The Watcher in the Shadows (Niebla 3)

Dorian shook his head.

‘Magic is only an extension of physics. Are you good at maths?’

‘Not bad, except when it comes to trigonometry . . .’

Lazarus smiled.

‘We’ll start there then. Fantasy is derived from numbers. That’s the trick.’

The boy nodded, although he wasn’t quite sure what Lazarus was talking about. Finally, Lazarus showed them the way to the door. It was then that, almost by chance, Dorian thought he witnessed something impossible. As they walked past one of the flickering lamps, their bodies cast shadows against the wall. All of them but one: Lazarus’s body left no trace of a shadow, as if his presence were only a mirage.

When Dorian turned round, Lazarus was observing him intently. The boy swallowed hard. The toymaker nipped his cheek in a friendly manner.

‘Don’t believe everything you see . . .’

Dorian followed his mother and sister out of the house.

‘Thanks for everything. Goodnight,’ said Simone.

‘It’s been a pleasure, and I’m not just saying that to be polite,’ said Lazarus. He gave them a warm smile and raised a hand in farewell.

The Sauvelles entered the forest shortly before midnight, on their way back to Seaview.

Dorian was quiet, still entranced by memories of Lazarus Jann’s house of marvels. Irene also seemed to be in some other world, lost in her thoughts. Simone sighed with relief and thanked God for their good luck.

Just before Cravenmoore’s outline disappeared behind them, Simone turned to take a last look. The only light came from a window on the second floor of the west wing. A figure stood, unmoving, behind the curtains. At that precise moment, the light went out and the window was plunged into darkness.

Back in her room, Irene took off the dress her mother had lent her and folded it carefully over the chair. She could hear Simone and Dorian talking in the next room. She turned off the light and lay down on the bed. Blue shadows danced across the ceiling and the murmur of waves breaking against the cliffs caressed the silence; Irene closed her eyes and tried in vain to fall asleep.

It was hard to believe that from that night on she would never have to see their old Paris apartment again, nor would she have to return to the dance hall to relieve those soldiers of a few coins. She knew that the shadows of the big city couldn’t reach her here. She got up and went over to the window.

The lighthouse rose up against the dark night. Irene focused on the small island enveloped in a luminous mist. A sudden light seemed to shine, like the blink of a faraway mirror. Seconds later, the light shone again, then went out. Irene frowned, then noticed that her mother was standing on the porch below. Wrapped in a thick jumper, Simone was quietly gazing out to sea. Irene didn’t have to see her face to know that she was crying. They would both take a long time to fall asleep. On their first night at Seaview, after that first step towards what seemed to be a new and happy life, Armand Sauvelle’s absence was more painful than ever.

3

BLUE BAY

Of all the dawns in her life, none would ever seem as radiant to Irene as that of 22 June 1937. The ocean glistened beneath a sky so clear she could scarcely have imagined it during the years she’d lived in the city. From her window, she could clearly see the lighthouse as well as the small rocks that stood out in the centre of the bay like the crest of some underwater dragon. The neat row of houses along the seafront, beyond the Englishman’s Beach, quivered through the heat haze rising from the docks. If she half-closed her eyes, it seemed like a paradise conjured by Claude Monet, her father’s favourite artist.

Irene opened the window and let the salty sea air fill the room. A flock of seagulls nesting on the cliffs turned to observe her with curiosity. Her new neighbours. Not far away, Irene noticed that Dorian had already set himself up in his favourite spot among the rocks. He was probably busy cataloguing his daydreams, his flights of fancy, or whatever it was that engrossed him during his solitary wanderings.

She was trying to make up her mind what to wear when she heard an unfamiliar voice, speaking fast and cheerfully, downstairs. She listened carefully for a couple of seconds and could hear the calm, composed voice of her mother attemp

ting to respond, or rather trying to slip a word or two into the few gaps left by the other person.

As she got dressed, Irene tried to imagine what the owner of the voice would look like. Ever since she was small, that had been one of her favourite things – listening to a voice with her eyes closed and trying to imagine the person it belonged to: deciding on their height, weight, face . . .

This time she imagined a young woman, not very tall, nervous and fidgety, with dark hair, probably dark eyes too. With that portrait in mind Irene set off down the stairs to satisfy both her hunger with a good breakfast and, more importantly, her curiosity.

As soon as she went into the sitting room, she realised her first, and only, mistake: the girl’s hair was straw-coloured. As for the rest, she’d been spot on. That is how Irene first met the quirky and chatty young Hannah; not by sight, but by sound.

Simone Sauvelle did her best to repay Hannah for the meal she had prepared for them the night before with a delicious breakfast. The young girl devoured her food even faster than she spoke. The torrent of anecdotes, gossip and stories about the town and its inhabitants, which she reeled off at lightning speed, meant that after only a few minutes of her company, Simone and Irene felt as if they’d known Hannah all their lives.

Between bites of toast, Hannah summarised her biography in a few quick instalments. She would be sixteen in November; her parents owned a house in the village; her father was a fisherman and her mother a baker; her cousin Ismael, who’d lost both his parents years ago, also lived with them and helped her father on his boat. She no longer went to school because that old witch Jeanne Brau, the headmistress of the local school, had decided she was thick, or at least not very bright. Ismael, however, was teaching her to read and every week she was getting better at her times tables. Her favourite colour was yellow and she liked collecting shells along the Englishman’s Beach. Her favourite pastime was listening to romance serials on the radio and going to the summer dances held in the main square, when travelling bands came to the village. She didn’t use perfume, but she loved lipstick . . .

Listening to Hannah was entertaining and exhausting in equal measure. After wolfing down her own breakfast, and Irene’s leftovers, she stopped talking for a few seconds. The silence that filled the room felt unreal. It didn’t last long, of course.

‘Shall we go for a walk so I can show you the village?’ she asked, suddenly excited at the prospect of acting as a tourist guide.