Page 11 of The Affair of the Mysterious Letter
A gunshot shattered the haze of whispers. And, suddenly, there was space around me. The Witch King shook off his chains, the spears melting like mist from his flesh, a smoking pistol in his free hand.
Latimer stared up at him. “You are not welcome here.”
“I’m not really welcome anywhere.” I’d never heard the Witch King speak, but I was relatively certain he did not speak like that. “But don’t worry, I’m not staying long.”
My child self drifted forward, the long plaits I remembered infuriating me sliding from beneath the bonnet about which I recalled similar feelings. “You came to our realm. You are ours now.”
“Not this one.” My father caught my young likeness by the arm. “She’s too much bother.”
“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said about me all day.” The Witch King’s image blurred and when my eyes cleared, Ms. Haas, still resplendent in burgundy and still very much armed, stood in his place. “Now do step away from my companion or I shall be forced to speak the Nine Lies and Five Truths that bind the Dreaming God in the Cyst of Unyielding Recollection.”
“She’s bluffing,” said my mother.
“You wouldn’t dare,” said my father.
Ms. Haas raised a single finger. “That those things which are lost may someday be regained.” She put up a second. “That a lover’s face is a mask of peeling wax.”
The ground shook beneath our feet.
And Ms. Haas’s third finger joined its fellows. “That this world is real.”
The sky began to fall. I appreciate that this phenomenon may prove difficult for some readers to visualise, but I fear that, since I mean it literally, it is hard for me to explain it in any other terms. Flakes of what I can only call firmament descended from above and settled upon the crowd like pieces of blue-tinged, star-dusted eggshell. It was oddly beautiful in the way that only ruination can be.
“That,” continued Ms. Haas, “the Sleeper may dream without knowing and may wake without—”
“Stop.” The cry was a cacophony of many voices.
Latimer shoved me roughly in Ms. Haas’s direction. “Take him and go and do not return.”
“You really think I care about your pissant little subreality?” She caught me by the hand. “Come, Wyndham. We’re done here.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Katrina de la Martynière
Our exit fromthe Mocking Realm was as abrupt as my entrance had been. We returned, however, not to the castle of the Mad Duke Orsino, nor to the peculiar staging area to which Miss de la Martynière had led me, but to a thoroughly dingy room of quite ordinary proportions. I presumed that this was the physical building housing the liminal space between worlds wherein du Maurier and his company gave their performances. We were, for the moment, alone. And for that I was thankful.
Ms. Haas gave a heavy sigh. “Honestly, Captain. There were three rules. I’m beginning to think I can’t take you anywhere.”
“In my defence, I believe I was deliberately deceived into meeting the gaze of my reflection by a thoroughly dishonourable actress.”
“Acting is a dishonourable profession. Then again, honour is overrated. And if you tried to ——” And here again I shall not repeat her language. “... the bride of the Mad Duke Orsino during a production ofThe Most Lamentable and Bloody Tragedy of the Last Wife of the Mad Duke Orsinoyou really have nobody to blame but yourself.”
I can honestly say I was quite taken aback by so outrageous a suggestion. “Madam, I made no such attempt. The young lady told me that she was being held against her will and I made an effort to rescue her. That is all.”
“My dear man.” And here Ms. Haas paused to laugh heartily but not wholly unkindly. “Frankly, that is even worse. A little piece of advice for your future life. If you are ever told something by a professional liar in a place built of lies and overseen by supernatural beings that have the concept of falsehood built into their name and whose very breath is deception:don’t believe it.”
“I have no doubt you think me very foolish. But I shall always offer aid to those who may need it, and on this principle, I shall not compromise.”
Ms. Haas put one hand to her face and the other upon my shoulder. “You are going to get so utterly killed.”
It is, of course, true that my life was endangered many, many times during my long acquaintance with the sorceress Shaharazad Haas, although, despite her chiding me often for my naive altruism, she was usually there to extricate me from any predicament in which I might find myself. Indeed, it is somewhat ironic that, as I write this, I have almost certainly outlived her.
At this juncture, we were interrupted by the sudden arrival of Miss de la Martynière. Judging from her demeanour and language she was most upset at my survival and possessed, in truth, little of the modesty she had counterfeited during our earlier meeting. Indeed, her speech was so colourful that I have found it difficult to reproduce without including at least allusion to the various oaths and curses she scattered so liberally throughout her discourse. I have done my best to conceal the substance of the offending terms from my audience while preserving the clarity and character of the lady’s speech. If you are easily shocked you may wish to turn to the end of this segment.
“Who the —— are you? And what the —— do you think you’re doing? Have you any idea of the —— you’ve caused and what a ——ing mess I’m in now?”
“Perhaps,” I offered, “you should have considered that eventuality before throwing in your lot with a pack of face-stealing demons.”
