The Slanted Worlds by Catherine Fisher

the drawing room. The dining room is in here. The morning room. And this was Mr. Symmes’s study, I believe.”
    He opened a door onto a room crowded with dark masses of sheeted furniture. I put a hand out and touched an armchair. My fingers came away covered with a film of brown dust. “Does no one clean?”
    â€œAs I said, we have had problems. The last cleaner refused to return. She spoke of footsteps. Movements where no one was.”
    I opened the shutters. Pale daylight fell on my father’s desk, his chair, and revealed by it, suddenly, there in the corner, I saw her. A gangly awkward young woman, drably dressed, her face thin and pale, her glance startled. I moved, and so did she. And then I realized this was no ghost but myself, reflected, and I put a hand to my cheek in dismay, because for a moment I had seen myself as a stranger sees me, a lost girl, away from all the certainties and fixtures of my life.
    I recovered myself because Mr. Queenhythe was observing me, and stepping forward, removed the rest of the sheets.
    To reveal the mirror.
    It was tall and made of some curious glossy black glass.
    It reflected the room as a slanting, warped space, the walls distorted, the windows bulging outward. Coils of wiring led from it into the heaped and piled corners of the room. I picked one up, and it curled in my hand with a strange friction that made me drop it, quickly. Behind me, the mirror showed Mr. Queenhythe laying a pile of documents on the desk.
    â€œThese are your father’s will, his diaries and letters. If you would care to sign here, and . . . just here, our business is concluded.”
    He wanted to be out of the place. I could sense his nervousness. I crossed the room and signed the papers with what I hoped was a defiant flourish. He put the keys down on the desk, gathered his effects, and hurried into the hall. I trailed after him.
    â€œIf there is anything you need,” he said, his look suddenly intent and urgent. “Anything at all, Miss Symmes, please don’t hesitate to contact us. At any hour.”
    Rather unnerved, I put out my hand and he shook it.
    At that moment a soft sound startled us.
    Knock.
    Knock.
    Knock.
    It echoed through the empty hall and dusty stairwell.
    We looked at each other. “Now who can that be?” he said. He marched to the front door and flung it open.
    There was no one there.
    Mr. Queenhythe stepped out and looked up and down the street. The pavements were empty. But I thought I heard, as if from somewhere far, the giggle of children.
    â€œSome scoundrel playing tricks,” he said. “Well. I wish you the best of luck, Miss Symmes. The very best of luck.”
    It was only when I had closed the door on his hurried departure, and turned to face the dark stair and the silent house, that I allowed myself a secret smile.
    Ghosts were just what I needed.
    I was my father’s daughter, after all.

    Allenby took another pull at the cigarette and stared at Jake through the coil of blue smoke. “Let me get this straight. You want me to take you—a prisoner on remand—out of here, across the bomb craters of London, to a smashed-up house in a street that no longer exists?”
    Jake nodded.
    â€œYou really have a nerve, Wilde.”
    Jake leaned back. “It’s the only way. If you want Alicia’s spy network, you have to take me to her house.”
    â€œHer house is in smithereens!”
    â€œNot all of it.” Jake leaned forward. “Come on. Your men must have been digging about in there. They’ve found it, haven’t they. You know they have. The mirror. The machine.”
    He made his voice as confident and enticing as he could, but in truth he felt sick and desperate. He had barely eaten for days—the muck they gave him was inedible—and his brain was weary and fuzzy from broken sleep, because at night the cells were crammed with drunks and infuriatingly noisy women. But at