Thief of Time Read Free

and get—”
    “There is no time .”
    “But I can’t just walk right out and—”
    “ Now. ”
    Nanny reached behind the door for her birthing bag, always kept there for just such occasions as this, full of the things she knew she’d want and a few of the things she always prayed she’d never need.
    “Right,” she said.
    She left.
    Tick
    The kettle was just boiling when Nanny walked back into her kitchen. She stared at it for a moment, and then moved it off the fire.
    There was still a drop of brandy left in the glass by her chair. She drained that, then refilled the glass to the brim from the bottle.
    She picked up her pipe. The bowl was still warm. She pulled on it, and the coals crackled.
    Then she took something out of her bag, which was now a good deal emptier and, brandy glass in her hand, sat down to look at it.
    “Well,” she said at last, “that was…very unusual…”
    Tick
    Death watched the image fade. A few flakes of snow that had blown out of the mirror had already melted on the floor, but there was still a whiff of pipe smoke in the air.
    A H YES, I SEE, he said. A BIRTHING, IN STRANGE CIRCUMSTANCES. B UT IS THAT WHAT THE PROBLEM WAS OR WAS THAT WHAT THE SOLUTION WILL BE?
    S QUEAK, said the Death of Rats.
    Q UITE SO, said Death. Y OU MAY VERY WELL BE RIGHT. I DO KNOW THAT THE MIDWIFE WILL NEVER TELL ME.
    The Death of Rats looked surprised.
    S QUEAK?
    Death smiled. D EATH ? A SKING AFTER THE LIFE OF A CHILD? NO. SHE WOULD NOT.
    “’Scuse me,” said the raven, “but how come Miss Ogg became Mrs. Ogg? Sounds a bit of a rural arrangement, if you catch my meaning.”
    W ITCHES ARE MATRILINEAL, said Death. T HEY FIND IT MUCH EASIER TO CHANGE MEN THAN TO CHANGE NAMES.
    He went back to his desk and opened a drawer.
    There was a thick book there, bound in night. On the cover, where a book like this might otherwise say “Our Wedding” or “Acme Photo Album” it said MEMORIES .
    Death turned the heavy pages carefully. Some of the memories escaped as he did so, forming brief pictures in the air before the page turned, and then went flying and fading into the distant, dark corners of the room. There were snatches of sound, too, of laughter, tears, screams, and, for some reason, a brief burst of xylophone music that caused him to pause for a moment.
    An immortal has a great deal to remember. Sometimes it’s better to put things where they will be safe.
    One ancient memory, brown and cracking around the edges, lingered in the air over the desk. It showed five figures, four on horseback, one in a chariot, all apparently riding out of a thunderstorm. The horses were at a full gallop. There was a lot of smoke and flame and general excitement.
    A H, THE OLD DAYS , said Death, BEFORE THERE WAS THIS FASHION FOR HAVING A SOLO CAREER.
    S QUEAK? the Death of Rats inquired.
    O H, YES, said Death. O NCE THERE WERE FIVE OF US. F IVE HORSEMEN . B UT YOU KNOW HOW THINGS ARE. T HERE’S ALWAYS A ROW. C REATIVE DISAGREEMENTS, ROOMS BEING TRASHED, THAT SORT OF THING. He sighed. A ND THINGS SAID THAT PERHAPS SHOULD NOT HAVE BEEN SAID.
    He turned a few more pages and sighed again. When you needed an ally, and you were Death, on whom could you absolutely rely?
    His thoughtful gaze fell on the teddy bear mug.
    Of course, there was always family. Yes. He’d promised not to do this again, but he’d never got the hang of promises.
    He got up and went back to the mirror. There was not a lot of time. Things in the mirror were closer than they appeared.
    There was slithering noise, a breathless moment of silence, and a crash like a bag of skittles being dropped.
    The Death of Rats winced. The raven took off hurriedly.
    H ELP ME UP, PLEASE, said a voice from the shadows. A ND THEN PLEASE CLEAN UP THE DAMN BUTTER.
    Tick
    This desk was a field of galaxies.
    Things twinkled. There were complex wheels and spirals, brilliant against the blackness…
    Jeremy always liked the moment when he had a clock in pieces, with every wheel and