‘Washed between the ears? That doesn’t sound good,’ replied Leaf as they shook hands.
‘It isn’t. It’s strange, now I think about it. I mean, the Border Sea is all messed up, what with Wednesday turning into a great big fish and all, but the washing between the ears is still regular. Someone always turns up to do it, every couple of decades. Never thought about that before. Can’t see why anyone would bother. We’re just the Piper’s brats, after all.’
‘I’ll have to ask Arthur,’ said Leaf. ‘I want to know why the Piper brought you all here in the first place too. And the Raised Rats.’
Albert shrugged.
‘Never thought about it all myself. Too much to do. Speaking of which, we’d better get back topside before my nose stops.’
He lifted down the lantern and blew it out. Arthur listened as it was replaced, and to the soft footfalls as the two children walked away. He was about to stop watching, when a narrow beam of light entered the frame, and he saw the silhouettes of Leaf and Albert against it. They were opening a hatch and climbing out, but as they did so, there was a lot of shouting from up above. It took Arthur a few seconds to separate out some specific words from the general tumult.
‘Beat to quarters!’
‘It’s the Shiver!’
As Arthur heard the words, a strange red wash crossed the mirror, like a crimson oil spreading on water. The dark image of the inside of the Flying Mantis was replaced with something lit by a very bright, green-hued sun, so glaring that Arthur had to squint.
‘You may wear gloves,’ said a voice from somewhere within the bright light. ‘But I can still see the mark of MY RED HAND!’
Nineteen
ARTHUR TRIED TO LOOK AWAY, but an unseen force gripped his head, keeping him staring at the mirror.
‘You will come to me,’ ordered the voice in the light. It was little more than a whisper, but it echoed in Arthur’s mind. ‘Reach through the mirror with your red-splashed hand.’
Arthur’s fingers twitched. He felt them slide across the surface of the mirror without his control, his whole hand preparing to plunge through the silvered glass. At the same time, through squinting eyes, he saw a face emerge from the light. A shrivelled face that looked like an ancient bog corpse that had been burnt.
‘You have stolen from Feverfew — now you must make reparations,’ whispered the face, which Arthur knew with dread was Feverfew’s own, sorcery-ravaged and twisted by Nothing. ‘Reach through the mirror!’
‘NO!’ Arthur screamed. He couldn’t shut his eyes, but he managed to turn his head, dislodging the shell. Still, Feverfew’s voice remained, whispering inside his skull.
‘Reparations . . . reach through the mirror . . . reach through the mirror —’
There was a sharp pain in Arthur’s head, and the voice vanished. Arthur blinked several times and just managed to raise his hands in time to stop Watkingle from hitting him for the second time with the pommel of his cutlass.
‘No! Don’t! I’m all right!’
Watkingle lowered his cutlass.
‘Wasn’t sure I hit hard enough,’ he said. ‘Thought I’d start with a little tap, like on a table for ordering a drink.’
‘Thanks,’ muttered Arthur, feeling the sore spot on the top of his head. He felt a small wash of nausea pass over him and gulped. Seasickness, he figured.
‘You were screaming softly,’ said Watkingle. ‘Fair gave me the shudders.’
‘Me too,’ replied Arthur. He sat up and looked around, ignoring a momentary attack of dizziness. The mirror was lying on the floor, a huge crack running across it. The shell was crushed under his foot.
A fixed gaslight burned in the corner of the cabin, and there was no longer any sunshine coming through the porthole. The ship was vibrating with a low, regular hum, and he could hear a distant sound like someone hitting a punching bag, not in time with the slight roll and pitch of the ship.
‘How long was I looking in the mirror?’
‘From four bells in the afternoon watch to six bells of the first,’ reported Watkingle. ‘Nine hours, more or less.’
‘It seemed like minutes. I guess they were a long way out in the Secondary Realms. I wonder where. . .?’
Arthur’s head throbbed and his throat was sore, probably from the soft screaming Watkingle had described. He shivered again as he thought of Feverfew’s horribly burned face and his whispering voice.
Don’t think about Feverfew, he told himself. Think about what must be done.
‘The Flying Mantis was about to be attacked by the Shiver,’ Arthur said aloud, still thinking to himself.