The Watcher in the Shadows

by Carlos Ruiz Zafon

Genres: General Fiction; Historical Fiction

Synopsis

A mysterious toymaker who lives as a recluse in an old mansion, surrounded by the magical beings he has created...

A sickly wife locked away in a hidden room...

An enigma involving strange lights that shine out from the small island on which an old, disused lighthouse stands...

A shadowy creature that hides deep in the woods...

These are the elements of a mystery will bind 14-year-old Irene to Ismael during one magical summer spent in Blue Bay when her mother takes a job as a housekeeper for the enigmatic toymaker, Lazarus Jann.

A novel of mystery, intrigue and romance from the author of The Prince of Mist and The Shadow of the Wind.

Release date: June 18, 2013

Publisher: Little, Brown Books for Young Readers

Print pages: 240

Sample

THOSE WHO REMEMBER THE NIGHT Armand Sauvelle passed away would swear that a purple light flashed across the sky, leaving in its wake a trail of blazing ashes that faded away over the horizon—a light that his daughter, Irene, never saw, but that would haunt her dreams for years to come.

It was a cold winter’s dawn, and the windowpanes in Ward 14 of Saint George’s Hospital were covered in a film of ice.

Armand Sauvelle’s flame went out silently, without so much as a sigh. His wife, Simone, and his daughter, Irene, looked up as the first glimmer of day cast needles of light across the hospital ward. His youngest child, Dorian, was asleep on one of the chairs. A heartrending stillness filled the room. No words were necessary to explain what had happened. After he’d suffered for six months, an illness whose name he was never able to pronounce had snatched away Armand Sauvelle’s life.

It was the beginning of the worst year the Sauvelle family would ever experience.



Armand Sauvelle took his charm and his infectious laughter with him to the grave, but his numerous debts did not accompany him on his final journey. Soon a whole horde of creditors and vultures wearing elegant frock coats began to drop by the Sauvelles’ home on Boulevard Haussmann. After the legal niceties of those first visits came the veiled threats. And these soon gave way to the seizure of the family’s assets.

Prestigious schools and beautifully tailored clothes were replaced by part-time jobs and simpler outfits for Irene and Dorian. This was the beginning of the Sauvelles’ spectacular fall into the real world. The one who came off the worst, however, was Simone. She returned to her job as a teacher, but the work did not provide enough income to stem the torrent of debt that consumed the family’s limited resources. New documents signed by Armand seemed to crop up everywhere; Simone faced a seemingly bottomless rabbit hole of unpaid loans and letters of credit.

By this point young Dorian had begun to suspect that half the population of Paris was made up of lawyers and accountants, a special breed of ravenous rodent that lived aboveground. Also by then, and without telling her mother, Irene had taken a job in a dance hall. For just a few coins (which, in the early hours of the morning, she would slip into the box Simone kept hidden under the kitchen sink), she would dance with clumsy young soldiers with sweaty hands who were really no more than frightened children themselves.

At the same time, the Sauvelles discovered that the list of people who used to call themselves friends was evaporating like dew in the morning sun. That summer, however, Henri Laffont, an old friend of Armand Sauvelle, offered the family a small apartment above the art shop he managed in Montparnasse. He waved aside the rent, to be repaid in better times. All he asked in exchange for putting them up was Dorian’s assistance as an errand boy, because his knees were no longer what they had once been. Simone could never find enough words with which to thank old Monsieur Laffont for his kindness. But the shopkeeper didn’t expect any thanks. In a world of rats, they’d happened upon an angel.

As the first days of winter sent a chill through the streets, Irene turned fourteen years of age, although she felt more like twenty-four. For once, she spent the coins she earned in the dance hall on herself and bought a cake with which to celebrate her birthday with Simone and Dorian. Armand’s absence still weighed on them like an oppressive shadow. They blew out the candles together in the narrow sitting room of their apartment on the Rue de Rennes, making a wish that the bad luck that had been hounding them for months would be extinguished along with the flames. For once, their wish was not ignored. Although they were unaware of it, the year of darkness was coming to an end.



Some weeks later a ray of hope unexpectedly burst into the lives of the Sauvelle family. Thanks to the influence of Monsieur Laffont and his network of acquaintances, Simone was offered a good job in Blue Bay, a small village on the coast far from the dreary grayness of Paris and the sad memories of Armand Sauvelle’s last days. Apparently, a wealthy inventor and toy manufacturer named Lazarus Jann needed a housekeeper to take care of his palatial residence amid the forest of Cravenmoore.

The inventor lived in a huge mansion next to his old toy factory, which was now closed, with his wife, Alexandra, who was seriously ill and had been bedridden for twenty years. The pay was generous, and Lazarus Jann was offering them the possibility of moving into Seaview, a modest house that stood on the edge of the cliffs on the other side of Cravenmoore forest.

In the middle of June 1937 Monsieur Laffont bid good-bye to the Sauvelle family on Platform 6 of the Gare du Nord. Simone and her two children boarded the train that was to take them to the Normandy coast. As Monsieur Laffont watched the carriages disappear into the distance, he smiled to himself for a moment; he had the feeling that the story of the Sauvelles—their real story—had only just begun.

ON THEIR FIRST DAY AT SEAVIEW, Irene and her mother tried to instill some sort of order into what was to be their new home. Meanwhile, Dorian discovered a new passion: geography. Or, to be precise, mapmaking. Equipped with the pencils and drawing book Henri Laffont had given him as a parting gift, Simone Sauvelle’s younger child retreated to a spot on the cliffs, a vantage point from which he could enjoy the spectacular view.

The village with its small fishing dock occupied the center of the large bay. To the east, an endless expanse of white sand, known as the Englishman’s Beach, stretched along the water’s edge. Farther on, the narrow point of the headland jutted out into the sea like a giant claw, separating Blue Bay from the wide gulf the locals called Black Bay because of its dark, deep waters. The Sauvelles’ new home was perched on the very tip of the headland.

Half a mile out to sea, Dorian detected a small island with a lighthouse. The lighthouse tower stood dark and mysterious, its edges blurred by the shimmering haze. Turning his head back toward land, he could see his sister, Irene, and his mother standing on the porch of the house.

Seaview was a two-story building of white timber perched on the clifftop. Behind it grew a thick forest, and just above the treetops, he could see the majestic residence of Lazarus Jann: Cravenmoore.

Cravenmoore looked more like a castle than a home, the product of an extravagant and twisted imagination. A cathedral-like construction of arches, flying buttresses, towers, and domes adorned its angular roof. The building itself was shaped like a cross, with various wings sprouting from it. An army of gargoyles and stone angels guarded the façade like a flock of petrified specters. As Dorian closed his drawing book and prepared to return to Seaview, he wondered what kind of person would choose to live in a place like that. He would soon find out: That night they had been invited to dine at Cravenmoore, courtesy of their new benefactor.



Irene’s new bedroom faced northwest. Gazing out of her window, she could see the lighthouse and the patches of light cast by the sun over the ocean. After months of imprisonment in the tiny Paris apartment, the luxury of having a room to herself and being able to close the door and enjoy her own private space felt sinfully good.

As she watched the sea turn to copper in the setting sun, Irene faced the dilemma of what to wear for her first dinner with Lazarus Jann. She had only a few items left from what had once been a huge wardrobe, and the idea of being received at Cravenmoore mansion made all her dresses seem like embarrassing old rags. After trying on the only two outfits that might do, Irene noticed another problem she hadn’t counted on.

Ever since she had turned thirteen, her body had insisted on adding volume in some places and losing it in others. Now, close to her fifteenth birthday, Irene was more aware than ever of the influence of nature as she looked in the mirror. The severe cut of her drab clothes did not match her new curvaceous shape.

Shortly before nightfall, Simone Sauvelle rapped gently on Irene’s door.

“Come in.”

Her mother closed the door behind her and quickly assessed the situation. All of Irene’s dresses were laid out on the bed. Wearing only a plain white vest, her daughter was kneeling by the window, staring out at the distant lights of the ships in the channel. Simone observed Irene’s slender body and smiled to herself.

“Time flies and we don’t even notice, do we?”

“None of them fits me. I’m sorry,” Irene replied. “I’ve tried.”

Simone went to the window and kneeled down next to her daughter. In the middle of the bay, the lights of the village spread ripples of color over the water. For a moment, they both gazed at the spectacle. Simone stroked her daughter’s face and smiled.

“I think we’re going to like this place. What do you think?” she asked.

“But what about us? Is he going to like us?”

“Mr. Jann?”

Irene nodded.

“We’re a charming family. He’ll love us,” replied Simone.

“Are you sure?”

“I certainly hope so.”

Irene pointed to her clothes.

“Wear something of mine,” Simone said, smiling. “I think my dresses will look better on you than they do on me.”

Irene blushed. “Don’t exaggerate.”

“Just you wait and see.”



Dorian’s expression when he saw his sister arrive at the foot of the stairs draped in one of Simone’s dresses was priceless. Irene fixed her green eyes on her brother and raised a threatening finger.

“Not one word,” she warned.

Dorian nodded mutely, unable to take his eyes off this stranger who spoke with Irene’s voice. Simone noticed this and tried not to smile. She placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder and kneeled down to straighten the purple bow tie he had inherited from his father.

“You’ll spend your life surrounded by women, son. You’d better start getting used to it.”

By the time the clock on the wall struck eight they were all ready for the great event, dressed in their smartest clothes. They were also terrified.



A light breeze blowing in from the sea stirred the thick forest surrounding Cravenmoore. The rustling of invisible leaves accompanied their footsteps as Simone and her two children walked along the path through the woods. A pale moon struggled to break through the canopy of shadows, and hidden birds nesting in the crowns of the century-old giants called out to one another in an unnerving chorus.

“This place gives me the creeps,” said Irene.

“Nonsense,” her mother snapped. “It’s only a forest. On you go.”

From his position at the rear, Dorian glanced around at the twisted forms of the vegetation. In the darkness his imagination transformed the sinister shapes into dozens of evil creatures lying in wait.

“In the daylight you’ll see there’s nothing out there but bushes and trees,” said Simone Sauvelle, not sounding entirely sure herself.

A few minutes later, after a trek that Irene thought was never going to end, the imposing profile of Cravenmoore stood before them. Golden beams of light shone from the large windows beneath a jagged forest of gargoyles. Beyond the house they could make out the toy factory, an annex to the main building.

Once they were out of the woodland, Simone and her children stopped to contemplate the immensity of the toymaker’s residence. Suddenly a bird that looked like a crow emerged from the undergrowth, flapped its wings, and took off, taking a curious route over the gardens that surrounded Cravenmoore. After circling one of the stone fountains it alighted at Dorian’s feet. When it had stopped flapping its wings, the crow lay on its side and began to rock gently to and fro until it came to rest. Dorian crouched down and cautiously stretched out his right hand.

“Be careful,” warned Irene.

Ignoring her advice, Dorian stroked the crow’s feathers. The bird showed no signs of life. Dorian lifted it up and unfolded its wings. He looked puzzled, then dismayed. He turned to Irene and Simone.

“It’s made of wood,” he murmured.

They all looked at one another. Simone sighed.

“Let’s just make a good impression, all right?” she begged her children.

They both nodded in agreement. Dorian placed the bird back on the ground. Simone Sauvelle gave a hint of a smile, and then the three of them climbed the white marble staircase that snaked toward the large bronze entrance.

The doors of Cravenmoore opened automatically, before they’d even had time to use the brass knocker, which was shaped like an angel’s face. A figure stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the aura of light that poured from the house. The figure suddenly came alive, tilting its head with a soft mechanical click. As it did so, they could see its face for the first time. It stared at them with lifeless eyes, simple glass beads encased in a mask that was frozen in a spine-chilling grin.

Dorian gulped. Irene and her mother took a step back. The figure stretched out one hand and then stood still again.

“I hope Christian didn’t frighten you. He’s a rather clumsy old creation of mine.”

The Sauvelles turned toward the voice that came from the foot of the marble stairs. A kind, gracefully aging face was smiling up at them mischievously. Blue eyes sparkled beneath a thick, silvery mop of well-groomed hair. The man, who was elegantly dressed and held an ebony walking stick with colored inlays, climbed the steps toward them, and then bowed politely.

“My name is Lazarus Jann, and I think I owe you an apology.”

His voice was warm and comforting. His large blue eyes scrutinized each member of the family until finally they came to rest on Simone’s face.

“I was taking my usual evening walk through the forest and was delayed. Madame Sauvelle, I believe?”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.”

“Please call me Lazarus.”

Simone nodded. “This is my daughter, Irene,” she said. “And this is Dorian, the youngest in the family.”

Lazarus Jann shook their hands courteously. His grasp was firm and pleasant, his smile infectious.

“Right. As for Christian, don’t let him frighten you. I keep him as a souvenir of my first period. He’s awkward and doesn’t look very friendly, I know.”

“Is he a machine?” asked Dorian quickly. He was fascinated.

Simone’s scolding look came too late. Lazarus smiled at Dorian.

“You could call him that. Technically, Christian is what is known as an automaton.”

“Did you build him, sir?”

“Dorian,” his mother reproached him.

Lazarus smiled again. The boy’s curiosity didn’t seem to bother him in the least.

“Yes. I built him, and many more besides. That is, or rather was, my profession. But I think dinner is ready. Shall we discuss this, and get to know one another better, over a nice plate of food?”

The smell of a delicious roast wafted toward them.



Neither the alarming reception by the automaton nor the impressive exterior of Cravenmoore could have prepared the Sauvelles for the interior of Lazarus Jann’s mansion. No sooner had they stepped through the front door than they were submerged in a world of fantasy far beyond anything they could have imagined.

A sumptuous staircase seemed to spiral toward infinity. Looking up, the Sauvelles could see it vanishing into the central tower of Cravenmoore, which was crowned by a small turret with windows all around, infusing the house with an otherworldly light. Beneath this spectral glow lay an immense gallery of mechanical creations. On one of the walls, a large clock with cartoon eyes smiled at the visitors. A ballerina wrapped in a transparent veil pirouetted in the center of an oval hall in which every object, every detail, formed part of the world of fantastical creatures brought to life by Lazarus Jann. The doorknobs were smiling faces that wi. . .