I have tried forming glider wings out of my armour, and I don’t want to talk about the results.
Molly and I carefully moved back a few paces, and I put the Glass away. It had already shrunk down to its original size without being ordered to, as though it were afraid of being noticed. I put it away in its pocket dimension, so called because I keep the separate dimension in my pocket, and looked down. Hundreds of feet below, the heavy swelling sea smashed against dark and ragged rocks, foam flying on the air.
A cold wind was blowing out of the north, and gulls hung in the air above us, keening mournfully. There is an old legend that says the gulls are crying for the sins of the world, and that when we finally get our act together, the gulls will stop crying. It was easy to believe such a story in a desolate place like this.
The cottage looked to be a good half a mile away, as the crow flew: across a bare stone and scrub plain. Molly and I looked at each other and started walking. There wasn’t a single living creature to be seen anywhere, and even the steady sounds of our footsteps on the stony ground seemed strangely muted. As we drew closer, I could see the cottage was fronted by a carefully laid-out garden. A low stone wall marked the boundaries, hand-built in the old style, and there were hedges and flowers and topiary trees. A splash of vivid colours in such a grey setting. We stopped before the wrought-iron gate that was the only entrance to the garden. Beyond the gate, a narrow gravel path led straight to the cottage’s front door. A simple sign beside the gate said, TRESPASSERS WILL BE VIOLATED. Molly and I stood before the gate, carefully not touching anything, peering between the bars. The garden looked lovely.
“I can feel industrial-strength protections and defences hanging in the air, waiting to be triggered,” said Molly. “They feel . . . strange. No magic, no tech, only the power of one person’s mind. I get the feeling we’ll be safe as long as we stick to the path. She knows we’re here, Eddie.”
“I’d be disappointed if she didn’t,” I said. “Stay put for the moment. Let her get a good look at us and our protections.”
“She’s been watching us from the moment we arrived,” said Molly, shuffling uncomfortably from foot to foot. Molly’s never been one for standing around. Not when there’s dashing in where angels fear to tread to be done. “I can feel her attention, like a great weight pressing down, or like staring into a blinding searchlight. The sheer power I’m sensing is downright scary. And I don’t usually do scary. Ah!”
“What?” I said, looking quickly around.
“It’s gone. She’s not watching us anymore.”
The wrought-iron gate swung slowly open before us, the hinges making soft protesting noises. I knew Ammonia could have oiled those hinges, but chose not to, as a simple extra warning system. It was what I would have done. I strode forward, doing my best to exude confidence, and Molly stuck close beside me, head erect, eyes glaring in all directions. The gate swung noisily shut behind us, but I wouldn’t give it the satisfaction of looking back. Our feet crunched on the gravel path as we headed for the cottage. The garden really was delightful: open and attractive, with all kinds of flowers, neat hedgerows, and trees trimmed into perfect geometric shapes. Someone had put a lot of work into this garden.
“A peaceful setting,” I said. “For such a famously unpleasant woman.”
“So all the stories I’ve heard are true?” said Molly, still scowling arond her.
“If they’re distressing, awful and appalling stories, almost certainly yes,” I said. “This is a woman who once called the current Anti-Pope a big-nosed idiot. To his face.”
“An accurate description,” said Molly.
“Well, yes, but you don’t say something like that to a cult leader with a private army of fanatical followers. Not to his face.”
“I do,” said Molly.
“Well, yes again, but you’re weird.”
“You say the nicest things, Eddie.”
“I do my best,” I said.
The cottage loomed up before us like a dentist’s waiting room; it might look pleasant enough, but you know there’s trouble ahead. Actually, the cottage, in its delightful setting, looked as though it should be a photo on the lid of a jigsaw box. Say about a thousand pieces, nothing too difficult, you know the sort. A charming, old-fashioned cottage with a brick chimney poking up through the neatly thatched roof, roses curling round the front door, long vines sprawled across the creamy white stone of the facing wall. Two large bay windows on either side of the front door, which, as I drew closer, I could see had no bell or knocker. Ammonia Vom Acht always knew when visitors were coming.
Bees buzzed loudly over the flower beds, and brightly coloured butterflies fluttered by, but no birds sang. Which struck me as a bit odd. And possibly even disturbing. I stopped short of the front door and listened carefully.
“It’s quiet,” said Molly. “Perhaps even too quiet.”
“Why aren’t there any birds?” I said. “Even the gulls are steering well clear of this place. You’re always saying you’re one with the wild woods; what’s wrong with this picture?”
“You’re right,” said Molly. “I’m not picking up a single living creature bigger than an earthworm anywhere near here. Not even a mole or a dormouse. And that’s not natural.”
“This means something,” I said.
Molly looked at me sideways. “Why are you so nervous, Eddie? You’ve faced far worse than this in your time. I know; I was there. This isn’t like you.”
“I’ve always preferred dangers I can hit,” I said steadily. “Telepaths . . . are sneaky. They come at you in unexpected ways, and they don’t fight fair. And this is, after all, Ammonia Vom Acht we’re talking about. You must have heard the stories. . . .”
“Pretend I haven’t,” said Molly. “Get it out of your system. What stories?”
“Some of her more famous cases, then,” I said. “Just the high points. She was once asked to help resolve a case of split personality in a very important and well-connected person, where the two personalities were in conflict with each other. The dominant good guy versus the usually subordinate trickster type. Ammonia decided she liked the trickster personality better, so she made that the dominant personality and put the other one to sleep. Lot of trouble there, until he was finally removed from office with a lead ballot. Another time, she was hired to investigate an amnesiac, only to discover he’d already paid a substantial amount to a previous telepath to wipe all his memories, because he couldn’t stand being the kind of man he’d become. Ammonia agreed, destroyed his memories again, only even more thoroughly, kept all the money the man’s family had paid her, and defied them to do anything about it!”
“So far, I have no problem with any of this,” said Molly.
“You wouldn’t,” I said. But it gets worse. Having decided that she now knew better than anyone else what was good for people, Ammonia then went through a phase of overhauling the personalities of everyone she met. Rewriting their minds for the better . . . according to her lights. More like telepathic muggings. Some of these rewritings were successful; others weren’t. A lot of people ended up killing themselves, because they knew they weren’t who they were supposed to be. Some of them killed other people, because some subtle restraint had been removed. But by then Ammonia had moved on, never around to clean up the messes she’d made. She stopped only because practically every other telepath in the world got together and ganged up on her and made her stop. Such a gathering was made possible only through my family’s intervention, and I’m not sure we could make it happen a second time. Getting telepaths to work together is like herding cats. It is possible, but only with the continued threat of immediate extreme violence. Which can be very wearing . . . I’m pretty sure Ammonia still blames us for stopping her fun. Anyway, after all this she went into a bit of a sulk and retreated from the world. Only comes out to work on cases no one else can manage; and then only for the challenge, and a truly massive fee.
“She lives all the way out here because she
knows too many secrets. No one can keep anything from her, you see. And since she’s met pretty much everyone who matters, at one time or another, there are always agents and assassins on her trail, either to kidnap her to force those secrets out of her, or to kill her to make sure her secrets die with her. She could hide herself so completely that no one could find her, but her pride won’t allow that. And she does so love to prove she’s still as powerful as everyone’s afraid she is. So she stays here, and lets her enemies get close enough that she can have some fun playing with them. Sometimes she lets them get right to her gate before she makes their heads explode. Sometimes she mind-wipes them, and leaves them to wander the world as horrific living examples. And sometimes she rewrites them and sends them back to murder the people who sent them to kill her.”
“Okay,” said Molly. “You’ve said your piece. I feel very thoroughly lectured and warned. Do you feel better?”
“Not really, no.”
We headed for the front door again. I didn’t hurry, taking my time. Molly frowned.
“You’re actually scared of her, aren’t you?”
“Not scared, not as such . . .” I said, and then stopped. I could feel my heart hammering in my chest, and the cold sweat beading on my forehead. “If my torc isn’t enough to protect me, the first I’ll know about it is when Ammonia slips inside my head and makes me do things. Think what she could do with my armour. . . . All the terrible things she could make me do to you, or my family, while I was held helpless inside my own head . . .”
I stopped, because Molly was smiling at me fondly. “I have never known anyone who could find so many ways to feel guilty about things you haven’t even done! None of that will happen, because I won’t let it happen. You may not be able to trust your torc, but you trust me, don’t you?”
“Yes,” I said. “I can always trust you, Molly.”
We were right outside the front door. I raised a hand to knock, and the door swung suddenly open before me. And there, standing in the doorway and very obviously blocking our path, was Ammonia Vom Acht herself. She didn’t look pleased to see us.
The greatest telepath mankind has ever produced was under medium height, stocky, with a broad and almost mannish face under a frizzy shock of unrestrained auburn hair. She had piercing green eyes, a hook of a nose and a thin, flat mouth not really helped by a brief slash of dark red lipstick. There was a lot of character in her face, but no one was ever going to call her pretty. Or even handsome, unless the light was really bad. Someone once said she had a face like a bulldog licking piss off a thistle, and I could see why. She wore dull, characterless clothes with more than a touch of the masculine about them: a battered tweed jacket with leather patches on the elbows, over baggy trousers with earth stains still on the knees from working in the garden. Her shoes were stout brogues, with trailing laces.
I didn’t run. I knew my duty.
When she finally spoke, her voice was harsh and clipped and almost emotionless.
“So. Edwin Drood and Molly Metcalf. I’ve been expecting you. I was busy gardening when I sensed you were coming, so this had better be worth it.”
“Hold everything,” I said, caught off guard despite myself. “We arrived instantaneously through the Merlin Glass.”
“I sensed the Glass was about to open here,” said Ammonia. “You have no idea what an impact that thing makes on the world when you use it. But then, you don’t even know what it is, really, do you?”
“Do you?” Molly said bluntly.
Ammonia ignored her, which isn’t easy. She looked us both over, eyes narrowed, and then nodded abruptly. “You’re both shielded. Good. Nothing worse than a noisy mind. That’s why I have to live out here, so far away from everyone else. Being the most powerful telepathic mind in the world isn’t always all it’s cracked up to be. I have trouble keeping everyone else out of my head. The world will keep pressing in. People will intrude . . . and all the shouting makes me tired.”
She stepped back. “Come in. Brush your feet on the mat. Properly! And don’t mutter.”
She beckoned us into a wide, brightly lit hallway with bare wooden floors and faded prints of rare flowers on the walls. Molly and I slipped in, and the door closed itself behind us. Ammonia turned her back on us and headed for the door at the far end, gesturing brusquely for Molly and me to follow her. We did so. She didn’t look back, but she did keep talking to us over her shoulder.
“You were wondering why there are only insects in my garden, and no beasts or birds. I scare them off. Have to. Can’t stand to have anything with a mind around me. All that red-in-tooth-and-claw stuff; they can’t turn it off, you know. The endless fear and appetite make me bad tempered.”
I felt a chill run up the back of my neck. “Were you reading our minds just then?”
“No,” said Ammonia. “I heard you talking about it in the garden. It’s quiet in the garden. That’s why I like it. Come through into the parlour. Meet my husband, Peter.”
That last bit almost stopped me dead. There was nothing in any of my family’s files about the infamous Ammonia Vom Acht being married. Molly shot me a quick look and mouthed the word husband? and all I could do was shrug helplessly.
The parlour was small and cosy, filled with modern, brutally styleless furniture that clashed loudly with the rest of the cottage. Bright sunlight streamed in through the great bay window. There were vases of fresh flowers on every flat surface, pleasantly scenting the air. A large and very modern electric clock dominated one wall, working silently away, while the other walls presented paintings by several masters. Ammonia, it seemed, was very fond of the Pre-Raphaelites. Payment for past services, presumably. Two large and very comfortable-looking armchairs stood facing each other across the real fireplace. Sunk deeply in one of the chairs was Ammonia Vom Acht’s husband, Peter.
He rose languidly from the depths of his chair to greet us. He smiled vaguely in our direction, but didn’t offer a hand to shake. He was a tall, diffident sort in an expensive three-piece suit with recent dinner stains on the waistcoat, a pale, bland face under thinning blond hair, and a calm, uncommitted smile. He had a large drink in his hand, though it was barely midday.
“This is Peter,” said Ammonia. She might have been speaking about her accountant. “I married him because he’s a psychic null. Born shielded from every form of telepathic contact. His thoughts stay inside his head. I can’t hear him. I can relax around him.”
“And I married her because she needed me,” Peter said blithely. “And I do so love to be needed. Don’t I, old thing?”
His voice was well educated, even aristocratic: that affected, bored drawl that gets on everyone’s nerves.
“I can’t hear his thoughts or sense his feelings,” said Ammonia. “Everything he says and does is a surprise to me. You have no idea what a relief that is.”
“So many compliments,” said Peter. “You’ll make me blush, dear.”
Ammonia nodded slowly. “I’m not easy to live with. I know that.”
“Some marriages are made in heaven,” said Peter. “The rest of us do the best we can.” He spoke vaguely, his voice trailing away. When he looked up from his glass to take Molly and me in, his eyes were frankly disinterested. “You mustn’t mind Ammonia. She’s only being herself. Her problem is, she’s always had difficulty deciding where she stops and other people begin. The edges are never properly nailed down, for a telepath. Things sneak in: thoughts, emotions, intentions. . . . She has no people skills. None at all. I’m not even sure she is people, really.”
“Peter . . .” said Ammonia.
“Yes, dear, I know. We have guests. Party manners! Can I get you people a little something? I’m having a little something. I always have a little something about now.”
Molly and I declined. Peter nodded understandingly, knocked back what was left in his glass, and drifted over to the very modern sideboard to refill his glass from a functional but quite ugly crystal decanter that was already half-empty.
> “Ammonia doesn’t drink,” he announced, turning lazily back to face his visitors. “She daren’t. Whereas I . . . am rarely sober. I daren’t . . . I drink like a fish, you know, like a spiny denizen of the deep. So would you, if you were married to the most powerful telepath in the world. It’s not the person, you understand; it’s the lifestyle. Oh, do sit down, both of you. You make the room look untidy. No use waiting for Ammonia to ask you. Such things simply don’t occur to her. No people skills, remember? Not her fault, of course.”
Peter slumped bonelessly back into his armchair, and Ammonia sank down into the chair opposite him. Not a single recognisable emotion had crossed her face so far. Molly and I pulled up two stiff-backed wooden chairs and sat down facing them.
“Given everything the poor girl’s been through, it’s a wonder she’s as sane as she is,” Peter said affably. It was off-putting, the way he talked about his wife as if sometimes she was there, and sometimes she wasn’t. He smiled vaguely at Molly and me. “Do you know the story? It’s not one of the better-known ones, but it is jolly interesting. Ammonia spent the first ten years of her life in a coma, you see. Self-inflicted, to protect her developing mind from the thoughts of all the world crashing in on her at once. She had to learn how to make a shield that would keep everyone else out, before she could decide on who she was. Think of the poor child knowing all there was to know about human nature at such a young and defenceless age. The good and the bad, the sane and the insane, the saints and the devils . . . Only an iron will kept her together. . . . That’s what makes her such a marvellous curative telepath. She knows all there is to know about the demons of the mind, because she’s been there. You’re very good at what you do, aren’t you, dear? Yes, you are.”
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