The Golem's Eye

brittle atmosphere, Anne brought in trays of tea and almond biscuits. An hour later, Mr. Pennyfeather emerged from the backroom. With great deliberation, he poured lukewarm tea into a cup.
    "We have deciphered the instructions," he said. "Now we are truly ready." He raised the cup in a solemn toast. "To whatever tonight may bring! We have righteousness on our side. Be confident and keen, my friends. If we are bold and do not falter, our lives will never be the same again!"
    He drank, clicked his cup back decisively on its saucer.
    The final discussions began.
     
    Kitty was the second of the company to enter the abbey outhouse. Anne had preceded her less than a minute before. She stared into the darkness, hearing Anne's breathing close by. "Shall we risk a light?" she whispered.
    "Pencil torch," Anne said. "I've got it."
    A thin beam lit the wall opposite, then, briefly, Kitty's face. Kitty blinked and raised a hand. "Keep it low," she said. "We don't know about windows."
    Crouching down to the flagstoned floor, Anne swung the torch about her speculatively, casting fleeting light upon piles of paint pots, spades, garden forks, a shiny new lawn mower, and sundry other tools. Kitty shifted her rucksack from her back, plunked it down before her and checked her watch. "Next one's due," she said.
    As if in answer, a faint scrabbling sounded somewhere outside, beyond the door. Anne turned off the torch. They crouched in darkness.
    The door was opened and closed, accompanied by the sound of heavy breathing. Air drifted briefly through the room, bringing with it a powerful waft of aftershave.
    Kitty relaxed. "Hello, Fred," she said.
    At five-minute intervals, the remainder of the company arrived. Last to appear was Mr. Pennyfeather himself, already weary and out of breath. He gave a wheezed command: "Frederick Stanley! Lanterns... on! There are—there are... no windows in this room. We have nothing to be afraid of."
    In the light of two powerful lanterns, the six of them stood revealed: all carrying rucksacks, all wearing black. Mr. Pennyfeather had even painted his stick black, and had muffled its tip with a plug of fabric. He leaned on it now, scanning the party one by one with slow deliberation, gathering his resources. "Very well," he said, at last. "Anne—headgear, please."
    Dark woolen balaclavas were produced and distributed. Fred eyed his distrustfully. "I don't like these things," he growled. "They scratch."
    Mr. Pennyfeather clicked his tongue impatiently. "Blackheads alone will not be sufficient tonight, Frederick. It is too important. Put it on. Right—final check. Then cloisters. So, Nicholas—you have the casket with the Hermetic Mantle?"
    "I do."
    "And the hammer with which to strike it?"
    "That, too."
    "Frederick—you have the jimmy? Good. And your useful array of knives? Excellent. Stanley—rope and compass? Kitty—sticking plaster, bandages, and ointment? Good, and I have the key to the tomb. As for weapons—we should all have at least one mouler glass and an Elemental Sphere of some description. Very well."
     
    He took a moment to regain his breath. "A couple of things," he added, "before we go through. The weapons are to be used only as a last resort, if we are disturbed. Otherwise, we must be subtle. Unseen. If the door to the abbey is locked, we retreat. In the tomb itself, we locate the treasures; I will divide them out among you. Fill your bags and return the way we came. We will meet back in this room. If anything should go wrong, at the first opportunity make your way to our cellar. Avoid the shop. If, for any reason, I am a casualty, Mr. Hopkins can advise you further. He will wait at Druid's Coffeehouse tomorrow afternoon. Any questions? No? Nicholas—if you would..."
    At the end of the outhouse was a second door. Nick passed to it silently and pushed. It swung open; beyond was the ink-blue darkness of the open air.
    "We go," Mr. Pennyfeather said.
     
    This was the order they went in: Nick, followed by Kitty, then Fred, Anne, Stanley, and Mr. Pennyfeather bringing up the rear.
    With the silence of bats they flitted through the cloisters, flecks of moving graininess against the wall of black. Faint slabs of a lighter shade marked out the arched windows to their right, but the inner court of the cloisters was invisible to them. There was no moon to show the way. Their sneakered feet scuffed the stone slabs with the gentle rustling of dead leaves nudged by the wind. Mr. Pennyfeather's