A Face Like Glass Read Free Page A

excitement as she sprinted back to her master.
    ‘Can I be the one to unlock the door?’ she asked, aware that she might be pushing her luck.
    Cheesemaster Grandible was always careful to hide his front door keys away from Neverfell’s curious grasp, and only dug them out when a visitor was imminent. On this occasion he tossed her
the great ring without a word, and she ran back to the door, her fingers thrilled by the cold weight of the keys.
    ‘Only let her in if she’s alone – and take a sniff before you open that door!’ barked Grandible from down the corridor. Cheesemaster Grandible always responded to any
outside intrusion as a potential invasion, even when the visitors were nothing but delivery boys.
    Her fingers clumsy with excitement, Neverfell pulled out the waxed cloth that plugged each of the locks to keep out poison gas and glisserblinds, the tiny sightless snakes that sometimes
slithered through rocky fissures using their uncanny sense of smell to search for something to bite. She unlocked the seven locks, pulled back thirty-four of the thirty-five bolts, then obediently
halted, and stood on tiptoe to look through the goggle-glass spyhole set in the door.
    In the little passageway beyond was the figure of a solitary woman. Her waist was so slender it looked as though it might snap. She was dressed in a dark green gown with a silver-beaded
stomacher, and a lace-adorned standing collar. Her mahogany-coloured hair was all but lost amid a forest of feathers, most iridescent green and black, which made her look taller than she was.
Neverfell’s first thought was that the lady must have come straight from some wonderful party.
    A black silk kerchief was wrapped around Madame Appeline’s throat, so that her pale face was thrown into relief. Neverfell decided instantly that it was the most beautiful face she had
ever seen. It was heart-shaped and perfectly smooth. As the lady waited, various expressions twinkled in and out of existence, a strange and charming change from Grandible’s perpetual glower.
Her eyes were long, slanted and green, her brows utterly black. Only a little cleft in the chin prevented her face from being perfectly regular.
    Remembering Grandible’s instructions, Neverfell opened a small hidden hatch, and took a quick careful sniff of the air. Her sharp cheesemaker’s nose picked up only hair powder, haste
and a hint of violets. The lady was wearing perfume, but not Perfume; a pleasing scent but not one that could be used to enslave minds.
    Neverfell dragged back the last bolt, heaved on the great iron ring and pulled the door open. Upon seeing her, the woman hesitated, and then softened slightly into a look of politely amused
surprise, tinged with kindness.
    ‘Can I speak to Cheesemaster Moormoth Grandible? I believe he is expecting me?’
    Neverfell had never been looked at quite so gently before, and her mouth dried up instantly.
    ‘Yes . . . I . . . He . . . he’s in the reception room.’ This was her golden moment to steal a few words with the Facesmith, and apparently she had forgotten how to form
sentences. She felt her face grow hot under the mask as she glanced furtively about her. ‘I . . . I wanted to ask you something—’
    ‘Neverfell!’ came the gruff bark from the reception room.
    Neverfell abruptly remembered her master’s instructions. No gabbling . That probably meant he did not want her talking at all.
    She hesitated, then bent a neat little bow, and stepped back, miming an invitation to enter. No friendly chatter today. This was a guest to treat well and attentively, but not one to make too
comfortable or welcome. So Neverfell waited for Madame Appeline to enter, fastened the door behind her and then showed her towards the reception room, a dapper little mannequin with white eyes and
a silver smile.
    The light in the passage was dim, a sure sign of a shortage of people. Just as people counted upon the little carnivorous flytrap plants in the