A light breeze blowing in from the sea stirred the thick forest surrounding Cravenmoore. The rustling of invisible leaves accompanied their footsteps as Simone and her two children walked along the path through the wood. A pale moon struggled to break through the canopy of shadows and hidden birds nesting in the crowns of the century-old giants called out to each other in an unnerving chorus.
‘This place gives me the creeps,’ said Irene.
‘Nonsense,’ her mother snapped. ‘It’s only a wood. On you go.’
From his position at the rear Dorian glanced around at the twisted forms of the vegetation. In the darkness his imagination transformed the sinister shapes into dozens of evil creatures lying in wait.
‘In the daylight you’ll see there’s nothing out there but bushes and trees,’ said Simone Sauvelle, not sounding entirely sure herself.
A few minutes later, after a trek that Irene thought was never going to end, the imposing profile of Cravenmoore stood before them. Golden beams of light shone from the large windows beneath a jagged forest of gargoyles. Beyond the house they could make out the toy factory, an annex to the main building.
Once they were out of the woodland, Simone and her children stopped to contemplate the immensity of the toymaker’s residence. Suddenly a bird that looked like a crow emerged from the undergrowth, flapped its wings and took off, taking a curious route over the gardens that surrounded Cravenmoore. When circling one of the stone fountains it alighted at Dorian’s feet. After it had stopped flapping its wings, the crow lay on its side and began to rock gently to and fro until it came to rest. Dorian knelt down and cautiously stretched out his right hand.
‘Be careful,’ warned Irene.
Ignoring her advice, Dorian stroked the crow’s feathers. The bird showed no signs of life. He lifted it up and unfolded its wings. Dorian looked puzzled, then dismayed. He turned to Irene and Simone.
‘It’s made of wood,’ he murmured.
They all looked at one another. Simone sighed.
‘Let’s just make a good impression, all right?’ she begged her children.
They both nodded in agreement. Dorian placed the bird back on the ground. Simone Sauvelle gave a hint of a smile and then all three climbed the white marble staircase that snaked towards the large bronze entrance.
The doors of Cravenmoore opened automatically, before they’d even had time to use the brass knocker, which was shaped like an angel’s face. A figure stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the aura of light that poured from the house. The figure suddenly came alive, tilting its head with a soft mechanical click. As it did so, they could see its face for the first time. It stared at them with lifeless eyes, simple glass beads encased by a mask that was frozen in a spine-chilling grin.
Dorian gulped. Irene and her mother took a step back. The figure stretched out one hand and then stood still again.
‘I hope Christian didn’t frighten you. He’s a rather clumsy old creation of mine.’
The Sauvelles turned towards the voice that came from the foot of the marble stairs. A kind face which was aging gracefully was smiling up at them mischievously. Blue eyes sparkled beneath a thick, silvery mop of well-groomed hair. The man, who was elegantly dressed and held an ebony walking stick with coloured inlays, climbed the steps towards them, then bowed politely.
‘My name is Lazarus Jann, and I think I owe you an apology.’
His voice was warm and comforting. His large blue eyes scrutinised each member of the family until finally they came to rest on Simone’s face.
‘I was taking my usual evening walk through the forest and was delayed. Madame Sauvelle, I believe . . . ?’
‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.’
‘Please call me Lazarus.’
Simone nodded. ‘This is my daughter Irene,’ she said. ‘And this is Dorian, the youngest in the family.’
Lazarus Jann shook their hands courteously. His grasp was firm and pleasant, his smile infectious.
‘Right. As for Christian, don’t let him frighten you. I keep him as a souvenir of my first period. He’s awkward and doesn’t look very friendly, I know.’
‘Is he a machine?’ asked Dorian quickly. He was fascinated.
Simone’s scolding look came too late. Lazarus smiled at Dorian.
‘You could call him that. Technically, Christian is what is known as an automaton.’
‘Did you build him, sir?’