15

Rose had scrambled through the strange assortment of props in the wings of the stage, knocking over tables and spilling loose packs of cards. One deck flattened out on the floor beside her, and she saw that it contained only aces of hearts and twos of spades. From the center of the spilled deck a joker who was a devil popped out of a box and grinned, raising a red pitchfork. Her only thought was to get out. She had seen Tom die once, when the transparent man jabbed his finger forward and touched him, and now she knew he was going to die again. She brushed against a tall structure that looked like a gate or a stanchion, and a shiny slanting blade came hissing down to thwack against the bottom of the frame.

She heard faint applause echo from behind the curtains, out there where Tom was. Applause? It was true, what she had said to Tom long ago. Mr. Collins had been out of control all summer, drinking even more than usual and screaming in his sleep, so that she knew his mind was in that other time, the time which was mythical to her, with Speckle John and Rosa Forte and the original Wandering Boys - Tom Flanagan was the cause of that…

Rose too was in pain. Rose is always in pain, and only Mr. Collins knows this. For as long as she has walked, she had walked on swords, broken glass, burning coals; the ground stabs her feet. Only Mr. Collins knows how when she walks on her high heels, nails jab into her soles, making every step a crucifixion like Tom's…

She wished she were on a train with him, her feet on the seat before her, going away and away and away. Tom would be stunned by the joy she could bring him, and the reflection of that joy would stun her too.

Her hand found the edge of the stage door. Behind her on the other side of the curtains, the Collector howled, and she knew there would be no train, no sweet Tom beside her in a sleeper - only Mr. Collins knew how to get inside the Collector and talk to the twisted boy who lived there.

Rose groped for the knob. It moved under her hand, and the door swung open onto the dark corridor.

'Dear Rose,' Mr. Collins said, and she gasped. He was standing in the hall, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest.

'Please,' she said. Then she saw - it was not Mr. Collins, but one of his shadows, one of those that had appeared in the window just before that satanic creature in the eyeglasses had come shouting and pointing his finger. She could always tell the shadows from the real thing, thought it was one of his best tricks. Del, who had seen it many times, could sometimes tell too.

'Where do you think you're going, dear one?' the image asked.

'Nowhere,' she said sullenly.

'That's true, isn't it? You are not going anywhere. You cannot go anywhere. You remember that, don't you, Rose?'

'I remember,' she said.

'Thinking about running away with him? Did your little playacting make you wish it could be real?'

She just looked at the shadow, which smiled back at her.

'Did you talk to him about Hilly Vale?' it taunted her. 'Oh, I'm being mean to our pretty little Vermont Rose. I mustn't be mean to someone who has helped me so much.'

'No, don't be mean,' she said. She was nearly in tears.

'If your boyfriend escapes from my toy in there, which is really very unlikely, we will have to lead him a dance, won't we? We'll make him choose again. And he will make the wrong choice. Because he will think it is the only choice he can make. And then you will help me, won't you, Rose?'

'I won't,' she said.

'Defiance - from someone I have aided so often? Are you telling me that you would like to go back home, little Rose?'

He was so calm. She knew he would win. Mr. Collins always won. But she shook her head anyhow.

'Of course, it is an academic question,' the shadow said. 'Because you will always live here with me and be my queen. The darling boy will be found at the bottom of the cliff, along with my nephew, and next summer perhaps there will be another adorable boy. Next summer or in five summers - a boy with strange stirrings in him, a boy who does not know who he is. A few more voices in the tunnels? I shall be in better control next year, I promise you.'

'I hate the tunnels,' Rose said.

'Better control next year,' the shadow promised, fading away. 'And more control over you, dear one… '