Angel of Ruin

by Kim Wilkins

  “Well, what about this mirror?” Betty asked, knowing it sounded lame.

  “What about the mirror?” Deborah shot back, success making her bold. “It is a gift for me from my mother’s mother. Why should a mirror prove aught about my behaviour? Or is my vanity a pressing issue in this household?”

  “Why was it hidden? If neither of these items are proof of your wickedness, why were they both hidden?”

  Deborah did not have an immediate answer, and John noticed.

  “Deborah?” he said.

  “I hide the mirror because Mary covets it. The book was under my pillow because I was reading it in bed this morning.”

  “John,” Betty appealed, “at least let me confiscate them.”

  “Certainly. A good idea. Betty will take your mirror and your book, Deborah —”

  “But they are mine.”

  “Do not interrupt me!” John roared, finally reaching the end of his patience.

  Deborah set her jaw but did not say another word.

  “Betty will take these items into her possession for your own protection. If you wish to use either of them, especially the book, it shall be with our supervision.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “Now go,” said Betty.

  Deborah turned and narrowed her eyes at Betty, her expression pure hatred, but her voice as sweet as spring. “Certainly, Mother. I entrust the items to your safekeeping.” She tossed her red-gold hair and left.

  Betty waited a few minutes before turning to John. “I think you have done the right thing, John,” she said, picking up the book and the mirror.

  “Betty, you may be happy with the outcome of this dispute, but I want you to shake off any ideas that my daughters — especially Deborah — are involved in necromancy.”

  Betty did not answer immediately; she was considering the mirror. But she could see no evidence of magic, only her own reflection. How would such a device work? She shook her head: such curiosity could only be troublesome.

  “John,” she said quietly, “I think that you are too forgiving of the girls.”

  “No, I am not. I believe they are ungrateful and unkind. But they earn their keep.”

  “I have spoken to someone who says that such a book is a sign of the devil; who says that rude and aggressive behaviour — like the girls all display from time to time — is a sign of possession by spirits.”

  John frowned. “And who would say such a thing to you?”

  “I …”

  “Betty?”

  “Father Bailey on Leake Street.”

  “A papist? You dare to quote to me the words of a superstitious idolater? Betty, you do not know me well enough if you think I can be persuaded by such a fool. You have undermined your case enormously.”

  “I’m sorry, John, I —”

  Suddenly John gasped, his hands clutching the chair arms so hard that his knuckles turned white. “You told a Papist about affairs in my home?”

  “No, John, no. I assure you I was speaking of generalities, not specifics.”

  “Still, he may now suspect something of us. Betty, how could you be so foolish? Do you not value my reputation?”

  Betty hung her head and felt her face burning with shame. She was an idiot for ever mentioning Father Bailey. She should have been satisfied with the day’s small victory.

  “Take the book and the mirror and keep them safe,” John said dismissively. “When Mary gets home, send her in for some dictation.”

  “Yes, John,” Betty said. “You can rely upon me.”

  “No, I cannot,” he said. “I can rely upon nobody.” She detected real sadness in his voice, and her guilt caused her to gather her things and leave quickly.

  Betty took the items to her room. She would not endure the presence of the book and the mirror in her home for long. In a day or so, when this dispute was forgotten, she would take them to the exorcist so he might destroy them. She would see how clever Deborah would solve that problem.

  Deborah lay on her side on her bed, idly fingering the demon key. She had not used it yet. It had seemed imprudent, almost disrespectful, to experiment with it until she had a purpose. Was this not a good purpose? To seek the return of stolen belongings?

  She sighed and rolled over, holding the metal bar in front of her to gaze at it. How could such a small piece of metal cause her so much apprehension? But she had to use it at some time: she couldn’t just own it and never use it. That would be foolish, that would be fearful, and Amelia had already made it known how she disdained such fear. If she used it today, and if she were successful, it would prove to Amelia that she was serious, that she was worth more to her new mistress than for her services in the kitchen.

  “What to do, what to do?” she murmured to herself. She didn’t need the book returned for her own purposes: she knew it from cover to cover. But it belonged to Amelia, and to confess that she had lost it would disappoint her mistress greatly. Deborah had always been uncomfortable under the weight of a disapproving gaze. And the mirror — she wanted it back. Betty could not be trusted with it.

  She closed her eyes. Return of stolen belongings. Andromalius. Deep breaths. Nothing enormous, nothing to insult the universe, just a few words.

  “Andromalius,” she said. “I call upon you with this key as your commander. Return my stolen belongings.”

  The wondrous sound began to gather around the key, and then five clear notes rang out, more mellow than summer fruit. She felt a quick rush of excitement bubbling up through her, and found, with surprise, a laugh upon her lips. The thrill quickly subsided, and she looked around almost guiltily, suddenly frightened somebody may have seen her abandon herself to the feeling.

  Did that mean it had worked? Amelia had suggested it may take some time to make the demon key work properly for her. When could she expect a result?

  But then, perhaps the result didn’t matter as much as the fact that she had exercised her new power. Amelia, she hoped, would be proud of her.

  Betty could tell instantly that Lettice Bailey was not happy to see her. Clearly, her previous reluctance to share gossip had caused offence.

  “Yes?” the exorcist’s sister said imperiously, barring access over the threshold into the house.

  “I’d like to speak to Father Bailey, please.”

  “Does your husband know where you are, Mrs Milton?”

  “Is Father Bailey home?”

  Lettice turned away from the door with a derisive glare and called her brother. Betty waited by the door, turning the package over and over in front of her. The mirror and the book. The longer they stayed in the house, the more uneasy she became. She knew the exorcist could dispose of them safely. But as she waited for Father Bailey to arrive, she began to regret coming. Lettice was right: John would despise knowing she was here. But John didn’t believe that the book was evil. Betty did, and she wanted it as far away from her as possible. Finally, snow-haired Father Bailey arrived. “Mrs Milton, I am so pleased to see you again. Is it regarding your previous problem?”

  “Yes, Father. May I come in?”

  Father Bailey led her inside the dim room. Lettice appeared with her maidservant, tying on her hat and pulling on gloves. “You needn’t worry, Mrs Milton, I shall be going to market with the girl. I shan’t hear a single secret word.”

  “Please don’t leave on my account,” Betty said, with little sincerity.

  “No, ’Tis better that we have privacy,” Father Bailey said. “Take a seat, and I shall open a window, for it has grown very stuffy in here.”

  Betty waited while Lettice and her girl left and Father Bailey opened a window. A light breeze blew in, making the wall hangings dance gently. Betty saw motes of dust float by on a weak sunbeam. She tried to relax. Father Bailey sat opposite her, smiling through his rotten teeth.

  “And so you are returned to London?” he said.

  “Yes, and the problem with the girls appears to have worsened. Especially the youngest, the most learned one.”


  “These are the dangers of teaching girls. What have you brought to show me?” He indicated the package she clutched upon her lap.

  Betty passed the package to him. “I found these in the youngest girl’s closet.”

  Father Bailey’s wrinkled hands carefully folded back the cloth. First he picked up the mirror.

  “I am uncertain if it is a forbidden object,” Betty said quickly, “but it seemed odd that she hid it.”

  Father Bailey nodded, his lips pressed tightly, deepening the lines which ran vertically from his mouth. “Oh, it is an instrument of necromancy for certain. The design is fiendish.”

  “That’s what I thought,” Betty said, excited finally to speak with somebody who took her seriously. John was too much of a cynic for his own good.

  “Let me show you,” Father Bailey said. Unexpectedly, he lifted the mirror and slammed it down on the corner of his chair with a crack. Betty anticipated that it would smash into pieces, and felt a sudden twinge of guilt at breaking Deborah’s possession. It didn’t break. Father Bailey held it out for her to inspect. The glass was not even cracked.

  “Evil,” he said, “protects itself.”

  “Then how can we destroy it?” Betty asked, aghast that she had even handled such a sinister object.

  “I can destroy it, fear not.” He put the mirror aside cautiously, then turned his attention to the book. “Ah, you did well to bring this to me. It is a book of necromancy.”

  “Deborah defended herself by saying that it was a long and honoured tradition for men to read about spirits and angels.”

  “No man does it for any reason other than personal gain, despite what he says. Or she. It is always wicked.”

  “Then we should destroy it too?”

  “Without question.”

  “She said it belongs to somebody else; a well-respected friend of my husband.”

  “She lies. It belongs to the devil. We shall stoke the fire and return it to his care. It would be most negligent of us to allow it to circulate in this world, especially in the hands of a young woman.” Father Bailey stood and walked to the fireplace. Betty watched as, despite the heat of the day, he stacked it with coal and lit it. His movements were frustratingly slow and meticulous. The longer she was away from home, the more lies would be necessary to cover her absence. She hoped she could at least be back in time to take John on his afternoon walk.

  “Very well,” he said at length, happy with the low flames which now burned in the grate. “Pass me the mirror first.”

  Betty stood and took the mirror to him, laid it in his withered hands. He mumbled a few words of Latin, and Betty looked around nervously. What if somebody dropped by, somebody who knew her and reported back to her husband? She realised she was sweating: the warm day and the fire conspiring with her anxiety.

  Suddenly the mirror flew up in the air and then rattled to the ground a few feet from them.

  “Did you do that?” Betty asked, but could tell from Father Bailey’s shocked expression that he hadn’t.

  “It does not want to be blessed or burned,” he said in a harsh whisper. “There are demons protecting it.”

  “Demons? Here?” Betty’s heart sped.

  “Pass me the book,” he said, indicating where it lay on the chair.

  She didn’t want to touch the book. “I …”

  “Pass me the book,” he said sternly.

  She reached for the book and, to her horror, it spun away from her and landed on the floor. “How does it move like that?” she gasped.

  “Evil moves it,” Father Bailey said grimly. He turned away from the fireplace with purpose and marched first to the book and then the mirror, picking them up firmly. Once again, he tried to say a Latin blessing over them. First the book, then the mirror shot out of his hands to lie on the hearth. Betty felt a sudden bolt of courage galvanise her, and she stepped forward to kick the book towards the fire. It slipped out from under her, unbalancing her and sending her crashing to the floor. As she fell, she bruised herself painfully on the chair.

  “Never mind, Mrs Milton, it will take more than a demon to defeat me,” Father Bailey said, and a little fleck of spittle escaped the corner of his mouth. “Gather the objects and wrap them once more. I shall deal with them later, when I have all the proper instruments of exorcism around me.”

  When Betty hesitated, he said, “Go on, Mrs Milton. They will not hurt you. Not now our intentions have changed.”

  Betty bent to pick up the mirror and the book, and both of them were inert again. She wrapped them in the cloth she had brought with her and passed them to Father Bailey.

  “Good. Now, if you leave them with me, I shall take care of them.”

  “Thank you, Father,” she said, relieved that she would never have to see the objects again.

  “Your problem now is far more serious.”

  “My problem?”

  “These are only the symptoms of a greater sickness in your household,” he said. “Your stepdaughters are dabbling in necromancy. The house should be properly blessed. I shall have to come in and drive the demons out.”

  Betty squeaked. “No!” she managed to say. “Oh, no, Father. My husband would … well, I’m certain you can imagine my husband’s reaction to such a suggestion.”

  “Mrs Milton, what is more important? Your husband’s anger or your soul’s health? And his soul? And those of your stepdaughters?”

  Betty stopped herself from saying that she would gladly see her stepdaughters burn in hell. Instead she said, “You’ll have to let me think about it.”

  “Do not take too long to think, Mrs Milton. This is very serious.”

  “I know, I know,” she said, backing out. “I must go. I shall be missed.”

  “Do not let your upbringing send you to damnation. We are the one true faith, and we still have the only sure remedy against demons.”

  “It is all impossible at the moment, Father Bailey. But my husband is talking of going away for a little while soon. Perhaps I can conspire to stay behind.”

  “You must do something. And quickly. Ere matters develop beyond my capacity to contain them.”

  Betty nodded. “I must go,” she said again.

  “Do not be foolish.”

  “I shall not,” Betty said, but as she let herself out and found her way home, she wondered over and over again if she would be foolish. If she would ignore the Father’s warnings and let her fear of John stop her from driving out the evil in her house.

  It took two weeks before anything happened, and in the meantime Deborah did not use the demon key again. But finally, late one evening, she returned to her closet to find the book and the mirror lying neatly upon her bed, just as though someone had lain them there carefully. She picked up the mirror, traced the grotesque carvings with the tip of her finger. Why had Lazodeus given this to her? If his sworn purpose was to use his magic to protect them — a magic they were all forced to relinquish when Mary had unwittingly released him from their command — why give her a scrying mirror? What were his intentions, and where was he now? She had neither seen nor heard of him since the night they had left London.

  She passed her hand over the mirror and said, “Show me Lazodeus.” The mirror remained blank. She tried again. Had the mirror ceased to work?

  “Show me Betty,” she said. The mirror gleamed back an image of Betty sifting flour in the kitchen with Liza, her sleeves rolled up and her cap pinned on crooked. So it still worked. She passed her hand over the mirror’s surface, thoughtful. It didn’t work on the bestower of the mirror. For a reason? Could one not watch an angel? Or did the angel, as she had always suspected, have something to hide?

  A knock at the bedroom door had her hurriedly hiding the book and mirror under her bedclothes. Liza’s voice: “Miss Deborah, your father needs you for dictation.”

  Deborah poked her head out of her closet. “I’ll be down in a minute,” she replied.

  Liza left, closing the door behind her. Deborah pulled o
ut the book and mirror. She had hidden her other book deep within her trunk, and now, wrapping the objects carefully, she buried them among her clothes. As an added measure, she pulled out the demon key and held it up in her right hand. “Bael, I call upon you with this key as your commander. Protect my belongings from the eyes of those who seek them.”

  As the beautiful music rang out, she once again felt a thrilling power streaming through her. It took her a few moments to recover herself before she went downstairs to work with Father.

  “You took your time,” he said sourly, as she gathered up her writing tray and sat across from him.

  “I apologise, Father. What would you have me do?” The long poem was becoming more and more of a trial as he dictated pages, deleted them, and dictated them again. Because Mary was also working on it, there was confusion about where they were up to at any given moment. Father repeatedly said it was “almost finished,” but as far as Deborah could see it had never been more of a mess.

  “Mary should have left it at the right place. Read me the first lines you have in the pile.”

  Deborah picked up the sheet and read, “So spake th’ Eternal Father, and fulfilled all justice …”

  “Yes, yes, keep reading.”

  Deborah read for a few pages, and Father was very pleased with himself, almost cheerful. When she had finished the section, he sat back smugly. “I’m mightily delighted with it, Deborah. What do you think?”

  “It is masterly, of course,” Deborah said, and it was not false flattery. “But Father, may I ask you something?”

  His mouth tightened. “Certainly.”

  “How do you write so confidently of angels and our first parents, when you were not there to witness these happenings?”

  Father considered the question, pressing his pale fingers into his chin. “Why, Deborah, I had never considered such a question.”

  “Do you believe what you write is fact, Father?”

  “I believe it is a version of the truth. I could not continue to write it if I did not believe that. It would seem pointless, the babyish meanderings of a wild imagination.”