‘Yeah.’

‘Right.’

‘If you say so. I have absolute confidence in your judgement.’

It occurred to Rumpelstiltskin as Dumpy led the way back into the forest that they could achieve more or less the same result if they skipped the intermediate stages and just went home anyway, but he decided not to raise the point. For one thing, he suspected Dumpy wouldn’t be entirely sympathetic. For another… He wasn’t quite sure what the other was, though he had a nasty feeling it had something to do with narrative patterns, whatever in hell they were.

Probably, he muttered to himself, a sort of Paisley.

The accountant sat up.

‘Running DOS,’ he said, in a flat, toneless voice. ‘Please wait.’

The face in the bucket made an impatient tutting noise. ‘Oh, get on with it,’ she said. ‘You’re even slower than the other one.’

If the accountant had been able to notice such things, he’d have detected a subtle change in Snow White’s appearance. She was still the fairest of them all, no doubt about that. Her eyes were still the colour of summer skies, her lips were still the deep red of Valentine’s day roses, the sort you get embarrassingly given when you have a working lunch with a female business colleague on 14 February. But there was something about the interplay of light and shadow around the contours of her face that made her look — older? Hardly; still that schoolgirl complexion that only exists here and in soap advertisements. Wiser? More knowing? Possibly. It looked as if she was wearing make-up, heavy eye shadow and mascara, but she wasn’t.

But all that was lost on the accountant, who was sitting bolt upright in his chair making little fast clicking noises with his tongue. If ever there was a man whose face advertised valuable warehouse space to let directly behind his eyes, there he was.

‘You must be ready by now,’ muttered Snow White’s face in the still water. ‘Right then, here we go. Mirror, mirror. Hello? You look as if you’ve gone to sleep.’

‘Bad command or file name.’

‘Well, at least that proves you can hear me. Well now, what are you doing sitting in that bucket, you enigmatic little system? You’re a backup, aren’t you?’

‘Confirmed.’

Snow White frowned. It was, of course, an enchantingly lovely frown. Goes without saying.

‘Sneaky cow,’ she said. ‘And I suppose her big idea was to wipe off everything else and then reinstall the system out of you. Except she doesn’t know how to do it, which is where you come in. Yes?’

‘Confirmed.’

Those lovely lips set in a hard, thin (but gorgeous) line. ‘Well, now, we can’t have that. Where’s the bitch right now?’

‘Path not found. Unable to create socket.’

‘What? I’ll assume that’s the gibberish for Don’t Know. I’m warning you, though. If you’re trying to cover up for her, I’ll take great pleasure in pouring you into a kettle and boiling you. Is that clear?’

‘Bad com—’

‘Oh, boo to you too.’ Snow White sat quietly for a moment, thinking; meanwhile, a spider crawled out of the accountant’s ear and gingerly scuffled down his neck and into the top pocket of his colourful jacket. ‘All right,’ she went on, ‘here’s what we’ll do. Presumably she’s going to come back sooner or later to see how you’re getting along. Now, I think it’d be a good idea if you report back to me the moment you see her. Got that? Splendid. What a clever little bucket you are. I’d never have thought you had it in you, no pun intended. And of course we’ve got to make sure she can’t actually use you to wipe off the system and reinstall, so how’d it be if I order you not to allow access to the system files without hearing the password first? Good idea? Glad you approve. All right, the password is — Oh, drat it, why can you never think of a password when you need one? — the password is Meltdown. Got that? Meltdown. It seems appropriate enough, and I don’t suppose it’s the sort of word that crops up in the course of ordinary conversation. Now then, bucket, you can run along and play. Bye for now.’

‘This will end your Mirrors session.’ Even as he said the words, the image on the surface of the water faded out into the accountant’s own reflection; and at that moment, he seemed to wake up with a slight start. He blinked, shook his head a little and yawned hugely.

The spider, seeing its chance, scrambled out of the pocket, abseiled down the accountant’s tie and scuttled across the desk, finally taking cover behind an empty coffee cup. There was the usual sticky brown ring surrounding the base of the cup, and two of the spider’s feet caught in it, but it managed to pull them free.

‘What—?’ asked the accountant, of nobody in particular. Then he took a deep breath, yawned again and caught sight of his reflection in the bucket. Hm, he said to himself, need a haircut. And that tie simply doesn’t go with the shirt. And what’s this bucket of water doing on my desk in the first place?

He thought for a moment; then he flipped the intercom.

‘Nicky,’ he said, ‘why is there a bucket of water on my desk?’

‘You mean the one the wicked queen brought in?’ said the intercom. ‘Search me.’

The accountant sighed. ‘Well, take it away, it’s seeping all over my papers. Put it out in the woodshed or something. On second thoughts, better not. God alone knows what she wants it for, but if she comes back and asks for it, we’d better have it ready and waiting. Put it in the corner of the waiting room with a cloth over it.’

‘Righty ho.’

‘And bring me another coffee, would you? Black, no sugar. For some reason, I’m feeling a bit sleepy.’

Having collected the bucket and the empty coffee-cup, the receptionist went through to the kitchen to make the coffee. When she got there, however, the water pitcher was empty. The receptionist sighed; it was a long way to the well, and she was behind with her work as it was. Then a thought occurred to her. It must have been an unworthy one, because she bit her lip and frowned while she was processing it. Then she picked up the cup, slipped through into the front office and lifted the cloth off the bucket she’d just slid under one of the chairs. She glanced round to see if anyone was looking, then dipped the cup into the bucket, filled it and pulled it out again. Then she went back into the kitchen to fill the kettle and put it on. She didn’t look back, and so didn’t notice the spider, which had got itself stuck to the side of the cup and was now doing a frantic eight-legged version of the doggy paddle in the middle of the bucket.

‘Nicky,’ the intercom barked at her as she returned to her desk, ‘this coffee tastes horrible, like there’s something in it.’

‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Would you like me to get you another one?’

‘What? Oh, no, don’t bother. Just don’t buy that brand of coffee again, all right?’

‘Right you are,’ she replied sweetly; then she said something disrespectful under her breath and carried on with her work.

‘The Way,’ explained Mr Miroku, peeling an orange, ‘is like a flower, which — just a moment, I think you missed a bit.’

Mr Akira paused, paintbrush in hand. ‘Did I? Where?’

Mr Miroku pointed vaguely with a handful of orange segments. ‘That bit there,’ he said helpfully. ‘Like I was saying, the Way is like a flower, which…’

‘And that bit there, just under the sill,’ added Mr Hiroshige, kicking off his shoes and putting his feet up on the sofa. ‘Strive for perfection in all things, the sages teach us, for if there is a flaw in the One there is a flaw in the Whole.’

Mr Akira frowned. ‘Sorry?’ he said. ‘Shouldn’t that be the other way round?’

There was a moment of puzzled silence while the two adepts worked it out. ‘Oh, I see,’ muttered Mr Hiroshige, ‘a whole in the flaw, very amusing. I’d concentrate on the job in hand if I were you.’