said in voice choked with tears. “If only I hadn’t insisted on driving, like a spoilt child . . . you would still be alive.”
Murray shook his head, unable to utter a word. Is that what Emma believed? That he was the spirit of a dead man with a penchant for appearing to her in mirrors? For an instant, he was tempted to tell her the truth, to explain that he was alive, even though he was a different Gilliam who had watched a different Emma die. But he thrust the idea aside. It would probably confuse her, and besides, there wasn’t time for lengthy explanations. If I hadn’t let you drive, he said to himself, smiling at her tenderly, it would have been you who died.
“Where are you?” he heard Emma ask.
Murray breathed a sigh.
“Worlds away,” he replied. “But I promise I will come for you. I will find a way to get to your world.”
“The whole world is nothing more than the precise length of each moment that separates us,” she whispered.
At that moment, Emma’s father approached the mirror.
“What’s going on, Montgomery? Can you help us?”
But before Murray could speak, the image began to fade. The figures of Emma and her father slowly dissolved, and a different image began to invade the mirror. It looked as though someone had set fire to the throne room of a castle. Murray and Doyle watched two empty thrones on a dais go up in flames as Emma became more and more nebulous.
“Emma!”
“Come for me!” she cried before her figure disappeared completely.
“I will, Emma! I promise!” cried Murray. “The word ‘impossible’ doesn’t exist in my vocabulary!”
But his voice was scarcely audible above the raging fire in the castle. Murray cursed, clenching his fists, ready to strike the mirror that was mocking him now, showing him some stupid castle in flames. But Doyle placed a hand on his shoulder.
“We must go, Gilliam.”
“Go? Where?” replied Murray, bewildered.
“Listen to me.” Doyle stood squarely in front of him and looked him in the eye. “If you want to see Emma again, you must trust me. We have to save the world! And I know where to find the key that will help us do so . . .”
“The key? But what the devil are you—”
Without letting him finish, Doyle grabbed hold of Murray’s arm and, dragging him from the mirror circle, ordered him to run to the house, breaking into a sprint himself. Murray snorted and followed after him. As they crossed the lawn, one by one the hundreds of mirrors Murray had installed there began to shatter as though bombarded by invisible projectiles, smashing to smithereens and filling the air with broken glass. Doyle and Murray shielded their heads with their arms just as a shower of splinters fell on them. When the din stopped, Doyle looked around for a way out that was free from mirrors, but Murray had covered every corner. They would have to chance it. He dragged Murray down a path bordered by hedges while the mirrors on either side continued to shatter at random.
“Damn and blast . . . ,” Murray cursed, stumbling behind Doyle.
Doyle tried to spur him on. “Come on, Gilliam, stop complaining. What are a few bits of broken glass compared to a burning house?”
They managed to escape relatively unharmed from the death trap the gardens had suddenly become. Despite having used their arms for protection, their faces were covered in tiny cuts. Reaching the side of the house, now lined with broken mirrors, they saw the servants fleeing down the driveway and scattering into the gardens on either side, alarmed by the exploding mirrors and the bizarre images they had seen in them. Just then Elmer, who was clearly overwhelmed by events, emerged from the house and spoke to Doyle.
“Mr. Doyle, sir, thank goodness I have found you! Your secretary called. Apparently the telephone was ringing for some time, but with all this racket going on no one took much notice of it. I offer you my sincerest apologies, sir, and furthermore . . .”
“Cut out the excuses and get to the point, Elmer!” interrupted Doyle. “What did he want? Are all the mirrors at Undershaw shattering, too?”
“Er, yes, sir . . . But he wanted you to know that, despite being anxious, your wife, children, and servants are safe and sound.”
“Thank God . . . ,” Doyle sighed.
“There is one other thing, sir,” said Elmer. “It seems the kettle in your study started whistling shortly after you left and hasn’t stopped since. Your secretary can’t seem to make it stop and has asked for permission to silence it with a hammer, sir.”
“Curses!” Doyle exclaimed, visibly upset. “My kettle . . . Why does everything have to happen on the same day? Who the devil wrote this infernal script!”
Far from taking that remark personally, dear reader, I shall continue telling my story. Murray looked at him in astonishment:
“What the devil does a blasted kettle matter with all this going on!” he protested.
Ignoring Murray, Doyle commanded: “Elmer, call Miss Leckie. Tell her not to leave the house and not to worry; I will get to the bottom of this!” Then he seized Murray’s arm once more and dragged him toward the drive. “Come on, my carriage is waiting outside! We might still be in time . . .”