Read Online The Shadow in the North by Philip Pullman - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Philip Pullman
Tags: General, Historical, Action & Adventure, Juvenile Fiction, Europe, Mysteries & Detective Stories, Lockhart, Sally (Fictitious character)
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and soft and up and down and sorrow and joy changed into their opposites in the twinkling of an eye and became meaningless; and in which the only reliable guide was suspicion, the only constant theme mistrust.
It was a world, thought Frederick, that was more than a little devilish. For there was no delight in Mac-kinnon's performance, no sense of innocent play. He
scorned the thought as he felt it—^was he getting superstitious now?—but there it was: Mackinnon had summoned up shadows, even if one could laugh at them in the light.
Then came a trick in which Mackinnon needed to borrow a watch from someone in the audience. As he announced this, he looked direcdy at Frederick, and his dark eyes flashed; and Frederick, understanding at once, unhooked his own watch chain from his waistcoat and held it up. Half a dozen other hands were up, but Mackinnon leaped down gracefully and was at Frederick's side in a moment.
"Thank you, sir," he said loudly. "Here's a gentleman with faith in the benevolence of the world of wonders! Does he know what terrible transformations will befall his timepiece? No! Will it come back to him as a chrysanthemum, perhaps? Or as a kippered herring? Or as a pile of tangled springs and cogs? Stranger things have happened!" And then, almost before Frederick was aware of it, he heard a whisper: "Beside the door. Just come in."
A moment later Mackinnon was on the stage again, wrapping the watch up in the folds of a silk handkerchief with many flourishes and declamations. Did Frederick imagine it, or was there a hysterical edge to Mackinnon's voice now? He seemed to be speaking more quickly, his gestures seemed more exaggerated, less controlled. ... As soon as he could manage it, Frederick turned around unobtrusively to look where Mackinnon had indicated.
On the chair nearest to the double doors sat a large, powerfully built man with smooth blond hair. He was watching the stage with impassive, wide-set eyes; one arm lay along the back of the empty chair next to him, and his whole aspect was one of watchfulness and command. Despite his faultless evening dress there was something brutal about him. No, thought Frederick, not brutal, because that meant animal; and this man was mechanical.
Now why did he think that?
He found himself staring and turned back to the stage. Mackinnon was completing some intricate piece of business with the watch, but his mind wasn't on it. Frederick saw his hand shake as he passed the handkerchief to and fro over the litde table he was working on, and saw, too, that his eyes kept flicking up to look at the man by the door.
Frederick turned himself sideways in the chair, crossing his legs, as if he were looking for a more comfortable position. He could just keep Mackinnon and the man by the door in his field of vision, and as he watched, the blond man beckoned with a discreet finger to a servant. The footman bent to listen, and the visitor looked up at Mackinnon again and seemed to be saying something about him—or asking—at any rate. Frederick saw that Mackinnon had seen it, saw the servant nod and leave the room, and saw Mackinnon falter. Now there were only three people in the whole ballroom who mattered, it seemed: the blond man, and
Mackinnon, and Frederick watching their strange duel of wills.
But the audience was aware now that something was wrong. Mackinnons patter had dried, the handkerchief hung loosely in his hand, and his face looked ghasdy; and then he dropped the handkerchief altogether and staggered backward.
The music stopped. The pianist looked up hesitantly. Mackinnon stood clutching the curtain in the electric silence and managed to say:
"Beg pardon—indisposed—must leave the stage—"
And then he twitched the curtain aside and vanished behind it.
The audience was too well bred to react with excitement, but there was certainly a stir of comment. The pianist, using his initiative, began to play some bland waltz or other, and Lady Harborough got
It was a world, thought Frederick, that was more than a little devilish. For there was no delight in Mac-kinnon's performance, no sense of innocent play. He
scorned the thought as he felt it—^was he getting superstitious now?—but there it was: Mackinnon had summoned up shadows, even if one could laugh at them in the light.
Then came a trick in which Mackinnon needed to borrow a watch from someone in the audience. As he announced this, he looked direcdy at Frederick, and his dark eyes flashed; and Frederick, understanding at once, unhooked his own watch chain from his waistcoat and held it up. Half a dozen other hands were up, but Mackinnon leaped down gracefully and was at Frederick's side in a moment.
"Thank you, sir," he said loudly. "Here's a gentleman with faith in the benevolence of the world of wonders! Does he know what terrible transformations will befall his timepiece? No! Will it come back to him as a chrysanthemum, perhaps? Or as a kippered herring? Or as a pile of tangled springs and cogs? Stranger things have happened!" And then, almost before Frederick was aware of it, he heard a whisper: "Beside the door. Just come in."
A moment later Mackinnon was on the stage again, wrapping the watch up in the folds of a silk handkerchief with many flourishes and declamations. Did Frederick imagine it, or was there a hysterical edge to Mackinnon's voice now? He seemed to be speaking more quickly, his gestures seemed more exaggerated, less controlled. ... As soon as he could manage it, Frederick turned around unobtrusively to look where Mackinnon had indicated.
On the chair nearest to the double doors sat a large, powerfully built man with smooth blond hair. He was watching the stage with impassive, wide-set eyes; one arm lay along the back of the empty chair next to him, and his whole aspect was one of watchfulness and command. Despite his faultless evening dress there was something brutal about him. No, thought Frederick, not brutal, because that meant animal; and this man was mechanical.
Now why did he think that?
He found himself staring and turned back to the stage. Mackinnon was completing some intricate piece of business with the watch, but his mind wasn't on it. Frederick saw his hand shake as he passed the handkerchief to and fro over the litde table he was working on, and saw, too, that his eyes kept flicking up to look at the man by the door.
Frederick turned himself sideways in the chair, crossing his legs, as if he were looking for a more comfortable position. He could just keep Mackinnon and the man by the door in his field of vision, and as he watched, the blond man beckoned with a discreet finger to a servant. The footman bent to listen, and the visitor looked up at Mackinnon again and seemed to be saying something about him—or asking—at any rate. Frederick saw that Mackinnon had seen it, saw the servant nod and leave the room, and saw Mackinnon falter. Now there were only three people in the whole ballroom who mattered, it seemed: the blond man, and
Mackinnon, and Frederick watching their strange duel of wills.
But the audience was aware now that something was wrong. Mackinnons patter had dried, the handkerchief hung loosely in his hand, and his face looked ghasdy; and then he dropped the handkerchief altogether and staggered backward.
The music stopped. The pianist looked up hesitantly. Mackinnon stood clutching the curtain in the electric silence and managed to say:
"Beg pardon—indisposed—must leave the stage—"
And then he twitched the curtain aside and vanished behind it.
The audience was too well bred to react with excitement, but there was certainly a stir of comment. The pianist, using his initiative, began to play some bland waltz or other, and Lady Harborough got
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