by Molly Tanzer
Miriam looked up, glad she hadn’t said anything. That was the Jane that Miriam preferred—sardonic and less serious about herself.
“Oh no,” said Nancy, with an appraising look at her daughter. “There’s no hope for you . . . or there won’t be if you don’t finish your chores.”
Jane let out a childish sigh. Miriam smiled to hear it, but her stomach was still a tight ball of unhappiness. She knew that this moment—all of them together, just being themselves—would be the last of its kind for several days.
“Aren’t you excited about Edith’s visit, Miriam?”
Nancy’s question caught her off guard.
“Of course I’m excited,” she said quickly. “I’ve been wanting to ask Edith about her research into changing one’s appearance by applying demonic residue via cosmetics.” Nancy frowned again, until Miriam explained, “I think it might help me understand the theory behind the Fifth Transmutation.” This was all true.
“Do you think so?” Jane was also a diabolist-in-training and was absolutely cracking at it. But where Miriam liked to think through the Art’s theoretical aspects, Jane preferred its practical side. “I’d like to hear that too. The Fifth Transmutation is crucial when attempting Campanella’s Substantive Exchange—and it’s just so odd, what the Grimoire Italien says about demonic vapors and their impure properties being beneficial to the load . . . it’s not clear if it means the load for the demon or the diabolist.”
Miriam looked up from her plate. “The Grimoire Italien? Are you using the French translation of Trasformazioni Della Materia? In the original medieval Italian that passage is a bit clearer. The diabolist is more at risk, the benefit is on the side of the demon, but there’s also a chance that . . .” Miriam trailed off as she saw Jane’s face flush.
The learning of ancient languages was not among Jane’s talents—which was nothing to be ashamed of, but Jane was sensitive about it.
Attuned to her position as an outsider in this house, Miriam always tried her best not to cause trouble or upset anyone. She appreciated this family and their acceptance of her more than she could say. After all, if such a thing were possible, she would be a part of it forever.
“Anyway,” said Miriam, eager to smooth over the awkward moment, “I didn’t realize you were reading that. The modern Italian translation is better and I have it in my room to compare with the medieval, since the medieval is a bother to read. It’s barely even Italian, really—just medieval Venetian vernacular mixed with Latin.”
“Thank you,” said Jane, with a formality and poise learned from her favorite actresses. “I’d be pleased to look at it.”
“Later,” said Nancy, with a tone that conveyed exactly what they ought to be doing now.
Miriam began to clear the dishes; Jane too stood up from the table, but as she did a great yowl split the air and a slate-gray blur of wounded dignity streaked out the kitchen.
“Poor Smudge!” Jane, dismayed, hurried after the cat.
“You’d think one day he’d learn that sitting behind Jane’s chair will only get him a pinched tail,” said Miriam.
“Perhaps he enjoys the attention,” said Nancy, as she wrapped the remainder of the bread in a cloth. “Speaking of enjoying things, I do hope you’ll join us later? I think it’ll be a lovely day for a walk, in spite of the cold, and quite a merry party once Edie arrives.”
“Of course I’ll come!” Miriam managed a smile, unsure whether the flutter of trepidation in her stomach was caused by her aunt’s imminent arrival or the thought of hiking to the village.
“Good, good. Well, I’m off to the stacks for now. See you in a few hours.”
“I will.” Miriam longed to talk her aunt about unintentionally offending Jane; an adult’s perspective would be welcome. But she held her tongue, turning her attention to the dishes.
Nancy squeezed Miriam’s shoulder affectionately before sweeping out of the room. She too had something of the elegantly dramatic about her. And for both Nancy and Jane, it came out a bit more when Edith came to visit.
But even on a normal day the two Blackwood women carried a distinct glamour about them that Miriam ardently wished she possessed. But, it was not to be. No matter how hard she might try, she could never stop being completely herself: prosaic, drab, and afraid of every sound or shadow.
1
The behavior of demons, while occult, is neither surface nor symbol. The behavior of men is just as occult . . . and wholly surface and symbol.
—On the Summoning of Demons
If there was anything in the world sweeter than the ring of steel sliding over steel, it was Freddie Thornton’s grimace when Evadne parried his attack. Even the rich odor of roses carried on the light summer wind, and perfume of the lilac, and the pink-flowering thorn were nothing to the sight of his bared teeth, and the beaded sweat of his forehead running down the bridge of his nose, over his full lips.
She had him. She could see it in his eyes, the set of his shoulders. A tactician, Evadne had let Freddie exhaust himself with fancy maneuvers in this match; had saved herself for this moment, knowing it would come. Deepening her stance, she threw her weight into her riposte and sent his sword spinning away into the ornamental shrubbery.
“Do you yield?” she asked, ripping off her fencing mask before pointing her dulled epee at his blue-veined throat.
“Of course I yield,” he said, knocking it aside with the back of his broad hand.
“Good match.” She slapped him on the shoulder as he removed his own mask. She knew it was bold to touch him, so she kept the motion rough and perfunctory. “You’ve been practicing.”
“So have you,” he said, rubbing at where she’d struck him. “With whom, I can’t imagine, out here in the country. Have you found a master?”
“I already have a master.” Evadne pretended interest in the finches that twittered gaily as they flitted among the topiaries of the formal garden. It was not a typical place for a fencing match, but she’d often used the wide gravel lane for practicing her forms.
It was also beautiful, isolated, and a bit romantic . . .
“Oh, you long ago mastered any knowledge I managed to pass on to you,” said Freddie. “What a pity you’re a woman! They’d have made you captain of the Oxford fencing team, I’m certain of it.”
Evadne tried to cover her dismay with the sort of laugh her younger sister, Dorina, managed so easily: light and lively, as if she’d neither a care in the world nor a thought in her head. It came out all wrong, however, like it always did, and she stopped, knowing she sounded more like a braying ass than a tinkling bell.
“Ah well,” said Freddie, to cover the momentary awkwardness. “Where’s my sword? It’s time we got back.”
“One more match,” urged Evadne. The last thing she wanted was to go back to the house and make herself ridiculous by forcing her short, stocky body into a frilly tea dress and her sun-bleached hair into some sort of feminine pile of twists and excrescences. Her grace came to her only when she held an epee in her hand and her limbs were encased in canvas and leather. With Freddie just returned home from inspecting the living he’d been given in the north of England she wanted to make as good an impression as possible—and that would be out here, in the healthy sunshine, not inside a dull, dim parlor.
“I think I’ve been humiliated enough for one day.” Horrified, Evadne realized she should have let Freddie win a match or two. She’d not impressed him with her display of prowess; she’d annoyed him. She stammered an apology, but he waved her away. “I’m parched, that’s all. A cup of tea is what I need.”
“Oh, me too,” she gushed as they reached for his sword at the same time. Of course, instead of their hands meeting over the hilt, like in one of Dorina’s stupid novels, Evadne very nearly bowled him over.
“You’re a beast, Evadne. You know”—he looked her up and down appraisingly—“the Greeks had it all wrong. Athena’s no soft, stern beauty—she’d look like you right now, dirty as a beggar, and al
l brawn and sweat and determination.”
Evadne wasn’t pleased by this description of her person, or the goddess he’d selected to compare her to. If the love of her life was going to compare her to a deity, Evadne would have preferred one who wasn’t a perpetual virgin, even a martially inclined one. She tried to toss her hair that fetching way she’d seen Dorina manage a thousand times, but just ended up spraying Freddie with sweat.
“Sorry!” she stammered, mortified. “I meant to say . . .”
“What’s that?” asked Freddie, dabbing at his eyes with his handkerchief.
“It’s just, I’m fairly certain I didn’t spring fully formed out of my father’s head.”
“No,” he said, looking at her strangely.
“Tea?” Evadne gestured toward the house. Perhaps conversing in a drawing room would be better than standing around in the heady perfume of the garden. At the very least, holding a cup of tea would give her something to do with her hands.
“Actually, I must away.” Freddie took her sword from her, and then offered her his sweat-soaked arm. She took it, and they began to amble back to the house. “Mother will be wondering where I am.”
“We’ll send a servant,” said Evadne. “It’s no trouble. You’ve been gone for so long and . . .” She embarrassed herself by blushing. I missed you, she wanted to say. “And you’ve only just returned.”
“I know it’s terribly uncivil of me,” he said gently. Evadne’s her heart sank. If she had been Dorina, she would have known what to do, how to manipulate him with her feminine charms. Unfortunately, she was herself, and thus unequipped to charm anything but a blade. “But never fear—you’ll see me soon. It wasn’t just to spar with you that I came today.”
“No?”
“I’m tasked with extending an invitation, for you to dine with us tomorrow night.” He grinned at her. “You and your family, naturally, but I hope you specifically will deign to eat the humble fare of Vicarage House?”
“Nothing would give me greater pleasure.” She shot him a sly look. “It’s you who surely must resign yourself to plain fare. What will they feed you on up in the north, I wonder? Oaten cakes and nettle wine? That doesn’t sound so bad, actually,” she hastened to add. “Appropriate for doing God’s humble work.”
“You’ve always had the stomach of a goat,” he said as he guided her toward the stables. Again, Evadne wasn’t quite sure his compliments were actually compliments. “You won’t need one tomorrow night, though. Mother’s planning a feast. It’s to be a celebration!”
Her heart fluttered. Could Freddie be working up to a proposal, at long last? “Oh? Are we celebrating your success?”
“Yes, and . . .”
“And?”
“And there’s someone I want you to meet.”
“Oh?” A relative—perhaps a grandmother or aunt who insisted on approving of her darling Freddie’s choice?
“Yes,” said Freddie, his voice studiously neutral. “My fiancée.”
Evadne had grown up tramping over hills and through woods with her father, but now, on this sunny afternoon, walking arm in arm with the young man she’d loved since he was a boy stealing jam out of the pantry, she felt like she might faint senseless to the earth.
“Fiancée,” she murmured, then realizing she ought to at least pretend to be happy, forced another laugh. It sounded yet more dreadful than her first attempt. “But you’re so young!”
“It’s high time I settled down. I’m thirty-three, Evadne. I’m in my prime!”
“I’m just surprised. I had no idea you were thinking of marrying. Is she a northern girl?”
“No, her family lives in Oxford. We met when I was still at school. There has been an understanding between us for some time, but I wanted to leave her free until I could offer her a comfortable life.”
An understanding! Until just a few moments ago, she had thought an understanding existed between the two of them. After all, Freddie had spoken freely to her of his ambitions, hopes, and plans, had asked her advice, and seemed to value her approval.
It had always been Freddie’s dearest wish to find a small parish in need of a kindly shepherd to guide its flock, and to marry a respectable woman, thereby setting an example for the common people. All this had sounded completely lovely to Evadne. She even enjoyed attending services. Religion had always been a comfort to her, assuring her as it did that her faith was what distinguished her, not her looks or her manners. And living somewhere a bit wilder than Swadlincote would have freed her from needing to dress and act like a gentlewoman; would have gotten her away from her insufferably perfect little sister; would have given her more time to practice her swordsmanship, especially considering she had wanted for a regular partner as good as Freddie while he was at school. She had long dreamed of the day they would keep chickens, spar every day, and tend their small garden. She would make him tea while he wrote his sermons, and they would be wildly happy together.
But none of that would happen. Ever. Freddie was going to marry some Oxford girl. All he wanted Evadne to do was to meet her.
“Well!” said Evadne brightly. “She must be a treasure. Constant, patient, and willing to serve her husband and God in the north, away from everyone she knows—”
“She has an aunt in a neighboring county.”
“So much the better! A local aunt is always such a delight to a young married couple.” Freddie frowned at her flip remark, and she hastily backpedaled. “I very much look forward to meeting her.”
“I’m glad.” Freddie grinned, his ill humor forgotten. “I hope you like her.”
“Why?” The question came out before she could stop it. Likely he had meant the sentiment rhetorically.
“Your opinion matters to me, Evadne. I know you will tell me the truth.”
They had reached the stables. Freddie handed over the two swords and his mask to one of the grooms and called for his big bay to be saddled.
“The truth, eh? Well, we Grays are old friends of your family,” she said. “We can’t let just anyone spirit our Freddie away. She must be exceptional for us to release you.”
“Oh, she is! She’s the very picture of feminine grace, and so domestic! And as for her beauty, I might be biased, but other than your sister she’s the best looking girl I ever saw in my life.”
“That’s quite a compliment,” said Evadne, doing her best to keep the sourness from her voice.
“Sisterly affection requires you to defend Dorina, I know, but I shall play Paris’s role in this matter.” Evadne winced to again be reminded of how he had judged her Athena, not Aphrodite, as Freddie swung himself onto his waiting horse. “Tomorrow, then?”
“Tomorrow.” Evadne shook his hand, standing on her tiptoes to reach.
“Please give your mother my regards, and explain my absence at tea?”
“Of course.”
“Then farewell, Evadne!”
Evadne kicked a clod of dirt and stalked out of the stables as Freddie cantered away. Knowing she would be wanted at tea, Evadne resigned herself to washing up and pretending nothing was wrong. She took a step toward the house, and then veered off toward the ornamental lake, specifically for the folly on the bank, where it sat dark and shadowed by a walnut grove. A brisk walk and a quarter-hour’s peace—she deserved it.
Dorina adored the folly, of course, and had nicknamed it “The Mouldering Mausoleum.” A vine-covered Gothic structure that looked a bit like the turret of a castle, it had been erected by one of the previous generation of Grays when such things were fashionable. Evadne couldn’t understand its purpose, or the expense of keeping it appearing forlorn and neglected yet still comfortable for picnics, but today she was grateful for the stupid thing when it came into view. It was out of sight of the house, to give the visitor the impression of “perfect loneliness” as Dorina once put it. There, Evadne would be unobserved—at her liberty to let flow the disappointed tears that she felt gathering behind her eyes, heavy and humid as a summer storm.
Her footfalls were muffled by grass as she approached, and perhaps she did feel a bit of “perfect loneliness” as she put her hand on the cool stone. Instead of falling from her eyes, Evadne’s tears gathered in her throat, tight and hot, disappointed and angry.
The wind shifted. Evadne was startled when she smelled a whiff of cigarette smoke, and heard an unmistakable giggle. Dorina must be nearby.
Another giggle, though not Dorina’s, and then a low, sensual moan accompanied the next waft of smoke. Evadne was intrigued. The noise and odor were definitely emanating from above her. Dorina and a companion must be secreted atop the turret!
It was long past the hour when the family assembled for tea. What was Dorina doing out here? And who was she with?
Quietly, Evadne made her way up the folly’s spiral staircase, her hand on the ornate wrought iron banister. Taking every care, she poked her nose around the corner, and gasped.
Looking as comfortable as a sultan on his throne atop a pile of pillows lay Dorina, languidly smoking a cigarette as another girl—Juliana Lennox—alternated between kissing her sister’s lips and neck.
Evadne had always suspected her sister preferred the company of women. While that might have bothered some, what actually annoyed Evadne in that moment, as she looked upon the couple, was how happy they seemed.
Dorina had all the luck. A happy surprise, conceived long after the Grays had given up on a son following their daughter’s birth, Dorina had been coddled by their parents, cherished by their nursemaid, treated like some rare hothouse flower.
Evadne, on the other hand, was as common as a yew tree, and just as self-sufficient. No one had ever doted on her. Dorina had been a lady from the day she was born; Evadne, a sow’s ear not even Rumpelstiltskin could spin into a silk purse. The irony was that Dorina’s easy manners were mere illusion. Her sister’s beautiful smile, her winning laugh, the sincerity she could evoke whenever she needed to apologize, managed to hide her stubborn, secretive, and willful nature. And while Evadne was perpetually disappointed, Dorina had always gotten everything she wanted.