Free Obsidian Mirror by Catherine Fisher Page B

appear. A few words, emerging slowly, as if they struggled through some immeasurable distance. Cold with concentration and a growing horror, she watched them form.
    YOUR FRIENDS ARE DEAD, SARAH. NO ONE IS LEFT. NO ONE HEARS YOU BUT ME. WE CAN CONVERSE NOW. YOU AND ME. SARAH AND JANUS. YOUR LORD. YOUR MASTER.
    Terrified, she slammed the book shut and stared at its cover, her heart thudding. For a long momentshe sat there, fighting against fear and despair. Was it true? Were they all gone? If so, it was all up to her.
    She jumped up, crammed the pen and book back into the secret space under the floorboard, and raced downstairs.
    Piers, wearing an apron with a huge red sauce bottle on it, was peeling potatoes at the kitchen sink.
    “Sarah, good,” he said at once. “Venn wants you to be there tonight. The Monk’s Walk, at eight o’clock.”
    Her heart missed a beat. “Already?”
    “He’s desperate to get the thing working again.”
    She began to wipe the dishes and put them away. There was so much to ask, but she had to be careful. “The thing?”
    Piers grinned. “You’d never make an interrogator, Sarah. If you want to know details, speak to Venn. But he’s heading out again, so you’ll have to wait.”
    “I thought he never left the estate.”
    “Maybe the estate is bigger than you think. Maybe it contains the whole universe.” He tossed a peeled potato into a saucepan with perfect accuracy.
    Calm, she said, “I’m really sorry, but I’m afraid a mirror got broken this morning. Up in the Long Gallery.”
    He turned and looked at her.
    “Jake…slipped against it. It cracked.”
    “Thirteen years bad luck.” He looked utterly dismayed.
    “Yes. It’s a pity. Especially as there aren’t any mirrors anywhere else.”
    Now she felt better because he was the one wanting to ask the questions. He said gloomily, “Damn. Damn damn damn. I was supposed to get rid of them all. If Venn finds out he’ll hurl me halfway around the world….”
    “He won’t. Not from me.” She sat. “Jake said he saw his father’s reflection in it. I think he’s a bit obsessed with his father, don’t you?”
    Piers still seemed worried about punishment. So she said, “Who’s the scarred man?”
    “What?”
    “The scarred man. Something Venn said.”
    But he was too quick for her; already he was slicing another potato and flicking it into the pot.
    “Absolutely no idea,” he said, grinning.
    Annoyed at the lie, she got up and stalked to the door. “Suit yourself.”
    But walking down the corridor, she thought fast. Let herself smile. She’d never have a better chance than now to get at the box.
    The small study on the ground floor was empty. She stood inside, listening to the silence. The sun slanted in, a faint wintry glimmer from the window she had climbed through yesterday.
    The room smelled of ashes, and the grate held the gray, flaked remains of burned logs.
    She closed the door and locked herself in. Then she crossed to the bureau, opened the small cupboard, and felt through the papers and files until she found the box.
    She pulled it out. The initials JHS gleamed in the sunlight. She took it to the window seat and perched on the faded red upholstery. Then she opened the box and carefully took out the journal.
    It was a small fat notebook, much worn. The covers were black cloth, stained with greasy finger marks. It had clearly once been badly damaged by fire—the edges of later pages were crisped brown and in places whole chunks were burned away.
    She opened it. The handwriting was spiky and formal in flowing brown ink. It was difficult to read at first, until her eyes got used to it. Venn must have made a transcript long ago. But she didn’t have time to find that—she’d have to do her best with this.
    It was amazing to be holding it here, in her hands.
    She read the first page.
    June 24, 1846
    My name is John Harcourt Symmes. On this day I begin my book of the Chronoptika.
    The details of all the