When Fuchsia awoke in her bed and saw the firelight flickering on the ceiling and Nannie Slagg sitting beside her, she said:

‘Where is Steerpike?’

‘Who, my precious? Oh, my poor pretty one!’ And Mrs Slagg fidgeted with Fuchsia’s hand which she had been holding for over an hour. ‘What is it you need, my only? What is it, my caution dear? Oh, my poor heart, you’ve nearly killed me, dear. Very nearly. Yes, very nearly, then. There, there. Stay still, and the Doctor will be here again soon. Oh, my poor, weak heart!’ The tears were streaming down her little, old terrified face.

‘Nannie,’ said Fuchsia, ‘where’s Steerpike?’

‘That horrid boy?’ asked Nannie. ‘What about him, precious? You don’t want to see him, do you? Oh no, you couldn’t want that boy. What is it, my only? Do you want to see him?’

‘Oh, no! no!’ said Fuchsia. ‘I don’t want to. I feel so tired. Are you there?’

‘What is it, my only?’

‘Nothing; nothing. I wonder where he is.’

Knives in the Moon

KNIVES IN THE MOON

The moon slid inexorably into its zenith, the shadows shrivelling to the feet of all that cast them, and as Rantel approached the hollow at the hem of the Twisted Woods he was treading in a pool of his own midnight.

The roof of the Twisted Woods reflected the staring circle in a phosphorescent network of branches that undulated to the lower slopes of Gormenghast Mountain. Rising from the ground and circumscribing this baleful canopy the wood was walled with impenetrable shadow. Nothing of what supported the chilly haze of the topmost branches was discernible – only a winding façade of blackness.

The crags of the mountain were ruthless in the moon; cold, deadly, and shining. Distance had no meaning. The tangled glittering of the forest roof rolled away, but its furthermost reaches were brought suddenly nearer in a bound by the terrifying effect of proximity in the mountain that they swarmed. The mountain was neither far away nor was it close at hand. It arose starkly, enormously, across the lens of the eye. The hollow itself was a cup of light. Every blade of the grass was of consequence, and the few scattered stones held an authority that made their solid, separate marks upon the brain – each one with its own un duplicated shape: each rising brightly from the ink of its own spilling.

When Rantel had come to the verge of the chosen hollow he stood still. His head and body were a mosaic of black and ghastly silver as he gazed into the basin of grass below him. His cloak was drawn tightly about his spare body and the rhythmic folds of the drapery held the moonlight along their upper ridges. He was sculpted, but his head moved suddenly at a sound, and lifting his eyes he saw Braigon arise from beyond the rim across the hollow.