We arrive punctually at our tea and cake destination. It is the home of Mrs Foxglove who, Goliath informs me, has a collection of death masks and an interest in tea-leaf reading. It is a large green cottage looking over the sea on the cliff, purple flowers and ferns overgrown in the garden and a bronze fox head as a doorknocker.
Goliath knocks three times and a tall lady with long white hair and delicate tortoiseshell spectacles opens the door, eyes like bright blue periwinkles, her voice impish and light. “Do come in. Mr Loveheart is already here. He does love my cakes.”
The cottage has low ceilings, which make Goliath stoop, his great bulk negotiating the corners and doors. The air smells of sea-flowers and something else, something sinister. Goblin green walls are the backdrop for Mrs Foxglove’s collection of plaster of Paris death masks; there must have been hundreds of them, each with a different grimace and look of horror eternally fixed upon their faces.
We enter the sitting room, where more masks line the walls and an elegant table is laid with numerous cakes and a large pot of steaming tea. And there sits Mr Loveheart, in green velvet with red hearts embroidered on his jacket; he has a mouthful of cake and a big grin upon his face. He remains seated as we enter, while Mrs Foxglove pours the tea. “Now help yourselves to cake. I have six sorts: Victoria sponge, chocolate, vanilla cream, lavender, cherry and almond, and Mr Loveheart’s favourite: lemon drizzle.”
Mr Loveheart continues to grin, while chewing his mouthful.
“May I ask how you two are acquainted?” asks Goliath, helping himself to the chocolate cake, an especially large slice, while I point to the vanilla cream.
“Mr Loveheart is a dear friend, as is his employer, Mr Fingers. They both help me acquire my beautiful death masks. So helpful. Clever boys, they are.” And she ruffles Mr Loveheart’s hair, playfully.
“Quite a collection you have,” Goliath remarks.
“Oh yes, I have nearly five hundred. Hangings, decapitation, drownings – you name it, I will most likely have it. It’s a fascination for me to see the human soul trapped in its final moments. The collection is very precious to me. They are my children.”
“You really believe you have their souls?”
“Of course. They are trapped within the mask.”
I look at the faces and lick my fingers of vanilla cream and think, she is wrong and she is quite mad. Mr Loveheart is staring at me, reading my thoughts and he too licks his fingers, gently mimicking me.
“Shall we get down to business?” he asks.
Goliath nods and Mr Loveheart, wiping the remainder of Lemon Drizzle from his lips, continues.
“My employer, Mr Fingers, would very like much like to meet Miss Mirror, and suggested that the ideal location would be my ancestral home, this evening. A carriage will be collecting us after this delightful tea. My father, like Mrs Foxglove, was also a collector, although his obsession was time travel. I have invited many guests to view his machines this evening, with an interest to buy. They have been cluttering up the place for too long.”
“And what exactly does he want with my ward?” grumbles Goliath.
“Well, she is of immense value to him due to a peculiar set of circumstances. You see, one of my father’s prized time machines was a clock, which was stolen by your ward’s grandfather, who I understand went quite mad and locked her inside it.”
“And your point is?”
“Mr Fingers wanted the clock. Or, to be more exact, he wanted what was inside the clock. The man who made it was a most unusual fellow, and he had trapped a creature inside it. Some sort of deity (and he chuckled as if it were amusing to him). My employer finally acquired the clock through some inconvenience, but it is unfortunately now useless.”
“Useless?”
“Yes, it seems that your ward has become the clock. The deity has been absorbed into her, become her. She was, I understand, essentially dead when she was taken out. The spirit of the clock has simply moved from one container to another – into her body.”
“What does Mr Fingers intend to do with Mirror?”
Mr Loveheart rolls his eyes and drums his fingers rhythmically against the table, as though playing an invisible piano. “He would like to talk to her.”
“And if we refuse?”
“You cannot keep running from us both. Surely you would like this situation resolved quietly. If you refuse, we will simply take her from you. You cannot protect her all the time. All he wants is a little chit chat.”
Goliath stares deeply at Mr Loveheart and then rests his hand gently on my shoulder. “You and your employer are a pair of monsters. And I believe that you both intend to harm or kill my ward. It is true that this situation needs to resolved, so she can become free of the pair of you. I am her protector until the day I die.”
“Understood.”
Goliath turns towards me. “Little one, want do you want to do?”
“I want to meet Mr Fingers, and I want to see Mr Loveheart’s collection of time machines, and I would like a piece of the chocolate cake.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes,” and I don’t know why I keep thinking, yes, yes, yes, yes. But it is the right answer to give.