Read Online The Shadow in the North by Philip Pullman - Free Book Online
Authors: Philip Pullman
Tags: General, Historical, Action & Adventure, Juvenile Fiction, Europe, Mysteries & Detective Stories, Lockhart, Sally (Fictitious character)
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in her lap. As Charles had said, she
was beautiful—though Frederick thought, as he felt the breath catch in his throat at his first glimpse of her, that beautiful wasn't quite the word. The girl was astound-ingly lovely, with a grace and shyness and delicate coral coloring that made him want to reach for his camera— except that nothing, surely, could catch the bloom on her cheeks or the nervous animal tension in the line of her neck and shoulders.
Well, perhaps Webster could. Or Charles.
But it must be a strange family, he thought, for the father and daughter to share this controlled desperation. Lady Wytham, too, had a haunted air: she was handsome rather than beautiful like her daughter, but her eyes were dark and preoccupied in the same tragic way.
"Tell me about Wytham," he said to Charles.
"Well, now: seventh earl, seat on the Scottish borders somewhere. President of the Board of Trade—at least he was, but I gather Disraeli s moved him out of the Cabinet. Lady Marys his only child; don't know much about her people. In fact, that's about all I do know. He's not the only politician here—^look, there's Hart-ington as well..."
Charles mentioned half a dozen other names, any of which, Frederick supposed, could have belonged to Mackinnon's pursuer. But he found his eyes drawn back again and again to the slim, still figure of Lady Mary Wytham on the sofa by the fire in her white evening dress.
They had time for another glass of champagne, and then the main entertainment was announced. The double doors into the ballroom were thrown open to reveal a wide curve of chairs, several deep, which had been laid out facing a little stage. A velvet curtain was hung across the back of it, and the front was lined with ferns and little palms.
The orchestra had gone, but a pianist was waiting by the instrument that stood below the stage. The audience took five minutes or so to settle themselves; Frederick made sure that he and Charles were sitting close enough to the stage for Mackinnon to see them clearly, and with a clear run to the door if they should need it. He explained this to Charles, who laughed.
"You're making it sound like one of Jim's yarns," he said. "We'll have Spring-Heeled Jack leaping in next, or Deadwood Dick holding us all up and demanding our money. What are you actually expecting?"
"I haven't the faintest idea," said Frederick. "Nor's Mackinnon, and that's half the problem. Look—there's our hostess."
Lady Harborough, assured by her staff that all the guests were ready, was on the platform, making a short speech in which she described the valuable work her hospital fund was doing. It seemed to consist largely of rescuing unmarried mothers from poverty and subjecting them to slavery instead, with the additional disadvantage of being preached at daily by evangelical clergymen.
However, the speech didn't last long. Lady Harbor-ough was helped down from the stage; the pianist took his place, unfolded his music, and played a sinister series of arpeggios in the bass; and then the curtain was drawn aside, and Mackinnon appeared.
He was transformed. Jim had described it, but Frederick hadnt really believed him; now he blinked in amazement to see the furtive, shadowy figure he knew become so dominating and powerfijl. He was wearing his chalk-white makeup—bizarre at first sight, but in fact a brilliant stroke, because it allowed him to be at various times sinister and comic and appealing—a skull, or a clown, or a Pierrot.
And his appearance was an important part of the total effect. He didn't just perform tricks: he turned flowers into goldfish bowls, plucked cards from the empty air, and made solid silver candlesticks disappear just as ordinary magicians did. But the tricks weren't the end of his performance—they were the means. The end was the creation of a world. It was a world in which nothing was fixed, everything was changeable; in which identities merged and dissolved, qualities such as hard
was beautiful—though Frederick thought, as he felt the breath catch in his throat at his first glimpse of her, that beautiful wasn't quite the word. The girl was astound-ingly lovely, with a grace and shyness and delicate coral coloring that made him want to reach for his camera— except that nothing, surely, could catch the bloom on her cheeks or the nervous animal tension in the line of her neck and shoulders.
Well, perhaps Webster could. Or Charles.
But it must be a strange family, he thought, for the father and daughter to share this controlled desperation. Lady Wytham, too, had a haunted air: she was handsome rather than beautiful like her daughter, but her eyes were dark and preoccupied in the same tragic way.
"Tell me about Wytham," he said to Charles.
"Well, now: seventh earl, seat on the Scottish borders somewhere. President of the Board of Trade—at least he was, but I gather Disraeli s moved him out of the Cabinet. Lady Marys his only child; don't know much about her people. In fact, that's about all I do know. He's not the only politician here—^look, there's Hart-ington as well..."
Charles mentioned half a dozen other names, any of which, Frederick supposed, could have belonged to Mackinnon's pursuer. But he found his eyes drawn back again and again to the slim, still figure of Lady Mary Wytham on the sofa by the fire in her white evening dress.
They had time for another glass of champagne, and then the main entertainment was announced. The double doors into the ballroom were thrown open to reveal a wide curve of chairs, several deep, which had been laid out facing a little stage. A velvet curtain was hung across the back of it, and the front was lined with ferns and little palms.
The orchestra had gone, but a pianist was waiting by the instrument that stood below the stage. The audience took five minutes or so to settle themselves; Frederick made sure that he and Charles were sitting close enough to the stage for Mackinnon to see them clearly, and with a clear run to the door if they should need it. He explained this to Charles, who laughed.
"You're making it sound like one of Jim's yarns," he said. "We'll have Spring-Heeled Jack leaping in next, or Deadwood Dick holding us all up and demanding our money. What are you actually expecting?"
"I haven't the faintest idea," said Frederick. "Nor's Mackinnon, and that's half the problem. Look—there's our hostess."
Lady Harborough, assured by her staff that all the guests were ready, was on the platform, making a short speech in which she described the valuable work her hospital fund was doing. It seemed to consist largely of rescuing unmarried mothers from poverty and subjecting them to slavery instead, with the additional disadvantage of being preached at daily by evangelical clergymen.
However, the speech didn't last long. Lady Harbor-ough was helped down from the stage; the pianist took his place, unfolded his music, and played a sinister series of arpeggios in the bass; and then the curtain was drawn aside, and Mackinnon appeared.
He was transformed. Jim had described it, but Frederick hadnt really believed him; now he blinked in amazement to see the furtive, shadowy figure he knew become so dominating and powerfijl. He was wearing his chalk-white makeup—bizarre at first sight, but in fact a brilliant stroke, because it allowed him to be at various times sinister and comic and appealing—a skull, or a clown, or a Pierrot.
And his appearance was an important part of the total effect. He didn't just perform tricks: he turned flowers into goldfish bowls, plucked cards from the empty air, and made solid silver candlesticks disappear just as ordinary magicians did. But the tricks weren't the end of his performance—they were the means. The end was the creation of a world. It was a world in which nothing was fixed, everything was changeable; in which identities merged and dissolved, qualities such as hard
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