The echoes of the bell faded. The devastated village stood silent and still under a feathering of falling snow.
Meanwhile, in a moonlit attic filled with a variety of clocks, no two of which told a common time, so that the air was thronged with a quarrelsome murmur of ticking and tocking, a peal of bells began to ring. Every clock able to announce the hour in some fashion or other did so now, as if, despite the discordant times displayed upon their faces, they had come to an inner agreement … or were reacting to a common
stimulus
, like a London crowd that in one instant fuses its separate members into a single organism able to cry out with one voice at the passage of a king or the hanging of a highwayman.
As abruptly as they had rung out, the clocks quieted. Silence reigned in the attic. Even the sounds of ticking had ceased. The hands on every dial had stopped dead, pointing straight up at XII.
A whisper of air, like a sigh, as the casing of a tall clock swung open.
A groan, as a grey-clad figure slumped from within to the sawdust-covered attic floor. And began to crawl, ever so slowly, across it.
Leaving a bloody trail.
A second whisper, exactly like the first, as another casing opened in a clock that stood alongside the other.
A second grey-clad figure slumped groaning to the floor and began to crawl after the first.
‘Lord Wichcote,’ called this second figure. ‘Wait.’
At which the first figure halted and, with visible effort, using a nearby table for leverage, pulled itself erect and turned to face the other, a dagger in hand.
Which, too, had pulled itself erect by similar means. And held a rapier en garde.
The two stood in mutual trembling regard in a dim fall of moonlight that concealed more than it illuminated. Each might have been the reflection of the other. At their feet inky shadows spread.
‘What do you here?’ asked Lord Wichcote. ‘Have you not stolen enough from me already?’
‘We need not be enemies, you and I,’ the other said, and just then the room brightened, as if a mask of cloud had been pulled away from the face of the moon, revealing a young blonde-haired woman with skin like porcelain, her expression one of suffering stoically endured. Upon her shoulder, tucked against her neck, sat a mouse.
Lord Wichcote staggered back against the table. ‘Corinna?’
‘Her daughter,’ answered a dwindling voice, ‘and yours.’ The woman dwindled along with it, falling in a slow faint. The mouse had already vanished into the shadows by the time the rapier clattered to the floor. It rolled a half turn on the wheel of its guard, then lay as still as its owner.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Born in Zurich,
Paul Witcover
is a writer and critic. He is the author of the novels
Waking Beauty
,
Tumbling After
and
Dracula: Asylum
and with Elizabeth Hand, he created the cult comic book series,
Anima
. His short fiction has been collected in
Everland and Other Stories
. His work has been a finalist for the Nebula, World Fantasy, James Triptree, Jr. and Shirley Jackson awards. Paul lives in Brooklyn, New York, and is currently working on the sequel to
The Emperor of All Things
.
Also by Paul Witcover
WAKING BEAUTY
TUMBLING AFTER
DRACULA: ASYLUM
EVERLAND AND OTHER STORIES
TRANSWORLD PUBLISHERS
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THE EMPEROR OF ALL THINGS
A BANTAM PRESS BOOK: 9780593070703
Version 1.0 Epub ISBN 9781448152445
First published in Great Britain
in 2013 by Bantam Press
an imprint of Transworld Publishers
Copyright © Paul Witcover 2013
Paul Witcover has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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