Except for one single piece, Benedict . . .
Benedict picked his way through the rubble and the charred debris. It was just possible to see the outline of the room that had once existed. There were even fragments of furniture that had survived the fire – he could see a small chest with a carved lid, several chairs, even a few strings of fabric that must have been curtains or rugs. The hearth was filled with grass and birds’ nests and the tiny skeletons of birds themselves, but above it still hung an oval mirror, the frame black with age, the surface so smeared it gave no light and no reflection.
Benedict took the chess figure from his pocket. He had the fleeting impression that it resisted him, but he took a deep breath, and flung it hard against the stone fireplace. It described an arc through the dimness, and there was a moment when it reflected eerily in the old mirror. The shadows stirred briefly, and for the space of two heartbeats he thought shapes formed on the stones – the silhouettes of prancing horses, marching warriors, imperious figures who wore crowns or mitres . . .
Then the illusion vanished, and there was a small splintering sound, like frost icicles cracking. He saw the chess figure fracture against the stones. Tiny glinting chips flew out – some caught the silvering moonlight. The small sounds died away and the shadows were quiescent again.
Benedict said, very softly, ‘Colm?’
But nothing moved within the ruined room and Benedict drew in a deep, shuddering sigh of relief. It’s all right, he thought. He’s gone. As he crossed to the door, something seemed to shiver within the tarnished mirror, and he turned, his heart skipping a beat. But there was nothing there, of course.
He went quickly down the hillside to his car.