The Dickens Mirror Page 12

  At that, it all came rushing back, the images tumbling one after the other through her mind: losing Eric and Casey and Rima in the Dark Passages, her command to the cynosure, and then blinking onto the ward. Racing away from Kramer and that inspector and Doyle … yes, Arthur Conan Doyle … only to smash into that mirror from which loomed a face, large as life: the delicate oval of a much smaller girl with wild blonde hair and yet one with her eyes, that golden birthmark …

  No, my eyes, my face!

  that belonged not to her then but little Lizzie, all grown up.

  Oh crap. Emma’s eyes snapped open, and her heart turned over in her chest.

  She was in blackness.

  DOYLE

  A Different Girl

  “WHOMEVER MCDERMOTT THOUGHT he was—whether Charles Dickens was a nom de plume, a dédoublement, flesh and blood, or Jolly King Eddie—is immaterial, Doctor,” Battle said. “My interests lie in tracking him down. For that, I require his daughter to be lucid. At this point, I see little value in your methods. The way you and that thug of an attendant manhandled that girl …”

  “Don’t tell me my business,” Kramer said as he went to work on another lemon slice. God, the smell was driving Doyle mad. He swallowed back a flood of saliva; his stomach seemed to have grown claws that dug at his belly. He didn’t know what he wanted more, the phial in Kramer’s vest or that bit of fruit. Christ, he’d settle for the rind at this point.

  “She was agitated,” Kramer said, around lemon. “You may not approve of my tactics, Inspector, but if you want information, if you desire her lunatic of a father before he kills some other innocent in the misbegotten fantasy that he can somehow magically restore his family … well.” Plucking up a napkin, Kramer set about wiping his fingers. “This is the way. The answers are locked in that girl’s brain, and I will have them.”

  “As you had the father?” Battle observed.

  “Yes, thank you, Inspector.” Every word was hard-edged as a cut diamond. “Would you like me to admit defeat? Very well: I failed. There.” Kramer tossed his napkin aside. “Satisfied?”

  “It is not a question of satisfaction, Doctor, or blame. This is not a competition. This is about catching a madman.”

  “But you hold me responsible, isn’t that right?”

  “McDermott was in your custody.” Battle’s shoulders moved in a slight shrug. “If he’d escaped my station, I’m sure there’d be a hue and cry.”

  “So you do blame me. Brilliant. We’ve descended to name-calling and finger-pointing.” Sitting forward again, Kramer selected a lumpy scone studded with what might be raisins but looked suspiciously, to Doyle, like dried rat turds. “I’d complained to the Lunacy Commission for quite some time about the criminal wings’ gas mains. They cleared me of any culpability in the explosions. Besides”—Kramer snapped his scone in two, the sound crisp as the break of a small bone—“you ought to be delighted. All those criminal lunatics immolated at a go.”

  “I’m glad to see your irony intact. I might share your sentiments if the same explosions hadn’t both set McDermott free and destroyed his notebooks and writings, so we’ve no clue as to his whereabouts. You say you read that last novel?”

  “The Dickens Mirror? Yes, but it was in pieces, not a proper story at all. More fragments and notes.” When Kramer slipped scone into his mouth, Doyle caught a fleeting glimpse of wet muscle. “Why?”

  “I wondered if there might be something you recall, a detail or mention of a place that might point us in the right direction.”

  “Other than it being set in London and predominantly within these walls? It revolved around the man’s usual preoccupations: labyrinthine tunnels, structures that transmogrified, doppelgängers, splits in the personality, false selves, and, of course, his wife and daughter. I was struck by how he wove the Peculiar and our current predicament into his mythology. Saw it as energy that might be manipulated. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if he’s not holed up somewhere close by its edge, or even worked out a way to wander in and out without becoming lost.”

  “All conjectural and meaningless if the girl can’t remember where she was. Your mesmerism’s failed, and I don’t see how clouding her mind with your tonics helps.”

  “Which is why I am the doctor and you are the inspector. Get a medical degree, we can talk. Otherwise, lodge your complaints with the Lunacy Commission … but oh yesss … they’ve gone the way of Parliament and our good King Eddie, haven’t they, stealing off into the night?” Kramer dusted crumbs from his fingers. “You say we should work together? So answer me this: why have I not been allowed to examine the bodies?”

  “The bodies.” Battle gave Kramer a look as if the doctor had just spouted gibberish. “You’re not a police surgeon. You’ve not even a surgeon. You’re a doctor. An alienist.” (Doyle thought the inspector might as well have said quack.) “You’ve no standing,” Battle said.

  “Balls. Who do you think performs necropsies here or inspects the dead before we sack them for the rats?” How Kramer managed a noise like a wet fart with a mouth like that was a mystery to Doyle. “I know my way around a body.”

  “Don’t try to sell me a dog, Kramer. Why are you so keen on them?”

  “It’s not obvious? Battle, for God’s sake, a thorough study of the corpses might provide a clue as to McDermott’s whereabouts.”

  “They’re not within your purview, and that’s final.”

  “Oh, don’t piss on me, Battle, and call it rain. This is about territory. You don’t want me to examine them, do you?”

  “Perhaps not. Frankly … I suspect you’ve other motives.”

  “Have I? And what might they be?”

  “I don’t know. But I’m certain to find out.” Battle got to his feet. A very tall and broad man, he seemed to inhabit the office, which settled around his shoulders like a cape. “The bodies are not your concern. Now, if you’ve nothing useful to add, I’ll leave you to work on Doyle here. In the interim, I wish to interview some of the staff who’ve attended the girl. If you’d make them available, I’ll speak to them on the ward.” Battle tossed a look at Doyle. “How long? For you to tend to my man?”

  “Not very,” Kramer said, regarding Doyle with eyes that were hard as stones. “I dare say your constable’s as eager to be free of this place as you.”

  Got that right. Doyle forced himself not to squirm.

  “What about the girl?” Battle asked. “When can I speak with her?”

  “Hard to say. I’ll send word when she’s stable. But, Inspector,” Kramer said, “let’s not get our hopes up, shall we? It’s not as if she’s going to wake a different girl.”

  EMMA

  A Different Lizzie

  1

  FOR A SECOND, Emma wondered if she’d gone blind. The space was absolutely pitch, as in no light, not even a mild wash of silver from a shuttered window. It reminded her of a particularly heart-stopping moment in a defunct iron mine when their guide flicked off his headlamp just for kicks. Jasper had arranged it all back when she was eleven and fresh out of the hospital with her new face. Detouring on their trip back from Milwaukee to the U.P., Jasper steered them into iron country so they could do a little camping and a little illegal spelunking with this gruff, really ancient, chain-smoking miner dude with nicotine stains on his knuckles. Some wheezy old drinking buddy of Jasper’s who didn’t mind bending the rules, like, a lot. They’d followed tracks laid for ore carts down branching corridors with rotting crossbeams, flittering bats, cables sagging from ceilings, iron mesh and bolts holding up the ceiling in some parts. A lot of standing water, ankle-deep in places, the pools still and mirror-perfect. Death traps, the dude said; actually screamed for her to freeze! with her boot poised a half foot above what she could’ve sworn was solid rock. That’s the problem with old mines, the dude said, thrusting a walking stick into the pool. She kept waiting for his hand to stop and the stick to hit bottom … and waiting and waiting. Lower levels flood. Remember, girl, still waters run deep. O
ne wrong step—lighting a fresh smoke with the dying butt of another, the miner dude cracked a yellow grin—it’s a long way down.

  Yet this darkness now was also … weird. It actually seemed to shimmy and move, the way things did when you had a high fever. Everything trembled and she couldn’t shake the sense that the darkness wasn’t only air but something.

  Where am I? Felt like she was underground, or in a deep basement. Her left shoulder ached; something knobby and a little musty-smelling palmed that left hip and her cheek. Lying on my side. A pad? Or maybe a mattress? Every movement rustled, like wind stirring dried cornstalks. Something heavy snarled around her legs and feet. Skirt. Her hand drifted up and touched the buttons of a coarse, long-sleeved, high-collared blouse. Thick tights. Low-heeled ankle boots with tons of little buttons. What was this stuff?

  Be grateful. The hectoring voice—Elizabeth, a different Lizzie—was back. They’ve always made me wear a strong dress to keep me from tearing my clothes.

  Strong dress. She knew that word from both her blink while still in House and from when she’d appeared on the ward. Well, now she knew where they’d put her, too. Padded cell, below the asylum. Kramer had her drugged, then put somewhere for safekeeping, probably to keep her away from that inspector, Battle, and … Arthur Conan Doyle. In this Now, he was a constable, and he’d … rescued her? From what?

  I don’t know. Elizabeth faltered. I can’t remember. Sometimes, I’m not even sure I was ever in this Now at all.

  Struggling to a sit provoked a gust of nausea. Emma’s already aching head chattered with fresh pain. When she moved, the darkness seemed to curl, then pull back, like a wave over sand.

  Oooh, does that hurt? A vicious jag behind her eyes. It’s what you deserve. Why won’t you leave?

  Believe me, honey, nothing I’d rather do. The question was how. Wait. Her hand drifted for her neck, but she already knew from the lack of weight. Gone. Kramer had taken both the galaxy pendant and Eric’s tags.

  Eric? Who’s that? Is he another piece? And what do you mean, tags? Those scraps of tin on my necklace?

  Ignoring Elizabeth took energy; it was like trying to hold back a wide stream with two hands. Focus, come on. Kramer took the pendant but only after she’d awakened in Elizabeth, which meant that the other girl had obviously been wearing a cynosure, or a close facsimile. And Kramer has panops. Which meant he’d spotted some change in Elizabeth’s pendant after she showed up. Did that mean he was worried she could get out with it again? But wouldn’t she need the Mirror for that?

  No. That’s not how you do it. It’s the symbols that matter.

  No, little Lizzie had used symbols.

  Don’t contradict me! The voice kicked. What do you know? You’re nothing but an intruder, a PIECE!

  “Jesus!” Emma pushed back with her will. “Stop!” A second later, the nattering voice and the feel of elbows and knees trying to punch out real estate in her brain receded. Felt good, a relief. Her head still ached, but at least she could actually think. Yes, but for how long? Shivering, she crouched on all fours and listened to … okay, this was so weird … to the inside of her own head. Her brain felt as if it trembled like a pot of water just shy of a boil. Was there something else beneath this voice? Other voices?

  Don’t go looking for trouble. She smoothed moist palms over rough canvas. Considering she was trapped in a different Now and in a padded cell with a nasty bitch in her head, she was in deep shit already.

  I’m nasty? Elizabeth faded back. Try living with so many pieces you can’t keep track.

  That stinging red venom was absent from Elizabeth’s tone. In fact, Emma thought she sounded a little … cautious. Worried that I was able to shut her up? Could she do that, permanently? Lock Elizabeth away somewhere? But she knows this Now. If I can get her to cooperate and help me …

  “What do you mean, pieces, Elizabeth? Are you talking about hallu …” She caught herself; hallucinations sounded somehow worse. More clinical, like the girl was really sick. But she is. There was a pang just under her right ribs, and she dug in the point of an elbow to brace herself. Something physically wrong with her. “Are you talking about voices, Elizabeth?”

  No, more than that. I hear my mother, sometimes, but I know that’s memory. Odd how I never hear my father. A pause, as if Elizabeth were giving herself a shake. These others are … facets, like the different faces of a diamond.

  Aspects of herself, that’s what she was talking about, and this actually made a loopy kind of sense to Emma. In the valley, Lizzie said that Emma and Rima and Tony and everyone else were book-people based on her. (Well, except if you believed the whisper-man, Emma had written Eric to life, and then Eric had given himself Casey: a creation of a creation of yet another creation. Emma wasn’t entirely sold on the whole book-people thing either. She sure as hell felt real.) But if Lizzie/the whisper-man was right, then some book-people, like Emma, had more of Lizzie, and yet they were each their own person, designed to fit and function as distinct characters in separate worlds.

  But what would happen if you reversed that? If you tried to put back, say, Rima without erasing everything that made her Rima, and not Lizzie? What would happen to your mind? Wouldn’t you feel like you were in pieces? Crazy? Nothing would fit together. She thought back to what she’d read in abnormal psych. Elizabeth would be … what … a multiple,

  dédoublement de la personnalité

  a dissociative, in this Now?

  Oh boy. Emma felt her insides ice. That made her just an alter? In psych, the teacher said a strong personality can take control. And she supposedly had more of Lizzie than all the others.

  I asked the cynosure to take me where I’d find Eric again, and the others. The device had done exactly what she’d asked, too, slotting her into a different Lizzie, tortured by the voices of characters McDermott created based on his daughter. I know that at least Bode is here, because I saw him, on the ward. So Bode was a real person in this Now. What about the others? Did this mean that Rima and Tony and everyone else had their doubles in this Now?

  Did she?

  Wow. That thought hadn’t occurred to her. What would happen if she came face-to-face with herself? Could multiples of the same person exist in the same Now? In the valley, Lizzie said that too many finished book-people, ones whose stories were set, could destroy a Now. But if she believed the whisper-man, she was unique: a creation that had either escaped or been set free.

  Except Elizabeth’s heard me, as a voice. Why was that? She called us pieces. Which meant they—Bode, her, Rima, and all the rest—were also in Elizabeth, and she experienced them all as voices. So where was everyone else? Why could she hear only Elizabeth? Is it because I am strongest and shut them down? Could she find them? Talk to them? Yes, but how would that help?

  “Look, Elizabeth,” she said, pushing unsteadily to her feet. Her head swirled a woozy second, and her lips tingled. What was wrong with this girl? Coughing again, she brought up something gluey that she gagged back. Phlegm, she hoped, but her mouth went brackish again. Panting, she put a hand to the ache in her right ribs. “Help me out here. Where am I?”

  You’re in me.

  “I understand that, okay? You know what I mean.” She aimed her words into this weird, shimmying darkness. What is that? It hit her then that she had no idea how big this cell was, or … Jesus, are there other people in here with me? She’d assumed there were none because all the cries and bellows were so distant. But what if there’s someone else, tucked in a corner, just breathing, waiting for me to stumble into it? She felt her lids peel back as her eyes bugged. How would she know? Only if it talks out loud or touches me.

  At that, she felt a faint whisk over the back of her neck. What? Spinning around, she stumbled and almost fell. “Wh-who?” Her breath came ragged. “I-is somebody …” She clamped her lips together. It was just air, the wind, a draft. Shrugging her shoulders around her ears, she shivered. Imagining things.

  Or you’re only mad.

&
nbsp; “You shut up.” She swallowed around a snarl of fear. “Instead of fighting me, let’s work together so I can get out of here.”

  No. Elizabeth’s response was viper-quick. I won’t. Every second you’re in control is one more I’m not.

  Damn it. “Elizabeth, I only want to go home.”

  Home. You say that as if it’s real, but it’s only make-believe, the energy of thought fixed to White Space, and nothing more. As soon as I find a way to put you back where you came from, energy’s all you’ll be.

  Put her back? Emma felt a sinking in her gut. The other girl was talking about putting her back into the Dark Passages. Could she do that, without the Mirror? Obviously, Kramer thought she could, or he wouldn’t have taken Elizabeth’s pendant. “How would that work, though?”

  How would what work?

  “The necklace.” Okay, that’s really interesting. They occupied the same body, but Elizabeth couldn’t read every thought. Maybe she could use that. “Kramer took it. But that makes no sense.”

  Why not? Elizabeth sounded curious despite herself. Of course it does.

  “No, not really. Think about it. Let’s say my essence came out of the Dark Passages because it was attracted to you, okay? Like a moth heads for a candle?”

  Yes, that’s obvious. I’m the original.

  Okay, she wasn’t going there. There was also a serious flaw in Elizabeth’s logic; she saw that right away. Honestly, with so many pieces of Elizabeth and the possibility of an infinite number of Nows, who knew who came first? What would that make little Lizzie? Just another piece? That little girl thought she was the original.

  “Kramer took the necklace only after he saw it through the panops. I think that means that he believes it’ll work now, which means that it didn’t or couldn’t have before. Why else would he take it?”

  You don’t know that. Uncertainty, now. Perhaps he didn’t want you using it.

  “But there’s no Mirror. So what does it matter if I have it or not?” Silently praying, Please don’t freak out. Because wasn’t she pretty much saying that Elizabeth wasn’t as special as she thought? “Don’t you see how it doesn’t make sense?”