The Golem's Eye

get Mum now. And don't tell anyone what I've just told you."
     
     
    Kitty located Mrs. Hyrnek in the kitchen; she was sieving an odd, oily white lotion, thick with dark-green aromatic herbs, into a medicine jar. At Kitty's news, she nodded, her eyes gray with weariness.
    "I've made the lotion just in time," she said, stoppering the jar hastily and seizing a cloth from the sideboard. "You'll see yourself out, won't you?" With this, she bustled from the room.
    Kitty had taken no more than two trailing steps toward the hall when a low, short whistle halted her in her tracks. She turned: Jakob's aged grandmama was sitting in her usual chair beside the stove, a large bowl of unshelled peas wedged upon her bony lap. Her bright black eyes glittered at Kitty; the numberless crinkles on her face shifted as she smiled. Kitty smiled back uncertainly. A withered hand was raised; a shriveled finger curled and beckoned, twice. Heart pounding, Kitty approached. Never, in all her many visits, had she spoken two words to Jakob's grandmama; she had never even heard her speak. A ridiculous panic engulfed her. What should she say? She did not speak Czech. What did the old woman want? Kitty felt herself suddenly part of a fairy tale, a waif trapped in the kitchen of a cannibal witch. She—
    "This," Jakob's grandmama said in a clear, crisp South London accent, "is for you." She delved a hand somewhere into the pockets of her voluminous skirts. Her eyes did not leave Kitty's face. "You should keep it close.... Ah, where is the beggar? Aha—yes. Here."
    Her hand, when she raised it to Kitty's, was tightly clenched, and Kitty felt the weight of the object and its coldness in her palm before she saw what it was. A small metal pendant, fashioned in the shape of a teardrop. A little loop at the top showed where it could be affixed to a chain. Kitty did not know what to say.
    "Thank you," she said. "It's... beautiful."
    Jakob's grandmama grunted. "Huh. It's silver. More to the point, girl."
    "It—it must be very valuable. I... don't think I should—"
    "Take it. And wear it." Two leathery hands enclosed Kitty's, folding her fingers over the pendant. "You never know. Now, I have a hundred peas to shell. Perhaps a hundred and two—one for each year, eh? So. I must concentrate. Be off with you!"
     
     
    The next few days saw repeated deliberations between Kitty and her parents, but the upshot was always the same—with all their savings pooled, they were still several hundred pounds short of the Court's fine. Selling the house, with the uncertainty that entailed, seemed the only solution.
    Except, possibly, for Mr. Pennyfeather.
    Ring if interested. Within a week. Kitty had not mentioned him to her parents, or to anyone else, but his words were always on her mind. He had promised to help her, and she had no problem with that in principle. The question was, Why? She did not think he was doing it out of the goodness of his heart.
    But her parents were going to lose their house if she did not act.
    T. E. Pennyfeather certainly existed in the telephone directory: he was listed as an "Artists' Supplier" in Southwark, alongside the same phone number that Kitty had on the card. So that much of his story appeared to be true.
    But what did he want? Part of Kitty felt very strongly that she should leave him alone; another part couldn't see what she had to lose. If she didn't pay up soon, she would be arrested, and Mr. Pennyfeather's offer was the only lifeline she had to seize.
    At length, she made up her mind.
    There was a telephone box two streets away from where she lived. One morning, she squeezed herself into its narrow, muggy space, and rang the number.
    A voice answered, dry and breathless. "Artists' Supplies. Hello."
    "Mr. Pennyfeather?"
    "Ms. Jones! I am delighted. I feared you would not ring."
    "Here I am. Listen, I'm—I'm interested in your offer, but I must know what you want from me before I go any further."
    "Of course, of course. I shall explain to you. May I suggest we meet?"
    "No. Tell me now, over the phone."
    "That would not be prudent."
    "It would for me. I'm not putting myself at risk. I don't know who you—"
    "Quite so. I will suggest something. If you disagree, well and good. Our contact will be at an end. If you agree, we shall move on. My suggestion: we meet at the Druids' Coffeehouse at Seven Dials. Do you know it? A popular spot—always busy. You can talk to me in safety there. If in doubt I suggest another thing. Seal my