by Molly Tanzer
Evadne sighed. Well, the second concern she couldn’t do anything about; she would have to make the most of her situation, as she always had. As for the first, she would just have to eat her shame—swallow her pride—and apologize to Lady Henry.
Apologizing did not come easy to Evadne, though heaven knew she’d had enough practice at it over the years. Given that she stood upon her dignity, apologizing felt rather like having the carpet pulled out from under her feet and falling right on her bottom.
She glanced at the clock. It was not yet time for lunch; she didn’t have to go back down yet. But how would she occupy herself? There was the entirety of Lord Oliver’s room to look over . . . As embarrassed as she had been to enter a bachelor’s bedroom, now that she was here, and alone, and there were no more swords to look at, she could explore to her heart’s content.
Her focus had been Oliver’s closet, but the room proper contained a dresser, a vanity, the bed upon which her finds now rested. In other words, it was perfectly ordinary, save for how exquisite everything was and the masculine flavor of it all. Even the combs and brushes and bottles of perfume and other toilet objects were ordinary. She unstoppered a phial at random and sniffed. The spiciness of the scent was intriguing, not only because it was bolder than any she would ever consider wearing, but also because it smelled rather like Lady Henry—or at least, her tobacco. Recalling the lady’s enthusiasm for her ginger plants, Evadne wondered if that might be it. Evadne had only ever smelled ginger dried and powdered, but it was similar.
Curiously, the mirror before which Lord Oliver had once sat, applying this perfume, was also gingery, though not its odor. The frame in which it sat was made of ginger leaves wrought in metal. Evadne never would have noticed it before, not on her life, but now that she knew—now that she had been taught what to look for—she saw it. They were variegated ginger leaves, even.
The paintings were all of ginger plants, too, save for a large painting of Narcissus that was clearly her uncle’s work. Evadne inspected all the various renditions of the plant, recognized the same spiky leaves, thick stalks, and conelike . . . things . . . with flowers on them. There were no fewer than twelve paintings, each with a distinct varietal; the walls were fairly covered in them. Curious to see if the motif repeated itself elsewhere, Evadne strolled about the room.
She had been avoiding looking at the bed too closely, for it seemed improper to pay too much attention to it beyond as a soft surface upon which she could place the swords—her swords, she thought with pleasure—but now that she had a quest, she inspected it. The coverlet was embroidered with a floral motif, though not distinctly gingery. But she only looked at it for a moment, for she noted that above it hung a sword so beautiful it made those on the bed look like the battered old practice epee Freddie had started her with.
The sword was not an English weapon, nor was it Italian or German. No, it was a double-edged Chinese blade, just like the one her uncle had brought back from his time in the military, but far lovelier. A long green tassel hung from the pommel, which, she noted, was shaped like a ginger blossom. And the leather wrapping the grip was tooled with a pattern of ginger leaves!
Evadne clambered onto the bed to get a better look at it. It was a gorgeous weapon, and gleamed as if it had been polished just that morning. Oh, how she wished it hung not here, but in his closet! She would have given up all the other weapons to keep this one. Epees she had, and rapiers were readily available, but a Chinese sword of this quality . . .
She looked again at the clock. Seeing she still had time, Evadne bit her lip—and reached for the pommel. She wanted to hold it, just for a moment, to test the balance, to see how it fit in her hand. Carefully—gingerly, even—she grasped it.
A shiver went through her, nose to toes, a physical and emotional experience of pure pleasure. It was a wonderful sword; no, it was a perfect sword. It fit her hand as if it had been forged for her use alone, and the balance was just right for her arm, for her strength, even.
Evadne leaped off the bed. Saluting the vanity, she performed several of her epee drills, though the thrusts and lunges weren’t quite right for a sword of this type. Regardless, the feel of the blade was astonishing. Freddie had always told her that the best swordsmen treated their weapon as an extension of their arm—she had felt that, occasionally, during good practices. At least, she’d thought she had. This sword made her forget all that. It actually was an extension of her arm; it slashed, dipped, and parried according to her will. Its shape suggested how it ought to be wielded, and soon she felt she had its measure. Standing before Lord Oliver’s mirror, she watched herself performing unexpectedly soft and graceful movements that would likely confound any sport-fencer, with devastating results.
It was glorious. She realized that prior to this moment she had only thought she enjoyed fencing. With this sword, it was a sensual experience. She could feel every muscle as it contracted, every tendon as it moved; she was keenly aware of her skin under her clothes, knew every drop of sweat as it emerged from her pores to run glorious ribbons down her body. She was supple as a reed, fluid as a swallow skimming the water, bold as a lion shaking its mane.
The clock struck one, and Evadne realized she’d be late to lunch if she didn’t hurry; she needed to clean up now that she was all sweaty. But she couldn’t resist doing one more sequence with the blade. It just felt so good. “Miss Gray?”
Evadne squawked in alarm. Turning around, she saw a plump, elegantly attired, if not particularly handsome, young man perhaps five years her junior standing in the doorway. He was smiling at her in a way she could not exactly parse; there was amusement in his expression, but also—and more prominently—respect. He wasn’t laughing at her. He was admiring her. It made her feel queer. She wasn’t quite sure if he ought to be looking at her like that, especially as she could not quite determine what he was. His stance and his manners suggested he was some sort of superior servant, but his clothes were those of a gentleman.
“I beg your pardon,” she said, tucking a sweaty lock of hair behind an equally sweaty ear. “I was just . . . just putting this away, as I ought to . . .” She had no wish to relate her need for a bathroom. “I beg your pardon, Mr . . . .”
“Jonas,” he said.
“Well, Mr. Jonas—”
“My Christian name is Jonas, forgive me,” he said. Evadne amended her judgment of his attractiveness, for his smile was nothing short of radiant. It illuminated his features and cast them into the best light possible, softening them, harmonizing them. “My name is Jonas Fuller, but I prefer to be called Jonas. I am . . . well, it’s rather difficult to explain.”
Evadne did not quite know what to say, so she turned and placed the sword on the bed. Strangely, as loath as she had been to put it down, she felt an odd abhorrence for the object after she did. It had felt so good in her hand, and yet now that it was out of it, she felt there was something odd about that sword, something she didn’t like at all now that she wasn’t touching it. Even looking at it unsettled her, so she turned, only to discover that the young man had been watching her backside. She blushed—as did he.
“Well, Jonas,” she said, to cover the momentary awkwardness, “are you here to summon me to lunch?”
“I am,” he said, recovering quickly. “Lady Henry and Miss Dorina thought you would be too occupied to note the time, but I see they misjudged you. You are a lady who clearly knows when she is wanted.” He blushed again.
“Required, at any rate.” Evadne ignored the eyebrow that leaped up at this. “The truth is, I got a bit caught up trying out Lord Oliver’s excellent swords.”
“Yes, Lady Henry said you were a fencer.” He stepped into the room. “May I look over what you’ve selected?”
“Of course.” Hope stirred in her breast. “Do you fence?”
“Alas, no,” he said. Evadne was surprised to note the strength of her regret. “But, I always enjoyed watching Lord Oliver practice.”
“If he was as good as his
swords, he must have been magnificent.”
“Perfection itself,” said Jonas, gazing down upon the bounty on the bed, “and I have always admired perfection—or rather the pursuit of it.” He straightened, and looking her in the eye, said, “So few of us ever try to be perfect at anything that I can’t help but hold the attempt in high regard, even if it proves ultimately futile.”
Evadne wondered if all of her uncle’s friends were of such an esoteric turn of mind. If so, she feared that this whole trip she would feel rather like a ham sandwich set out among dishes of caviar and calipash.
“I really couldn’t say,” she replied.
“No?” Jonas favored her with another smile. “Judging from your interest—and your selections—I feel comfortable saying you’ve a keen eye for quality as well as a thirst for the sort of variety that does not distract, but rather promotes true excellence. And, if you would allow me to be so bold, I’d note that your, ah, current appearance indicates you drive yourself very hard; even an impromptu practice leaves you . . .”
“Shall I take that as a hint?” Evadne smiled; Jonas’s delightful conversation had her feeling less embarrassed about her sweaty state. In fact, Jonas was the first person she’d felt comfortable around since she’d arrived in London. “I confess I had rather hoped to freshen up.”
“Then let me show you to where you might do so. Meanwhile, I’ll see all your selections packaged up and sent straightaway to Mr. Hallward’s,” he said, before further confounding her by offering her his arm.
Evadne hesitated, then shook her head. “I’m afraid I must decline,” she said. “I don’t wish to sully your suit.”
“As you like,” he said. “I certainly don’t mind if you sully me, but I’m happy to respect your wishes.”
Evadne approved of Jonas—even his admittedly risqué banter—and his company was not unwelcome as he led her to the nicest bathroom she’d ever seen. After providing her with directions to the dining room, and the information that he would be joining them for luncheon, he left her there.
A cool damp towel to the forehead and back of the neck left her feeling refreshed, and for the first time Evadne felt enthusiastic about the rest of her day. Perhaps Jonas would not only join them for lunch, but come with them to wherever they were going. It was reasonable to assume he might, regardless of whether he was a servant or a guest or a relative. And if he did come, he might talk to her in his pretty, warm manner. She would hardly be bothered by Lady Henry and Dorina prattling on about things she did not care about if she had someone so pleasant by her side.
Evadne did not linger over her toilet. After applying a bit of water here and there and hastily replaiting her hair, she almost skipped down the stairs. But just as she was about to turn the corner into the dining room, she heard her name—and paused.
She knew it was in no way respectable to eavesdrop, but it was Jonas speaking, and she was curious to hear what he would say.
“—will be down presently. She needed a moment to herself first.”
“Worked herself into a fine lather, I hope.” That was Dorina. “She looked as if she needed it. If Evadne doesn’t sweat half a gallon a week she gets this sort of haunted look.”
“She did not look haunted when I approached her,” replied Jonas. “She looked bright and invigorated . . . if in need of a comb, basin, and a bit of soapy water.”
Evadne blushed, ashamed she had only given herself a cursory going-over; she ought to have spent more time making herself presentable. It hadn’t occurred to her that Lady Henry’s friends would prefer to wait for a more elegant companion than appreciate a less polished one who appeared on time. Evadne leaned back against the wall, unsure if she should go back or soldier on.
“I do hope your sister is having a good time,” said Lady Henry. “I would do anything in my power to assure it, but I do not seem to be able to put her at ease.”
“Oh, I’m certain Evadne is having as good a time as she’s able,” said Dorina. “She didn’t want to come, you know; she’s annoyed to be away from Swallowsroost. Well, it’s her own fault.”
“For coming?” asked Jonas.
“For being sent.” Evadne was surprised when Dorina hesitated; surely the girl was eager to convey to strangers every single fact she possibly could about their family and its private discussions. “She expressed to our mother that she did not believe I could be trusted to behave in London. Not without a chaperone.”
“Was she correct?” Lady Henry sounded amused.
“Oh, absolutely,” purred Dorina.
Evadne could listen no longer, but she did not want to barge in, not when they’d all been speaking of her so candidly, and not when she was so furious over being caricatured behind her back. Thankfully, Jonas intervened by changing the subject—and yet, Evadne could not feel wholly grateful to someone who had allowed such a disreputable conversation to go on for so long.
“And here I thought your goal was not to scandalize London society, but to visit galleries and museums,” he said.
“Oh, it is, it is!” Dorina said. “I care nothing for London society; I see myself as a sponge, and what I want to do is soak up culture, absorb it into myself!”
“What happens when someone squeezes you, I wonder?” asked Lady Henry.
“I shall squeeze myself, thank you—spill everything onto the page via my pen.”
Evadne decided to enter then, as they were past her person as a subject. She found them sitting around a small table in a bright and lovely room, sipping something golden from glasses—all of them, even Jonas. So he was not a servant . . . Perhaps he was a cousin?
“Forgive me,” she said. “I did not mean to take so long.”
“No forgiveness necessary,” said Lady Henry, rising with Jonas. “Did you have a good time?”
She enquired so warmly that Evadne almost replied in turn, but then she recalled this woman had let a seventeen-year-old girl blackguard her own sister—had been amused by such a spectacle, had not done anything to guide her or curb her bad behavior. Lady Henry might say she wished she could put Evadne at ease, but it was easy to speak, and another thing entirely to act respectably. Evadne wasn’t sure she wished to be in her debt, even now. In spite of her earlier decision to accept Lady Henry’s offer, she resolved to decline it.
“I did,” said Evadne stiffly. “I thank you.”
Oddly, Jonas did not sit back down as Evadne took a chair; rather, to her disappointment, he shimmered out of the room.
“And did you find anything to your taste?”
“All of it,” she said. “Unfortunately, I don’t think I ought to take home anything. Really, it wouldn’t be . . . you know . . .”
“Oh, don’t be silly!” cried Lady Henry. “Really, Evadne, it would make me so happy to know Oliver’s things were being used for some purpose. I insist on you taking as much of it as you like.”
“I cannot.” Evadne was very firm, though momentarily distracted by the sight of Jonas when he re-entered, bearing a large bowl of some sort of salad. “Thank you, but I have enough swords at home, and I cannot think where I would store them while I am in town.”
“But Miss Gray, I’ve already given orders to have them packaged up and sent to Mr. Hallward’s,” he said as he set the dish on the table. “Don’t tell me you’ve changed your mind?”
“Oh. Well . . .”
“What has changed?” Lady Henry looked keenly at Evadne.
“Nothing,” she replied, abashed. Desperate to save face, she stammered, “I-I’m delighted to have them. Thank you, they are superb. I shall just have to find some way to repay you.”
“Repay me by enjoying them, that is all I ask,” said Lady Henry as she dished out salad onto their plates. “Now, as for this afternoon! Dorina’s dying to dive into the art scene, and we’ve decided there’s really no better place to start a tour of London’s masterpieces than the National Gallery. We can see Raphael’s Ansidei Madonna!”
“And Miss Gray might
enjoy some of the depictions of swords,” said Jonas eagerly. “One is featured rather prominently in Van Dyck’s portrait of Charles the First.”
Evadne did not ask if Jonas would be coming with them; she just said, “How delightful,” and made other appropriate noises when needed. Soon enough, Lady Henry and Dorina went back to only acknowledging her in passing, which, if it didn’t exactly suit her, was at least to be expected.
5
Men, in our madness, have separated the harmony of soul and body, making our realities vulgar, and our ideality void. When a demon is conjured, some subtle influence of consonance passes from it into us, and for the first time we may see what we have always looked for, and always missed.
—On the Summoning of Demons
Tears started in Dorina’s eyes as the grand entrance of the National Gallery came into view beyond the wide expanse of Trafalgar Square. Craning her neck to see better out of the coach window, past the lions and pillars and fountain and people, Dorina thought it was ever so fitting that the museum should look like a Greek temple. It was a place of divine worship, after all, but to gods more real to her than any she’d ever found in church—the gods of Art and Culture and Beauty and Truth.
Her stomach fluttered; she was nervous. So long had she anticipated this moment!
“The lovely thing about the National Gallery is that the architecture of the building is almost as beautiful as what it contains,” said Lady Henry, before taking a pinch of her spicy-smelling snuff. “The newer Barry Rooms are delightful, and would be worth a look even if they didn’t have Italian and British masterpieces covering up the walls. And the mosaic floors are also not to be overlooked.”
Dorina eyed the filigreed snuffbox with greed, but as usual, Lady Henry did not offer it to her. Jonas took a pinch; the two of them sniffled and blew their noses as they jolted the final few yards over the cobblestones.