be alive. I looked into the growing dark and saw a terrible shadow thing, all naked, clammy and cold pressing down on my chest, heavy with wickedness. Then it seemed that it had a very ugly face which peered down into my eyes intently and also long, bony fingers which were very ugly. Even though it was only a vision from fever it seemed very real, and it had greedy little red eyes as if it wanted something I didn’t want to give it.
Silently, in my mind, with all the strength my soul owned, I cried out,
Help me
. My eyes seemed to see things all blurry. Through the headache, I could hear the blood in my ears, and a curious rustling sound. There was a flash of light like the glint on armor. Something strong and fierce had come into the room. The shadow thing boiled ragefully above me at it, and I swear I could see the bed curtains, which were pulled back, sway and blow with the hidden tempest. I felt mortally tired, and as my eyes closed to welcome death, something said,
We’re here
. No, you’re not, I answered in my mind. Nobody’s left here but me and Nan and black, shrouded death. Nobody.
“It is here, my lords.” The goldsmith had sent away his apprentices for the day, and his furnace was cold. Rain battered against his closed shutters and trickled through a leak in the ceiling of his workshop. It landed with a melancholy drop, drop, drop sound in a puddle on the dirt floor. The Lombard looked about him with a sniff, taking in the shabbiness, the stiff, old-fashioned models on the workshop table, the calipers and molds hung on the walls. How backward, how primitive these English artisans were. In Italy, this man would never be admitted to a mastership. With a flourish, Master Jonas unveiled a cloth-wrapped bundle in the center of the worktable. Brassy and glittering, it looked very like a large, flattened goblet on a footed stand. Strange characters were carved about the rim, and the stand, at the inspiration of the goldsmith, had been decorated with a pair of shapeless, bloated salamanders.
“Ah,” exclaimed the Lombard, impressed by the glossy shine of the thing.
“Have you looked in it?” asked Crouch, his eyes narrowed with suspicion.
“Well, only to burnish it. But I did it in secret. No one else in the household has seen it.”
“And just what did you see?” asked Crouch, and the oozing tone of his voice set the goldsmith’s heart suddenly beating hard.
“Why, just my own face. What else is there to see?” The Lombard looked suddenly at Crouch, his heart alert as he scented treachery.
“Ah, the words. One must know the words,” said Crouch, his voice reassuring. Taking off his gloves, he passed his hands over the flat surface of the remade Mirror of Diocletian.
“Tapas, menahim, orglolas…”
He leaned over the worktable and peered into the mirror. “My face?” he said softly to himself. “What is this?” With a ferocious look he turned on the goldsmith. “Did you hold back gold?”
“S-steal your gold? Never, my lord. You yourself saw me weigh it and cast it into the crucible.”
“The virgin’s blood?” said the Lombard, in his heavy accent, looking at Crouch.
“I assure you, it could have been no other. It was the blood of an eight-year-old girl.” The goldsmith’s voice broke into the furious recriminations.
“Look, my lords, something moves on the surface.” Three velvet-capped heads pressed around the mirror.
“Ah, I was right. He has it,” whispered Crouch, as he saw his own worst fear reflected up at him in the magic mirror. “Ludlow, the traitor. He’s bought the manuscript from the widow.”
But the Lombard’s companion saw an entirely different scene moving in the shining yellow metal. As his secret thoughts revealed themselves in the reflection, he shouted, “The whore! With my confessor! And with my own wine!” He tore his gaze from the mirror. “I always knew that wife of mine was no good.” He stood up suddenly and put his hand to his sword
Silently, in my mind, with all the strength my soul owned, I cried out,
Help me
. My eyes seemed to see things all blurry. Through the headache, I could hear the blood in my ears, and a curious rustling sound. There was a flash of light like the glint on armor. Something strong and fierce had come into the room. The shadow thing boiled ragefully above me at it, and I swear I could see the bed curtains, which were pulled back, sway and blow with the hidden tempest. I felt mortally tired, and as my eyes closed to welcome death, something said,
We’re here
. No, you’re not, I answered in my mind. Nobody’s left here but me and Nan and black, shrouded death. Nobody.
“It is here, my lords.” The goldsmith had sent away his apprentices for the day, and his furnace was cold. Rain battered against his closed shutters and trickled through a leak in the ceiling of his workshop. It landed with a melancholy drop, drop, drop sound in a puddle on the dirt floor. The Lombard looked about him with a sniff, taking in the shabbiness, the stiff, old-fashioned models on the workshop table, the calipers and molds hung on the walls. How backward, how primitive these English artisans were. In Italy, this man would never be admitted to a mastership. With a flourish, Master Jonas unveiled a cloth-wrapped bundle in the center of the worktable. Brassy and glittering, it looked very like a large, flattened goblet on a footed stand. Strange characters were carved about the rim, and the stand, at the inspiration of the goldsmith, had been decorated with a pair of shapeless, bloated salamanders.
“Ah,” exclaimed the Lombard, impressed by the glossy shine of the thing.
“Have you looked in it?” asked Crouch, his eyes narrowed with suspicion.
“Well, only to burnish it. But I did it in secret. No one else in the household has seen it.”
“And just what did you see?” asked Crouch, and the oozing tone of his voice set the goldsmith’s heart suddenly beating hard.
“Why, just my own face. What else is there to see?” The Lombard looked suddenly at Crouch, his heart alert as he scented treachery.
“Ah, the words. One must know the words,” said Crouch, his voice reassuring. Taking off his gloves, he passed his hands over the flat surface of the remade Mirror of Diocletian.
“Tapas, menahim, orglolas…”
He leaned over the worktable and peered into the mirror. “My face?” he said softly to himself. “What is this?” With a ferocious look he turned on the goldsmith. “Did you hold back gold?”
“S-steal your gold? Never, my lord. You yourself saw me weigh it and cast it into the crucible.”
“The virgin’s blood?” said the Lombard, in his heavy accent, looking at Crouch.
“I assure you, it could have been no other. It was the blood of an eight-year-old girl.” The goldsmith’s voice broke into the furious recriminations.
“Look, my lords, something moves on the surface.” Three velvet-capped heads pressed around the mirror.
“Ah, I was right. He has it,” whispered Crouch, as he saw his own worst fear reflected up at him in the magic mirror. “Ludlow, the traitor. He’s bought the manuscript from the widow.”
But the Lombard’s companion saw an entirely different scene moving in the shining yellow metal. As his secret thoughts revealed themselves in the reflection, he shouted, “The whore! With my confessor! And with my own wine!” He tore his gaze from the mirror. “I always knew that wife of mine was no good.” He stood up suddenly and put his hand to his sword
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