The Golem's Eye

clicked a bony finger and jigged from side to side. "Bit stiff—unsurprising, no tendons left—but that'll pass. All bones present and correct? Check. All possessions too? Ah, no..." The voice grew wistful. "Some little mice have come and spirited them away. Naughty little mice.... Catch them by their tails and pull their whiskers out."
    Kitty had been slowly inserting a hand into her bag, beneath the cloak and other objects, to locate her Elemental Sphere. She had it now, clasped in a clammy palm. Beside her, she sensed Fred doing likewise, but with less precision; she feared his rustling movements would soon be noticed. She thus spoke more as a distraction than with any real hope.
    "Please, Mr. Gladstone, sir," she stammered. "We have all your possessions here, and will happily return them to you exactly as they were."
    With an unpleasant grinding, the skull swiveled 180 degrees on its vertebrae to look behind it. Seeing nothing, it cocked sideways in puzzlement and swiveled back. "To whom are you referring, little girl?" it asked. "To me?"
    "Er—yes. I thought—"
    "Me—Mr. Gladstone? Are you mad, or featherheaded as a dabchick?"
    "Well—"
    "Look at this hand." Five bone fingers were held up to the light and rotated on a knobbly wrist. "Look at this pelvis. Look at this rib cage." In each case, the fingers moved rotting cloth aside to provide a glimpse of yellowed bone. "Look at this face." For an instant, the golden mask was tipped askew, and Kitty caught a glimpse of the skull, with grinning teeth and hollow sockets. "In all honesty, little girl, does Mr. Gladstone look alive to you?"
    "Er—not really."
    " 'Not really...' The answer's no! No, he doesn't. Why? you ask. Because he's dead. A hundred and ten years dead and rotting in his grave. Not really. What kind of an answer is that? You really are clots, little girl, you and your friends. Speaking of which..." It pointed a bony finger down at the bronze plaque on the side of the sarcophagus. "Can't you read?"
    Dumbly, Kitty shook her head. The skeleton clapped its fingers to its forehead in derision. "Can't read Sumerian, and she goes ferreting in Gladstone's grave! So you didn't see the bit about 'leaving the Glorious Leader to rest in peace'?"
    "No, we didn't. We're very sorry."
    "Or the bits about 'perpetual guardian,' or 'savage vengeance,' or 'no apologies accepted'?"
    "No, none of that." Out of the corner of her eye, Kitty saw Fred lower his bag a little, his right hand still hidden within it. He was ready now.
    "Well, what can you expect, then? Ignorance reaps its own reward, which in this case is an unpleasant death. The first lot apologized profusely, too. You should have seen them get down on their knees and bawl for mercy. That's them over there." It jerked a bony thumb in the direction of the false wall. "They were eager beavers, sure enough. Came within weeks. One was Mr. G.'s private secretary, if I recall, a very loyal specimen; he'd managed to make a duplicate key and stave off the Pestilence somehow. I hid them away, just to be tidy, and if you're good I'll do the same with you. Wait right there."
    The skeleton hitched one stiff trouser leg over the side of the sarcophagus. Kitty and Fred caught each other's eye. As one, they drew the Elemental Spheres from their knapsacks and hurled them at the skeleton. It raised a resentful hand; something invisible blocked the spheres' flight; they fell heavily to the floor, where, instead of exploding, they seemed to implode with damp, pathetic squeals, leaving nothing but small black stains upon the flagstones.
    "I really can't have a mess being made here," the skeleton said reprovingly. "In Mr. Gladstone's day, guests were more considerate."
    From his own bag, Mr. Pennyfeather drew forth a silver disc; leaning on his stick, he threw it at the skeleton from the side. It sliced into the forearm of the dusty suit and stuck fast. The voice emanating from behind the golden mask let out a shrill yell. "My essence! I felt that. Silver is something I really can't abide. See how you like being willfully assaulted, old timer." A bright green bolt erupted from the mask and lanced across into Mr. Pennyfeather's chest, driving him back hard against the wall. He crumpled to the floor. The skeleton gave a grunt of satisfaction and turned back to the others. "That'll learn him," it said.
    But Fred was moving again, retrieving from secreted spots about his person one silver disc after another and throwing them in