Angel of Ruin

by Kim Wilkins

  “I am sorry,” she wailed, heart-sick.

  “When will you carry out our other plan?” he said urgently, his voice dropping to a whisper.

  “Anne has just this morning gone to the markets to obtain what we need,” Mary offered, eager to please him. “We shall decide this afternoon, depending on the availability of the substance, which day shall be his last.”

  He released her suddenly and she staggered back a few paces, rubbing her arms where he had held her. “All your attention should now be bent to that purpose, Mary. Do not disappoint me. Do not make me doubt your love.”

  She opened her mouth, wanting to blurt out the story of how she had almost traded her youth and beauty for contact with him, then realised that the word “almost” made the story all but ineffectual. “I shall endeavour to be more focussed.”

  “Leave your stepmother be. I care not what her fate is. It is her husband who must be routed.”

  She nodded, keen to be back in his favour. “You shall have no more reason to doubt me.”

  “See that I do not.” He disappeared without any return to his usual tender self. It left her bereft.

  When Anne returned to the house she found Mary pacing the bedroom floor.

  “Sister?” Anne said, shrugging off her cloak.

  “Annie, you are returned. What have you found? When can we act?”

  Anne held a finger to her lips and indicated Deborah’s closet.

  Mary shook her head. “She is downstairs with Father.”

  “I went to a market near Duke’s Place. They will have the poison mixed for me on Friday.”

  “Then we shall feed it to him on Lord’s Day, for I always make supper on Lord’s Day and he will suspect nothing out of the ordinary.”

  Anne fought down the rising tide of paralysing guilt which threatened to engulf her whenever she thought about their plan. Lazodeus’s arms would make it all well again, and he had promised her they would be together always and eternally as soon as Father was dead.

  “And what of Mary?” she had asked. “Will she not expect such reward as well?”

  “We shall solve that problem in due course. For now, concentrate on the task at hand,” he had replied.

  And so she would, but with an eye on the future. “Yes, Lord’s Day will be perfect,” she said. And a perfect time, perhaps, for Anne to keep a little of the poison aside for Mary. How else could she ensure her sister’s foolish love for Lazodeus would not stand in the way of their eternal bliss?

  Betty became aware of voices through the haze of her sleep — for sleep was the only relief from the aching in her joints and the burning of her throat. Mary’s words from that morning still haunted her. There can be no doubt that it is the plague you suffer. What an unbearable terror her words brought, for she had all the symptoms. A magic plague, pushed upon her by Mary and her witchcraft. It had been foolish to assume her stepdaughter was no longer a threat.

  “Father, there is no doubt in my mind.” It was Deborah’s voice. She could see the shadows of her and John on the other side of the curtains.

  “It cannot be, Deborah. Yesterday she was completely well. One does not contract such an advanced case of the disease overnight.”

  “I know it is unusual, Father, but we must not ignore it. We must send for a physician.”

  “We can no longer afford a physician, Deborah. You must nurse her. Liza is fled, I cannot see, and your sisters bear Betty no love.”

  A short silence, and Betty felt herself dropping back out of awareness. Then Deborah’s voice again. “Father, will you allow me to bring someone who may help?”

  “Deborah, I am wretched. I wish not to lose another wife.”

  “Very well. You sit with her. I shall be back as soon as I can. If Mary or Anne try to enter, prevent it by all means.”

  “I shall.”

  Betty fell into an uneasy slumber. She doubted this time whether Deborah’s good magic could help.

  Deborah paced anxiously in the withdrawing room.

  “Sit down, Deborah. You make me nervous,” Father said from his chair.

  Deborah sat, winding the material of her skirt through her fingers.

  “You must have little faith in this physician you have brought,” Father said.

  “She is not a physician.”

  “Then what is she?”

  “She is a healer. She healed her maidservant of this very illness, many years ago.” Deborah glanced towards the curtain, wishing that she could watch, but Amelia had insisted that Betty needed quiet, not a legion of people hanging apprehensively around her bed.

  Father had fallen silent, his hands pressed between his knees. Deborah could not bear to see him so distressed, and to contemplate her sisters’ plan froze her very soul.

  “Please do not worry, Father,” she said quietly, but he did not answer.

  At length, Amelia emerged from the bedroom. Deborah looked up at her with guilty eyes. After their argument that morning she had been surprised that Amelia even responded to her request. Perhaps Deborah had underestimated her.

  “She is resting,” Amelia said.

  Father jerked to his feet, straightened his shirt. “Will she live?”

  “Oh yes. The illness may have strook her quickly, but it has not had time to cleave to her very strong. I have dealt with the sores, and checked that her lungs are clear. She will be well in a matter of days, given rest.”

  “Is it … safe to go near her?” Father asked.

  “Yes, she is past the stage of infection. But should you suffer a sore throat or a fever, you are to tell Deborah to call me immediately.”

  “Thank you, Mrs Lewis,” Father said, extending a hand.

  Amelia shook it with a smile. “It is Miss Lewis. I knew your wife, Mr Milton.”

  “Katherine?”

  “No, Mary. Your first wife.”

  Father frowned. “I see. Well, you have done a great service to our family. If Mary lived yet, she would be grateful.”

  Amelia suppressed a laugh and Deborah bit her lip. If Father’s first wife were still alive, he wouldn’t have a third to tend to. But Father was finding his way through the gap in the curtains to sit with Betty, oblivious to his unintentionally comical remark.

  Deborah took Amelia’s hand. “I apologise for my behaviour this morning.” They had spoken only of Betty’s symptoms on the way from Leadenhall Street; Deborah had avoided any reference to their earlier conversation.

  “You are forgiven,” Amelia said in her imperious tone.

  “I remembered you saying you had healed Gisela of the plague. But I never questioned you about it later because I thought …”

  “You thought that if I hadn’t studied on the continent and didn’t belong to the Royal College, I could not be a proper healer?”

  Deborah dropped her head. “Precisely.”

  “Doctors of physic study many years in stuffy libraries, Deborah, and still know less than the least village witch. Knowledge takes divers forms.”

  “I know. I am sorry. I was disappointed in you.”

  “I could not have disappointed you so greatly if you had not expected so much of me.” She indicated towards the curtained room where Father sat. “You may look to others all your life as paragons and never learn about yourself. Look inside for your own strength, and stop expecting others to bestow it upon you without struggle.”

  Deborah pressed her lips together, chastened. “I shall think upon it,” she said.

  Amelia glanced around. “Walk me into the street. There is something we must discuss.”

  Deborah called out to Father that she would be back shortly and accompanied Amelia out onto the Walk. Slowly, strangely, London was staggering to its feet around her. The night soil man was back on the job, the endless procession of carts had come to life along the main street and the Walk was once again clogged with traffic. Amelia picked her way around a muddy hole and hitched her bag of medicines further up her shoulder. She seemed reticent, so Deborah prompte
d her.

  “What do you wish to discuss?”

  Amelia took her time in answering. They were on the main street and heading towards Cripplegate. Amelia stopped. Across the road in the Artillery grounds, the makeshift village was already growing smaller as the unfortunates within found alternative accommodation. They watched two children playing with a kite, running around in a large circle, their laughter being snatched away on the autumn breeze. Finally, Amelia turned to her.

  “Your stepmother’s illness was probably advanced by magic.”

  Deborah considered a moment. “Mary.”

  “With Lazodeus’s help.”

  “Yes.”

  “It will recede as quickly as it came upon her, but still watch her carefully.” Amelia held out the demon key on the chain about her neck. “Your demon key made an unexpected sound.”

  Deborah shook her head. “I’m sorry?”

  “It rang out, once.”

  “Oh,” Deborah said. “That is the alarm.”

  “I know it now, for I was curious and set about scrying for the answer. It rings when your sisters are together and planning your father’s demise.”

  “I did not know it would ring more than once, more than the first time.”

  Amelia put a hand on Deborah’s shoulder. “In the scrying water I saw your sisters planning. They intend to murder your father on Lord’s Day.”

  Deborah took a breath against the dread. “I have little time, then.”

  “You could prevent them by persuading your Father to leave the house on Sunday,” Amelia said.

  “Then they will murder him upon his return. No, I must remove Lazodeus. He assists and inspires them.”

  Amelia cast her glance away again. When she returned it to Deborah, her countenance was softer than Deborah had ever seen it. “I am not angry with you for this morning’s argument, because I am culpable. I know now that I am culpable.”

  Deborah merely nodded. It seemed inappropriate to say anything. A couple with two spaniels walked past and eyed them suspiciously.

  Amelia pulled Deborah into the shade of a tree, close to a wall on which a vine crept and spilled. A handful of the leaves were turning yellow. “I did not believe that Lazodeus had tempted your sisters into patricide, because I could not believe that I had been so wrong. To call a guardian angel from among the fallen is … well, it is the work of an amateur, which I suppose I was then. I did not know fully what I was doing, and did not believe that it would lead you into danger.” She touched her hair nervously. “I was wrong and too proud to admit it. I accept that. And I’d like to help repair the damage.”

  Deborah felt such a gust of relief billow into her lungs that it nearly knocked her over. “You will help me?”

  “All that I can. I will tell you about the angel key, and whatever your punishment is, I will share it with you. It is the least I can do.”

  “I feel not so alone now.”

  Amelia nodded slowly. “You must understand that ridding your family of Lazodeus may not change everything back to the way it was.”

  “But it will release my sisters from Lazodeus’s spell.”

  “Not if they love him. Or at least, I’m not sure. You may still have to protect your father from them. You may have to protect yourself. I cannot say for sure what will happen if you succeed.”

  “I will still try, Amelia. It is everything to me. My father is everything to me.”

  Amelia grasped Deborah’s hand in her own. “Listen carefully. Take yourself to the river when you are least likely to be disturbed. Go to an empty place; it should not be difficult with so many of the docks destroyed by fire. If someone pulls you up out of the water ere you have the key, all will be foiled. Angels cannot be tricked twice.”

  “I see.”

  Amelia took a deep breath. “When you are on the very point between life and death, an angel will come to identify you, to assess your fitness for Heaven. He will lean over you, and then you must take both his hands in yours, as quickly as possible. But be not surprised if it feels curious, for you must use your subtle body, not your mortal body.”

  “Will I be dead then?” Deborah felt a chill creep across her skin despite the warm sunshine on the street.

  “Momentarily. All that happens next will take place in the space of moments, although it may feel like much longer. You must say to the angel, ‘I demand an angel key.’ He will then take you away to present your case before a delegation.” Amelia stroked Deborah’s fingers with her own. “Be careful, Deborah.”

  “What will they ask me at the delegation?”

  “I know not. I have never met a person who survived an attempt to command angels.”

  Deborah swallowed. Her throat felt dry. “Do I have any hope?”

  Amelia considered. “I believe you do, for you are young and strong, and drowning is a gentle, slow death. If I do not hear from you, I will come to find your body and ensure you are properly buried.”

  Deborah drew her hands out of Amelia’s. “I am so very frightened,” she whispered.

  “Are you certain you want to do it?”

  Deborah looked back up the Walk towards home. “My life for Father’s? Yes, I am certain.”

  The world seemed very quiet at four o’clock in the morning, and that was the clearest sign to Deborah that the city still had much to recover from. Ordinarily, a cacophony of carts and merchants would be parading the streets within the walls, but the blackened ruins lay still and silent in the half-light. The sky was not yet aglow, but Deborah could see no stars, only clouds. A light drizzle misted down as she made her way to the river.

  Queenhythe was the very centre of the devastated riverfront, and Deborah headed there. A stone wall was built here, rather than the ordinary muddy banks, and Deborah climbed over and sat upon it. She shivered in the cool morning air, and flinched against the idea of how cold the water would be. Reluctance now weighed upon her. Need it be so serious? Need it be so dangerous? The answer was yes, but her body felt as though it were saying no, over and over, in every twitch of her frightened muscles.

  She sat upon the wall a few minutes, then a few minutes longer. The rain came down harder now, and beat its mournful cadence on the sour ashes behind her. She turned her face up to it, let the water run into her mouth, and wondered if she would ever feel the rain on her face again.

  You are young and strong. Amelia was certain that counted for something. Deborah slid into the water. It came up above her calves. She put out an unsteady hand and sunk to her knees, took a breath and plunged herself backwards. Cold. She stretched out full on her back, her arms over her head, her pale silky hair floating in strands about her.

  And waited for an angel to arrive.

  25

  This Continent of Spacious Heaven

  Her lungs began to panic almost immediately, as if they disagreed violently with the resolution in her mind. Breathe, breathe. Spasms lurched through her body. A black stain crept across her field of vision. Breathe, breathe. Her lungs seemed poised to explode, her fingers tingled and her stomach clenched. Breathe, breathe. But she would not breathe. She said it over and over in her head, I will not breathe I will not breathe I will not breathe. Her ribs felt bruised by the effort, it was becoming impossible to clench them any longer. Under the river, she cried out, “Father!”, and the water gushed inside her, poured through her nose and mouth, seemed to fill every crevice of her body, sour and acidic. Her head was weighed down with it, she screwed her eyes closed and felt herself fading from the world, slipping, slipping away …

  A light above her, a circle at the end of a dark tunnel. All is confusion, I know not where I am. Her body was suddenly weightless and felt as though it was being pulled gently in all directions. A moment of wonder, then a blazing light flashed before her and she knew this was the angel. But how to catch him? She had assumed he would appear in mortal form. There was no time for deliberation, she propelled herself up and lunged at him. Her own hands looked ghostly and pale, yet th
ey seized something solid. She pulled gently, and found herself looking at a pair of perfect hands. The angel had suddenly transformed into mortal form. In that moment she was nearly undone, because the great beauty of the angel fleetingly eradicated her ability to think. Here was a creature hand-carved by God, neither recognisably male nor female, a slender seraph with blazing eyes and marble skin. Lazodeus, by comparison, seemed base and dark.

  “I demand an angel key,” she managed, though not forcefully.

  The angel fixed her with large, sad eyes. “Are you certain?” he asked. In this place between life and death, his voice seemed to emanate from all around her.

  “I am certain. I must save my father.”

  “All will be well if you leave things as they are.”

  “My sisters are about to kill him.”

  “It is not such a loathsome thing to die.”

  Deborah remembered what Amelia had said about angels, that they could be cruel and despised to give mortals power over them. Despite his comforting words, she hung on. “I demand an angel key,” she said again, this time with more certainty.

  He blinked slowly then smiled. “Very well, hold on to my feet.” He suddenly slipped from her grasp and began to move away from her. She desperately grasped his ankles and felt herself pulled upwards and upwards. From his back two mighty wings had sprouted, snowy white and beating rhythmically above her. The dark earth below moved slowly away and she felt a rolling, spinning fear of falling. A million miles seemed to fill the space between her feet and the ground. They moved towards the light above them, through the dark tunnel between the worlds.

  “Can you hear it?” the angel called behind him.

  “Hear what?”

  “Listen.”

  She listened. As they drew closer to the circle of light, she could detect a sweet shimmering music: viols and pipes and harpsichord. The music seemed to sink inside her and fill her with a calm joy. “’Tis beautiful,” she said.

  “It is Heaven,” he replied.

  They swept up and up, the music grew louder and louder, vibrating through her with mellow resonance. Suddenly the circle of light opened up like a great eye, and they broke through it. Deborah closed her eyes with fear. A mighty swooshing sound shuddered over her, jolting her like a tiny boat on a stormy ocean. The music reached a desperate crescendo, breaking like colossal waves. She clung to the angel, her teeth clenched hard, her eyes screwed shut. Then a soft quiet descended upon her, the music pulsed gently as though moving on a summer breeze, and she realised she was lying on the ground.