by Kim Wilkins
“What is your name?” she asked.
“You could not pronounce it.”
Mary shook her head. “You appeared so quickly.”
“There are many of us living up here now. Your sister Deborah attracts us.”
“Deborah?”
“Yes, but she has yet to make an offer the like of the one you extended. Whatever you have of value. Oh, I am most excited to have arrived first.”
She scanned the room anxiously. “Will others come?”
“No, I am here so you are mine.”
Although its voice and its nature seemed more gentle than the others, she was still made uncomfortable by its words.
“You are frightened of something?” it asked.
“Of you.”
“But I can bring you in contact with Lazodeus.”
“Is he well?”
“He is well enough.”
“Does he mourn? Is he very sad?”
“I have heard no reports of his sadness.”
Mary took this small comfort. Of course Lazodeus would be brave in his punishment. It was she who could not bear it; for her it was a lifetime of anguish. “I wish to see him again. Can you deliver messages between us?”
“Yes, that is within my capabilities.”
“I need you to ask him what I can do to bring us together again. I will do whatever he says, so he is not to feel any request is too great. Can you reassure him? Can you tell him that I love him and I will do anything to see him again?”
“I can. But what about my payment?”
“I would give anything. I would give my soul.”
The creature snorted and took a step towards her, towering above her menacingly. “Your soul is not worth much, Mary Milton. Nor is your body for so many have enjoyed it.”
A meagre relief that he would not want to mix flesh with her. “Then what?”
“How badly do you wish to see him again?”
“My heart is bleeding. I will do anything, provided I am alive and well when he takes me in his arms again.”
“Your sight?”
“No, I have to see his face.”
“Your hearing?”
She shook her head impatiently. “I have to hear his voice. Do you not understand? It is his absence which pains me. Suggest nothing else which will compromise my experience of his presence.” Her heart was beating very rapidly, but she was determined to go through with whatever it asked of her. At the back of her mind a tiny voice was pleading, pleading, don’t mention Max.
“Ha!” the creature said, picking the thought from her mind. It knelt next to her and leaned close. “And what could I do with your ugly dog?”
Mary held her breath against the awful smell of the creature. “He is what I love most. After Lazodeus.”
“A wiser love, Mary Milton. One for which you need not suffer so much.” It shook its head. “No, I have decided upon my payment. I want your youth and beauty.”
Her breath seemed pulled from her lungs. “My …”
“’Tis the only thing of value you possess.”
“And how is such a transaction to be effected?”
“You merely have to agree to it.”
“Then you will go direct to Lazodeus?”
“Direct.”
Mary licked her lips. Her youth and beauty. She would lose them eventually anyway. And if it meant she may once more hold Lazodeus in her arms … should he still want her to hold him …?
“What is your answer, Mary?”
“I consider it yet.”
“Make haste.”
“Perhaps I shall call upon another demon.”
“Another demon will want the same thing. ’Tis all you have, my dear.”
Moments ticked past and Mary could not decide. Part of her ached to say yes, to be done with this agony of separation from Lazodeus. But no guarantees existed that her bargain would bring them together again. Was being in contact with him via a messenger enough?
She nodded. It would be enough, for once contact had been established, he would tell her how to proceed to release him.
“May I interpret that nod as a yes?”
“I —”
He sat back with an exasperated sigh. “You cannot call out to us that you will make such a bargain and then hesitate.”
“I am almost persuaded.”
“What can I do to persuade you further?”
“Let me see how I might look.”
“Very well, go to the mirror.” He indicated the large looking glass hung on the far wall. She advanced to it with trepidation, gazed at herself. The round cheeks and bright eyes would fade anyway. Was it really so great a loss for such an enormous gain?
“Show me then, demon.”
In a blink the reflection had changed. A hag stared back at her, with white hair still ridiculously looped into a fashionable hairstyle, with sunken cheeks and not a tooth in her head. Long crevices of age scarred her cheeks and her neck fell in haggard folds. Mary looked down at her own hands, still soft and white, then held them up to the mirror where they were gnarled and spotted with age. In the mirror, her breasts sagged nearly to her waist, and Mary had to put her hands on her own body to reassure herself that they were still where they had always sat. Thick nausea rolled into her stomach.
“Your answer, Mary?”
“I …”
“I shall give you ten seconds, and then you shall be transformed.”
Mary stared and stared. This will be what you see every time you pass your reflection.
“One … two … three …”
“I need longer to decide.”
“I have no more time to wait. Four … five … six —”
“No!”
“No?”
Mary turned from the reflection and looked at the demon. “No, I cannot do it.”
“You shall be separated eternally from Lazodeus.”
“I may live another hundred years.”
“And you will be that hag upon his return.”
She shook her head, and although her guilt was acute, she felt such relief. “No, I cannot … I cannot look like that. There must be another way.”
“Do not waste my time. You are an idiot. You do not love him.”
“I do love him!” But the demon was gone. “Come back!” she shrieked. “I may change my mind, come back.” She wouldn’t change her mind, though, and she suspected the demon had realised that. She turned back to the mirror, to her restored prettiness, and she spat upon it. “You vain wench, I despise you.”
Betty had to stand on a short stool, and still couldn’t quite reach the top of the bed. She stretched up on her toes, felt the stool rock slightly beneath her, but steadied herself and persisted. Carefully, she arranged in a row on the tester three wax figures, a clove of garlic and a string with a knot in it. She had no idea what kind of bad emanations a lunatic might leave in her bed, but she wanted to alleviate them as much as possible.
A noise on the stair outside nearly sent her crashing to the floor. She hurried down and sat upon the stool, looked around to see Mary come in.
“Now, Mary, you know it upsets her to see you.”
“’Tis no business of yours, Betty.” Mary sank down on the edge of the bed where Anne slept peacefully. “Leave us be a few minutes.”
“But you …” Betty thought better of finishing her sentence. Of all of them, Mary was the most frightening. “I shall return anon. Do not work her into a state.”
Mary was not listening; she had leaned over Anne and was whispering, “Annie, Annie wake up. ’Tis Mary, I need to talk to you.”
Betty went through the split in the curtains to the withdrawing room, but hesitated nearby so she could listen. If Mary made Anne begin to howl again, she would have to go in and put a stop to it. Betty couldn’t stand the sounds of her madness. They made her feel as though she were being driven mad herself.
“Sister, wake.”
A soft grunt.
“Annie?”
“Leave me alone, Mary. You are a murderer.” Anne sounded distressed, but not in her usual state of screaming panic.
“No, I am not.”
“We killed Deborah.” The same refrain.
“No, we did not. Deborah is alive.”
“If she were alive she would come.”
“She is angry with us.”
“I do not believe you.” Anne’s voice started to grow louder. “I killed my sister and it is because of you, because you started the fire, because you pushed her inside …”
Betty listened carefully. The ravings of a mad person, surely. But Deborah had suggested that perhaps her sisters had intended her harm.
“Will you be quiet!” Mary hissed. “Be quiet and listen, for I come to speak to you of the angel.”
Then Anne said a word which Betty did not recognise. Lass-something. What was this talk of an angel? She suddenly felt edgy, as though she should not be listening. Mary would be angry if she knew.
“When will he come?” Anne said. “Has he been to see you?”
“Annie, listen. Deborah escaped with the manuscript. The angel is not returning.”
“No, no!” A wail of such anguish that Betty was surprised. The guilt over the imagined killing of her sister was expressed at only half the intensity.
“Shh! Do you want Betty to come racing back in here?”
“It cannot be, Mary. I shall die, I shall die.” Her voice was little more than a whimper.
“Would that we were both dead.”
“What can we do?”
“Nothing, for he was all our magic. And Deborah, with her foul magical key, will not help us.”
Betty’s knees nearly buckled underneath her for relief. Mary’s magic was gone. Only Deborah had some remaining, and Deborah had vowed to protect her. Was it all over then? Was her only remaining concern with her stepdaughters to be Anne’s lunatic fit?
“I don’t believe you, I don’t believe you. He must come, he must.” Anne choked on a sob. “I don’t believe you, I don’t, I don’t. He’s coming, he’s coming back, he must come back.”
“Hush, hush, your tongue runs on wheels. Be quiet now.”
But Mary’s entreaties for quiet only seemed to anger Anne, and soon she was shouting again about how she hated Mary, how poor Deborah was all burned, and how she would die with the pain in her heart.
“Anne, listen, you must recover so we can steal Deborah’s key.”
“Deborah is dead! Deborah is dead!”
Betty heard Mary rise in a rage and a slap of flesh on flesh indicated she had struck Anne. Then Mary came storming out. At first, Betty tried to hide the fact that she had listened in, but then she remembered Mary’s words. All her magic was gone.
“Why do you stare?” Mary demanded.
“Because I cannot believe such an ugly soul is allowed to walk God’s good earth.”
Mary stepped up to her. “How do you dare to say such a thing?”
“’Tis nothing daring. I invite no danger.”
“Why, I should —”
“Should what? Lash me to death with your tongue? I quake.”
Mary puffed up with rage, but could not manage a single word. She stamped out, her face as red as her dress. Betty smiled to herself. Months of tyranny concluded. A little revenge would satisfy her greatly.
Deborah watched for the next few days as Mary did everything within her power to convince her dog that she still loved him. From a distance, she was the Mary of old who loved a small creature immodestly and bent all her care towards him. But up close she was a snarling opponent, with a permanent groove in her forehead from frowning. Sometimes Deborah almost felt pity for her sister, that she was so inexorably removed from her love. But Mary had placed herself outside the circle of pity with her actions, and so they continued adversaries and, Deborah expected, would do so until she could convince Father to send her older sisters away. She was merely waiting for Anne to recover her wits.
From the window of the withdrawing room, Deborah saw Mary walk down the hill with Max. Now was the time to act. Betty was occupied in tending to Anne, Liza was cooking, Mary was gone. She crept up to her closet and had the demon key held out in her right hand when Liza entered the bedroom.
“Mistress Deborah?”
She stepped out of the closet. “What is it?”
“I need help with the mats from Mr Milton’s study. I’m not tall enough to hang them.”
Deborah hesitated, and almost went with her. Housekeeping was preferable to calling upon demons. “Not now, Liza, I’m busy.”
“But Mr Milton wants his mats beaten.”
“My Father can wait an hour.”
“But he said —”
“I care not! Go away. I shall be down as soon as I can.”
Liza made a grudging curtsy and left. Deborah picked up the demon key again. Who was to say the stupid servant wouldn’t come back in the middle of her incantation? What she wouldn’t give for more privacy, her own house like Amelia’s where she could do what she wished.
Mary’s secret room, then. She climbed out on the ledge and crept along. The stone was beginning to crumble at the far end, and she inched around it carefully. Once inside, she found herself looking around impatiently. All these rich things. Mary had commanded an angel and asked for this. What was wrong with her? Why had she not asked for protection for Max, for the continued love of her sisters? She was as base and corrupt as the demon Dantalion had suggested.
And yet, here was Deborah, about to invoke the demon of treasure.
“For the greater good,” she muttered, pulling out the demon key. Then in a clear voice, “Asmodeus, I call upon you with this key as your commander, provide me with treasure.”
Five notes, but this time they pained her. No sweet aftershock, only an abrasion of her most delicate organs, only a dark corrosion of her soul. The tiny sound of coins clinking together drew her attention. Under the window, a red velvet bag. With a deep breath, she approached it. She could not have been more loathe to touch it had it been a snake. Her hands shook as she opened the bag, and saw it was full of guineas.
A small fortune. She dropped it. What had this cost her? What had happened to her soul while those notes had rung out? A rage boiled up inside her and she picked up a pillow and flung it towards the fireplace. It felt good, so she picked up a candlestick and made to hurl it at the wall.
Then a voice of reason inside told her, Control your temper, these belongings are Mary’s.
Mary who had left her for dead in a burning church. The crack of the candlestick as it hit the wall was infinitely gratifying. She found another, which she aimed at a looking-glass on the opposite wall. It split in the middle, then fell from the wall. She took a velvet tapestry in her hands and wrenched at it, pulled away its hem and tore the stitching. Before she had even realised what a rage had taken her over, she was tearing through the room, pulling things apart, pushing statues over and breaking every candle she could find. It felt good, it felt so good. Tears ran down her cheeks and she became aware of an animalistic grunting and gasping; her own.
Deborah had a brass statuette in her left hand, about to smash it into a painting hanging above the fireplace, when a voice from behind her startled her back to herself.
“I believe you are enjoying yourself.”
She whirled around. Lazodeus, dressed as black as his black heart.
“You!”
“You seem surprised.”
She dropped the statuette and pushed her hair off her face. Her cheeks felt flushed and her heart was racing. “I am surprised on two counts. One, that you should dare to appear before me after sending me to my death in St Paul’s. Two, that you are not imprisoned for one hundred years as my sister believes.”
He frowned, looked puzzled. “I am amazed on both counts.”
“Amazed? Are you stupid and evil both?”
“Deborah, I did not send you to your death.”
“My sisters locked me in!”
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br /> “I had no inkling of what they intended. If they, in fact, intended it. Was not the act opportunistic? They did not know you would come to find them.”
“I …” She was surprised by logic.
“Did you not save your father’s manuscript?”
“Yes.”
“And instead of being thanked for —”
“I do not wish to listen to this!”
“Should you not thank me for warning you though, Deborah?”
“I will not thank you, for I do not trust you.”
“Still? What more can I do? You are determined to consider me your enemy.”
Deborah sighed and wished that he was not so beautiful to look upon. If he at least appeared evil she knew she would not be moved. “I cannot trust you, Lazodeus. It is not within my ability to trust you.”
“And as for the second charge, that I am imprisoned. Why, as you see, it is not so.”
“Then why would my sister say such a thing?”
“She lied to excuse her actions. Which is like Mary. You know it is like Mary.”
Deborah looked around at the destruction she had caused, then her eyes drew back to Lazodeus. She only remembered at that moment that she hadn’t protected herself from him. She put her hand to her forehead. “Why are you here?”
“I was once your guardian.”
“You never did anything of benefit for me.”
“And so now I wish to. You used the demon key for the acquisition of wealth. It has injured you.”
“I feel no injury.” But she was lying. She remembered the awful feeling of erosion that the music had caused.
“It has injured you in your subtle body, not your mortal body.”
“My soul?”
“If you like to call it so. And every time you need more money, for that will last you but a year or two, you must do it again, causing further and further damage.”
A cool gust of air washed into the room. The torn tapestries danced and Deborah shivered. “My father is destitute.”
“I can remedy that.”
“I want nothing from you.”
“I can remedy it, Deborah, as was my original mission in being your guardian, and it will cause no further harm to you.” He nodded towards the bag of coins. “That is someone else’s money, you understand. Demons cannot make it out of nothing.”