The Golem's Eye

from him of helping Fred, or Anne, or Mr. Pennyfeather.
    Then there was the clever Mr. Hopkins.... As she thought of the bland-faced scholar, a thrill of anger ran through Kitty. Where had he been all this time? Far away, safe and sound. Neither he nor the mystery benefactor, the gentleman whose information about Gladstone's defenses had proved so sadly lacking, had dared be present at the tomb. If it hadn't been for their influence over Mr. Pennyfeather in the last few months, the rest of the group would still be alive that morning. And what had they gotten for their sacrifice? Nothing but a knobbly length of wood.
    The staff lay beside her amid the debris on the floor. In a sudden flurry of rage, Kitty got to her feet, seized it in both hands and brought it down hard over her knee. To her surprise, she achieved nothing but a jarring of both wrists: the wood was much stronger than it looked. With a cry, she hurled it against the nearest wall.
    Almost as soon as it began, Kitty's anger was replaced by a great emptiness. It was conceivable, perhaps, that she could contact Mr. Hopkins in due course. Discuss a possible plan of action. But not today. For now, she needed something different, something to counteract the feeling of being utterly alone. She needed to see her parents again.
     
     
    It was already late afternoon when Kitty emerged from the cellar into the mews courtyard and listened. Faint sirens and one or two bangs sounded, drifting distantly on the wind from central London, where something was evidently afoot. She shrugged. So much the better. She would not be disturbed. She locked the door, hid the key, and set off.
    Despite traveling light—she had left the staff lying in the cellar—Kitty took most of the evening to walk to Balham, and the skies were darkening by the time she reached the familiar knot of roads close to her old home. By now she was tired, footsore, and hungry. Apart from a couple of apples stolen from a grocer's store, she had eaten nothing. Imagined tastings of her mother's cooking began to roll tantalizingly over her tongue, accompanied by thoughts of her old room, with its comfy little bed and the wardrobe with the door that didn't close. How long had it been since she'd slept there? Years, now. If just for one night, she would gladly curl up there again.
     
    Dusk was falling when she walked up the old street and, slowing her pace unconsciously, drew near to her parents' house. A light was on in the living room: this drew forth a wrenching sob of relief, but also a spur of anxiety. Unobservant though her mother was, she must not guess something was wrong, not until Kitty had had a chance to work out what to do. She inspected herself in the blank reflection of a neighbor's window, smoothed back her tousled hair, and brushed down her clothes as best she could. She could do nothing about the dirt on her hands, or the bags beneath her eyes. She sighed. Not great, but it would have to do. With that, she stepped up to the door and knocked. Her keys had been left back in her rooms.
    After a slight delay, during which Kitty was driven to knock again, a familiar slim shadow appeared in the hall. It hovered halfway down it, as if uncertain whether to open the door. Kitty tapped on the glass. "Mum! It's me."
    Diffidently, the shadow came near; her mother opened the door a little and looked out. "Oh," she said, "Kathleen."
    "Hello, Mum," Kitty said, smiling as best she could. "Sorry this is unexpected."
    "Oh. Yes." Her mother did not open the door any farther. She was looking at Kitty with a startled, slightly wary expression.
    "Is anything wrong, Mum?" Kitty asked, too weary to care.
    "No, no. Not at all."
    "So can I come in, then?"
    "Yes... of course." Her mother stood aside to allow Kitty to enter, presented a cold cheek to be pecked, and shut the door carefully behind them.
    "Where's Dad? In the kitchen? I know it's late, but I'm starving."
    "I think perhaps the living room would be best, dear."
    "Okay." Kitty stepped down the hall and into the small lounge. Everything was much as she remembered: the frayed carpet, denuded of color; the little mirror over the mantelpiece; the elderly sofa and chair that her father had inherited from his father, complete with lacy antimacassars on the headrests. On the little coffee table was a steaming teapot and three cups. On the sofa sat her father. In the chair opposite sat a young man.
    Kitty stopped dead. Her mother quietly closed the door.
    The