The Map of the Sky (Trilogía Victoriana #2)(118)
“Oh please do,” replied the girl. “That way, if a Martian leaps unexpectedly out of my trunk, you can rush in and hurl us both out of the window.”
“I’d never do such a thing, miss. Perhaps to Wells or the inspector, but not to you.”
The millionaire’s reply scarcely reached Wells’s and the inspector’s ears, coming as it did after a series of loud creaks on the stairs. Clayton clapped Wells so hard on the back that he gave a start.
“Good! Now help me find something to write with, Mr. Wells,” the inspector ordered, pulling open drawers and rummaging around as though he were intending to steal the old woman’s jewelry. “Let’s use the time to work out the safest route from here to where we want to go. We’ll try to anticipate the path the tripods will take, even if we have to do so following the logic of Earthlings’ military advances. We’ll take the alleyways and backstreets leading away from the line of—Hells bells! Doesn’t anyone in this house use a pen? Perhaps in the library . . . Incidentally, Mr. Wells, are you familiar with this area?”
“Do I look like a cabby?” said Wells, visibly irritated, as he walked over to an elegant escritoire in a corner of the drawing room, where of course he found what he was looking for. “Here’s your ink and paper, Inspector. There’s no need to dig holes in the walls or lift up the flooring.”
“Good, there, that’s something,” Clayton replied, snatching them from Wells. He walked toward the table in the center of the room and without a second thought swept a pair of candlesticks from it with his arm. “However, since neither of us is familiar with the area, we’ll have to draw the route from memory. Let’s see, if the cathedral is here and Waterloo Bridge is over there . . .”
“Clayton,” Wells interrupted solemnly. “You don’t believe we’re going to get out of this alive, do you?”
The inspector looked at him in astonishment.
“What makes you think that? I’m sure that with a little luck . . .”
“You can’t fool me, Inspector. I saw the face you made when Murray told Miss Harlow he would take her back to New York safe and sound.”
“Don’t be mistaken, my friend.” Clayton smiled. “I wasn’t expressing disbelief at the possibility of getting out of London alive, but rather at the probability that New York is still a safe place to go.”
For a moment, Wells looked at him, demoralized.
“Do you mean to say . . . Good God . . . The Martians might be invading New York . . . and perhaps other cities, too?”
“It’s a possibility,” replied Clayton, turning his attention to the sheet of paper on the table, flattened beneath his battered prosthesis. “And as such, we ought to take it into consideration . . . No, the bridge is farther up . . .”
“But, in that case . . . ,” Wells murmured, ignoring the inspector’s lack of interest in the conversation, for he had to express this horror in words. “If the whole planet is being invaded, what is the use of fleeing?”
Clayton looked up from the sheet of paper. He gazed intently at Wells, his narrow eyes glinting.
“Staying alive for a single second is worthwhile, Mr. Wells. And each second we stay alive multiplies our chances of surviving the next one. I suggest you think of nothing else,” he said gravely, and then focused once more on his map. “Now, where’s Waterloo Bridge?”
? ? ?
WHILE MURRAY STOOD GUARD outside the door, Emma began changing out of her clothes. Exasperated at the difficulty of undoing all the fastenings of her dress without a maid, she took a small pair of silver scissors and simply cut the dress open, then tossed it under the bed. She slipped into her riding outfit, a Parisian ensemble consisting of a lightweight jacket, a pair of culottes, and a pale green belt. She tied her hair back in a low bun and, with the air of a delicate youth, gazed at herself in the mirror, unable to help wondering what Murray would think of her in that apparel. She was about to leave the room when something poking out of one of her trunks caught her eye.
She recognized it immediately, yet hesitated for a moment, her hand on the door, before flinging herself at the trunk and seizing the object, as if she feared it might dissolve in the air. Still kneeling on the floor, she clasped it to her for a few moments before untying the red ribbon around it and carefully unrolling it. The Map of the Sky, which her great-grandfather had drawn for his daughter Eleanor, opened out effortlessly, with a melodious crackle, like a fire in the hearth. Apparently it did not resent her having locked it away for so many years. Emma recalled the moment, seemingly ages ago, when she had decided to take it with her on her trip to London to see her aged aunt. What use could she possibly have had for it on such a voyage, the sole purpose of which was to humiliate the most insufferable of men? Yet now she was glad she had brought it with her, to be able to admire it once more, for perhaps the last time.
Spreading it out on the floor, Emma ran her hand over the familiar picture, just as she had done when she was a child. Her fingers moved fleetingly over the dark blue sky, a gigantic nebula, a cluster of stars, and several balloons filled with passengers before coming to rest at one corner of the map. There, funny little men with pointed ears and forked tails were flying through space astride a flock of orange herons, heading for the edge of the drawing, beyond which their home undoubtedly lay. Their home . . . Emma remained kneeling like that, motionless. She wanted to roll up the map, to stand up, but something forced her to remain there hovering in time. And then, very slowly, a heavy sorrow began to well up inside her. With great intakes of breath she attempted to swallow all the pain floating in the air around her, all the frustration, fear, and futility of life. When she thought she would burst from sorrow and despair, her body began shaking, and a wave of inconsolable sobs rose from her throat, carrying her far from there, tearing her away from herself.