Weaveworld

2

It might have given Suzanna some small satisfaction if she could have seen the look on Hobart’s face when, less than twenty minutes after her departure, he arrived at the hotel the prisoner had named.

He’d spilled a good deal while the beasts had their way with him: blood and words in equal measure. But the words were incoherent; a babble from which Hobart wrestled to extract any sense. There was talk of the Fugue, of course, amongst the sobs and the bleatings; and of Suzanna too. Oh my lady, he kept saying, oh my lady; then fresh sobbing. Hobart let him weep, and bleed, and weep some more, until the man was near to death. Then he asked the simple question: where is your lady? And the fool answered, his mind past knowing who asked the question, or indeed if he’d answered it.

And here, in the place the man had spoken of, Hobart now stood. But where was the woman of his dreams? Where was Suzanna? Gone again: flitted away, leaving the door-handle warm and the threshold still mourning her shadow.

It had been very close this time, though. He’d almost taken her. How long before he had her mystery netted, once and for all, her silver light between his fingers? Hours. Days at the most.

‘Nearly mine,’ he said to himself. He clutched the book of faery-tales close to his chest, so that none of its words could slip away, then left his lady’s chamber to go whip up the hunt.