They stared up and out at the endless ranks of lifetimers, every one different, every one named. The light from torches ranged along the walls picked highlights off them, so that a star gleamed on every glass. The far walls of the room were lost in the galaxy of light.
Mort felt Ysabell's fingers tighten on his arm.
When she spoke, her voice was strained. 'Mort, some of them are so small.'
I KNOW.
Her grip relaxed, very gently, like someone putting the top ace on a house of cards and taking their hand away gingerly so as not to bring the whole edifice down.
'Say that again?' she said quietly.
'I said I know. There's nothing I can do about it. Haven't you been in here before?'
'No.' She had withdrawn slightly, and was staring at his eyes.
'It's no worse than the library,' said Mort, and almost believed it. But in the library you only read about it; in here you could see it happening.
'Why are you looking at me like that?' he added.
'I was just trying to remember what colour your eyes were,' she said, 'because —'
'If you two have quite had enough of each other!' bellowed Albert above the roar of the sand. 'This way!'
'Brown,' said Mort to Ysabell. 'They're brown. Why?'
'Hurry up!'
'You'd better go and help him,' said Ysabell. 'He seems to be getting quite upset.'
Mort left her, his mind a sudden swamp of uneasiness, and stalked across the tiled floor to where Albert stood impatiently tapping a foot.
'What do I have to do?' he said.
'Just follow me.'
The room opened out into a series of passages, each one lined with the hourglasses. Here and there the shelves were divided by stone pillars inscribed with angular markings. Albert glanced at them occasionally; mainly he strode through the maze of sand as though he knew every turn by heart.
'Is there one glass for everyone, Albert?'
'Yes.'
ur ago Cutwell had thumbed through the index of The Monster Fun Grimoire and had cautiously assembled a number of common household ingredients and put a match to them.
Funny thing about eyebrows, he mused. You never really noticed them until they'd gone.
Red around the eyes, and smelling slightly of smoke, Cutwell ambled towards the royal apartments past bevies of maids engaged in whatever it was maids did, which always seemed to take at least three of them. Whenever they saw Cutwell they would usually go silent, hurry past with their heads down and then break into muffled giggles along the corridor. This annoyed Cutwell. Not – he told himself quickly – because of any personal considerations, but because wizards ought to be shown more respect. Besides, some of the maids had a way of looking at him which caused him to think distinctly unwizardly thoughts.
Truly, he thought, the way of enlightenment is like unto half a mile of broken glass.
He knocked on the door of Keli's suite. A maid opened it.
'Is your mistress in?' he said, as haughtily as he could manage.
The maid put her hand to her mouth. Her shoulders shook. Her eyes sparkled. A sound like escaping steam crept between her fingers.
I can't help it, Cutwell thought, I just seem to have this amazing effect on women.
'Is it a man?' came Keli's voice from within. The maid's eyes glazed over and she tilted her head, as if not sure of what she had heard.