Finding Edward

"Night-night, darling. Sweet dreams."

Callie's grandmother kissed her, switched off the bedside light, lingered for a moment at the door looking down at her as she lay in the far-too-large bed, and slipped out.

After she had gone, Callie lay awake, turning over in her mind the extraordinary story her grandmother had just told her. It wasn't true, of course. It couldn't be true. Why would someone making a human being put scissors where the hands should be at any point in the process?

Then there was the haunted house. Callie remembered her great uncle Kevin – a property developer – explaining to her that when no family member came forward to claim inheritance of a house, it and its plot of land went on the general market. This meant that anyone could buy it at any time – for very little money, since the house was so run down. Great uncle Kevin had said that in such situations, new occupants usually tore the existing house down, erected an entirely new one on the site, sold it off and made a tidy profit. He had never been the most imaginative at bedtime stories, and he used a lot of big words she didn't always understand. Still, it had just been nice to have him sit on her bed and hold her hand while he talked at her in his inimitably blustery but kind manner. Usually he had talked about anything but the things which Grandma had said mattered; when things got too heavy he would bluster, and frequently got told off for it by Grandma. But that capacity for easy small talk had proved an invaluable anaesthetic to everyone when her parents… Anyway, he had got a poorly heart and gone to be with them too just three months ago, so it was just her and Grandma now.

Callie wasn't tired – not a bit – but she was hot. The fire had died down to embers, but its heat was still intense. She slid out of bed and padded across the floor to the window. If somebody called Edward with scissors for hands really lived in the old mansion on the hill, he deserved to know that people were soon coming to buy it and knock it down. The catch on the window was rusty and stiff, but she was able to wrench it loose using both her hands and her full body weight. It opened easily after the catch shifted. She stuck her head out, and drew in the cold night air through her nose. She could smell the crystallised water from the snowflakes – sharp, almost metallic. She let her breath go again, and watched the cloud billow out before whipping away on the wind. Perhaps Grandma knew why people breathed clouds in the cold too – she would ask he tomorrow. The light from the street lamps illuminated the flakes as they swirled past. She heard a quiet click, and saw that the pale light coming under her bedroom door was gone.

The window opened onto a flat roof, which sloped down to a short drop into a large tea bush. Grandma usually trimmed it in early June. Callie always delighted in gathering up the clippings, stripping the leaves off them, and collecting them in her favourite blue plastic bucket. Afterwards the two of them would share what Grandma referred to as 'real tea', sitting opposite each other like grown up ladies at the picnic bench on the lawn.

Grandma never lied. Her parents had known it. Great uncle Kevin had known it, and had

reminded her of it often, counselling her to follow her Grandma's example. Not even white lies - which were lies intended for a good purpose – or lies by omission – which meant not saying something which wasn't the case, but still leaving out important bits to disguise or hide the truth. So it seemed completely out of keeping that she would now claim to have been there with Edward if she in fact hadn't been, or if there was nobody called Edward.

It wouldn't be a big drop, Callie thought, looking at it now. And Grandma was a deep sleeper. Grandma always went to bed at nine O'clock at night and got up at eight O'clock in the morning. She claimed that was the secret to her good health. That and the fact she was a deep sleeper. It was unlikely she would wake up now, or find out if Callie went investigating. Of course, if she did find out, or if she happened to ask, Callie knew she would have to tell the truth. But no harm in keeping quiet about it otherwise. And she hadn't expressly promised not to go exploring at night, or to climb out the window or on the roof.

The snow did seem to be thicker in the direction of Mansion Hill, Callie thought, as she heaved open the top drawer of the chest in her bedroom open. She put on two of her great uncle's old sweaters, and pulled out a tatty red blanket. Grandma liked to be well stocked up in case of power cuts. Then she climbed carefully out onto the roof and slid down – slightly losing control and landing rather harder than she meant to in the tea bush. Oh well – it had all winter and spring to sort itself out before Grandma checked on it. Already regretting not wearing slippers, she started up the road towards the hill.

By the time she reached the gates of the house, Callie's feet were numb. She had considered going back several times, but the house had seemed a very long walk away, and she didn't think she would be able to make it. She was glad she had put on the extra sweaters – although even with them on she was shivering violently, and the paralysing cold was creeping from her toes up her shins, sucking the warmth from her.

The gates of the mansion were locked, but the wood had degraded to the point that several of the planks were loose, and could be pushed aside using their corroding nails as hinges. She squeezed through. The garden was lit only by moonlight. The cloudless sky felt strange, seeing as the snow was falling more thickly than ever. She gasped, and gazed around. The grounds glinted with strange, beautiful, looming ice figures – angels, a lion shaking its mane and roaring, an eagle in mid-flight, and many more – four of which she could not identify what they were. The whole thing reminded her of the White Witch's castle in The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe. She shivered again, and limped on, her feet having lost all feeling. The snow – she could see – was in fact coming from behind a large chariot-shaped hedge. Feeling suddenly frightened, she crept forward, her breath hitching, and peered round one of the wheels.

The man was standing on a step ladder, and had his back to her. At least, Callie assumed it was a man. He didn't look old. He was a normal sort of height, but nothing else about him was remotely normal. He wore what looked at first glance like a black leather suit of some sort, but which was actually more like a suit of armour, with leather straps and buckles linking different joints together. His hair stuck up in wild spikes and cascades. He was moderately thin, though not wiry. He looked a bit like Uncle Andrew in The Magician's Nephew, except his hair was black, whereas Uncle Andrew's hair was white. Callie hoped this man wasn't like Uncle Andrew in temperament and agenda, though. She realised at that moment how alone she was – and how unable to run. She doubted if she'd even be able to walk any significant distance.

The man was working on yet another ice sculpture: two winged horses side by side – a mare and a foal – with their heads lowered towards the ground. They must melt every spring, Callie thought. A never-ending project. Perhaps that was the way he needed it to be.

As he worked, he threw out clouds and clouds of ice shards, which caught on the breeze and were carried over the village below. The thin sliver of his face that Callie could see whenever he leaned over to work on the mare's mane was so pale it looked like the moon itself – and shone in the light of the actual moon. But his most remarkable feature was his hands – or rather, his lack of them. His arms – which flailed this way and that like an out-of-control windmill as he sculpted at high speed – tapered off to gigantic pairs of scissors. They looked like Daddy's hedge trimmers, Mommy's Swiss army knife, and Grandma's fabric-cutters from her sewing kit all rolled into one. The blades of the scissors were clicking away so fast as he sculpted that it was difficult to make them out in the blur.

Callie's voice took a moment to find itself. Something invisible seemed to have its hand around her neck, constricting her breathing. She closed her eyes, forced a few deep breaths, and attempted to slow her pummelling heartrate.

"Mr…Mr Edward?" she whispered at last.

He startled, and steadied himself. The clack-clack-clack fell away to silence, and he stood stock still. His whole body seemed to tense and quiver. She waited. Then, very slowly, he turned towards her…