The Golem's Eye

fright. He jumped back, the swinging light sending shadows racing around them. Reverberations of his yell danced in their ears.
    Mr. Pennyfeather spun around; Kitty's knife leaped to her hand; silver discs appeared in those of Fred and Nick. "What is it?" Kitty hissed, above the banging of her heart.
    A plaintive voice in the dark. "Right beside us—there... a ghost..."
    "Ghosts don't exist. Raise your lantern."
    With obvious reluctance, Stanley obeyed. In his trembling light, a stone plinth was revealed nestling in an alcove. It had an arch in its side, from which a skeleton had been carved emerging, wreathed in shrouds and flourishing a spear.
    "Oh..." Stanley said, in a small voice. "It's a statue."
    "You idiot," Kitty whispered. "It's just someone's tomb. Could you have shouted any louder?"
    "Come on." Mr. Pennyfeather was already moving off. "We're wasting time."
    As they left the nave and rounded a wide pillar to enter the north transept, the number of visible memorials cluttering the aisles increased. Nick and Stanley raised their lanterns to shed light upon the tombs; it was somewhere here that Gladstone's was to be found. Many of the statues were life-size representations of the dead magicians: they sat in carved chairs, studying unrolled parchments; they stood heroically in long carved robes, their pale, sharp faces gazing sightlessly down upon the hurrying company. One carried a cage with a forlorn frog sitting within; this particular woman was depicted laughing. Despite her steely resolve, Kitty was unnerved. The sooner they left this place, the better.
    "Here," Mr. Pennyfeather whispered.
    A modest statue in white marble—a man standing on a low, circular pedestal. His brow was furrowed, his face a model of stern preoccupation. He wore a flowing gown, and beneath it an old-fashioned suit with a high starched collar. His hands were loosely clasped in front of him. On the pedestal was one word, engraved deeply in the marble:
    GLADSTONE
     
    Something of the reputation of the name cast its power upon them. They held back from the statue, crowding close together at a respectful distance. Mr. Pennyfeather spoke softly: "The key to the tomb is in my pocket. The entrance is on the pillar there. A small bronze door. Kitty, Anne—you have the sharpest eyes. Find the door and locate the keyhole. According"—he suppressed a cough—"according to the records, it should be on the left-hand side."
    Kitty and Anne rounded the statue and approached the pillar, Anne training her pencil torch on the stonework ahead. With careful steps they walked around the column until the dull glint of metal showed within the light. They stepped close. The metal panel was small, only five feet high, and narrow, too. It was entirely bare of ornament, except for a seam of tiny studs around its margins.
    "Found it," Kitty whispered. A minuscule hole halfway up, on the left-hand edge. Anne held the torch close; the hole was plugged with cobwebs.
    Mr. Pennyfeather led the others over: they stood gathered beside the pillar.
    "Nicholas," he said. "Get the Mantle ready."
    For perhaps two minutes, Kitty stood with them in the darkness, breathing steadily through the woolen fibers of her balaclava, waiting for Nick to prepare. Occasionally a muffled drone indicated the passage of a limousine somewhere out in Parliament Square; otherwise, all was still—except for the sound of Mr. Pennyfeather coughing quietly into his gloves.
    Nick cleared his throat. "Ready." At that moment, they heard the scream of sirens, growing louder, then passing drearily over Westminster Bridge into the night. They faded. Finally, Mr. Pennyfeather gave a brief nod. "Now," he said. "Stand close, or the Mantle will not protect you."
    Neither Kitty nor the others needed to be told. They crowded close into a rough circle, inward facing, their shoulders touching. In their midst, Nick held a neat ebony casket; with his other hand he flourished a small hammer. Mr. Pennyfeather nodded. "I have the key here. The moment the Mantle covers us, I will turn the key in the lock. When that happens, stand still—no matter what occurs."
    Nick raised the hammer and brought it down sharply on the lid of the ebony casket. The lid broke in two; the precise crack it made echoed like a pistol shot. A stream of yellow particles flew upward out of the casket, twirling and twinkling with their own light. They spiraled above the company to a height perhaps of fifteen feet, then arched out and