Creatures of Charm and Hunger

by Molly Tanzer

And Jane didn’t have to wait just to try it on for fit, so after looking both ways down the hall, Jane shed her apron and her everyday dress. Her bare flesh prickled in the cool air of the guest bedroom as she quickly slipped into the gown.

  It fit perfectly. She couldn’t risk looking at herself in her mother’s mirror, but gazing down at her wrists framed by black lace and feeling the deliciously snug silk slithering over her waist, she’d never felt more like herself. While she was a bit ashamed of her bare white legs and common, knobby feet in their homemade socks, she knew exactly the shoes and stockings she’d pair with this, once she got the chance. She noticed such things when she looked at the stills of her favorite movie stars, and firmly believed she’d managed to cultivate excellent taste even if she’d had limited opportunities to prove it in a shop with money in her hand.

  Jane allowed herself a twirl and then, offering silent, sincere thanks to Edith, she took it off and hung it back up in the closet. She gave it one last, regretful stroke with her fingertips before closing the door.

  Edith had gotten her the perfect dress. If only Jane deserved it!

  As she left her bedroom, she nearly ran in to Miriam, who had been walking down the hall with an armload of books. The girl shrieked and dropped two of the tomes she carried; Jane startled too, and stammered an apology as she helped pick them up.

  “What were you doing in there?” asked Miriam, peering in the open doorway as Smudge strolled out of it, tail high in the air. Jane hadn’t known he had been in there with her.

  “Cleaning,” answered Jane. “Dusting mostly. Making sure all is to rights.”

  Miriam looked confused. “You don’t usually do that, do you?”

  Jane shook her head. “No, but . . .”

  “But what?”

  “Mother hasn’t been as interested in chores recently. Surely you’ve noticed she’s been preoccupied with work?”

  “Is that why you made dinner last night?”

  Jane refrained from adding, “And the night before that, too.” Instead she nodded. “Someone had to. I’ll cook again tonight.”

  “Thank you,” said Miriam. She meant it sincerely, and Jane appreciated it. She also appreciated it when Miriam offered to do the dishes that evening. After dinner, Nancy had wandered back down to the Library, having neither said nor eaten much.

  “Do you think she’s ill?” asked Jane, as she wiped the dishes dry. Miriam had insisted that she would be happy to do both washing and drying, but it was actually quite pleasant to work together. It had been a long time since they had.

  “She doesn’t look sick,” said Miriam. “Maybe it’s just a project. Remember when she was trying to reorder the fiction titles in the Library? We barely saw her for three months!”

  That was true. But then, she’d asked Jane and Miriam to take over a few of her more taxing errands for a while, and had otherwise seemed mostly her normal self. She hadn’t just let things slide until someone took over. This was different.

  “Perhaps so,” said Jane, without much confidence.

  Jane’s worries left her mind that night when she held one of Smudge’s freshly plucked hairs in her candle flame and it burned a brilliant pink—pinker than anything Jane had ever imagined, even after browsing Ambleside’s hat shop, or that one fancy candy shop in London with Edith, or even when braving Smudge’s ire to mess with the pads of his toes. The flame positively fizzled pink, and Jane grabbed Smudge into her arms in glee.

  The cat allowed it. Before, he would have thrashed and struggled his way out of her grasp, perhaps giving her a taste of his teeth or claws to remind her that it was not his preference to be cuddled like a baby. His limp, passive body felt almost dead, a weight both familiar and not.

  And strangest yet, he was purring.

  “Well,” said Jane, feeling a bit unsettled as she replaced him carefully on the bed, “I guess now we can start collecting your fur.”

  Using her own nail clippers, Jane trimmed the cat’s nails, setting the bits aside in a jar, down to the very last fragments of nail that she was only able to get by pressing the pad of her finger into the wood of her desk. Then she set to brushing him with the fine-toothed comb. It took off a goodly amount of Smudge’s fluff, and he sat still for that too, even letting her comb his belly and tail. She collected an impressive pile before stopping, though it was not nearly enough for her needs, of course; it would take many such brushings for that.

  That’s when Smudge stuck out one gray foot and touched Jane’s hand. For the first time since she’d summoned the demon into him, he stuck his claws into her, the points digging, kneading into her flesh—gentle, though surprisingly sharp.

  Jane glanced over at the jar, where the tips of Smudge’s nails yet lay. She hadn’t imagined doing it; she had indeed just clipped them.

  Jane took his paw in her fingertips, pressing on the pads. Wicked claws poked out, the points long and bright in the light of her bedroom lamp.

  Smudge purred more intensely as Jane gasped aloud in wonder, finally understanding. She could gather more of what she needed to make her liniment! It was a kingly gift, even for a demon like the Connoisseur, known for its generosity.

  What she didn’t understand was how it was possible.

  It was two hours later when Jane stopped her efforts. She’d trimmed her cat’s nails several times over, and the volume of fur she’d combed off him would have been impossible for ten Smudges to produce.

  She would need to render it into its pure diabolic essence to make use of it, but that would have to wait for another night. Now she was too tired and frankly too disconcerted to attempt anything more complex than undressing and getting into bed.

  Jane didn’t think she’d be able to sleep, but after turning off the light, she fell into a deep, dreamless, and restful slumber.

  19

  * * *

  “I NEED TO USE THE LAB TODAY,” Jane said over breakfast the next morning, as Miriam picked at her toast and Nancy ate nothing at all. Her mother’s presence at the table was becoming largely a formality.

  “Of course,” said Nancy, without looking up. “Have fun, dear.”

  Have fun, dear was such an odd thing for her to say that even Miriam looked up from her toast, brow furrowed. It wasn’t just the platitude that seemed unlike her—it was the comfort with Jane’s nonspecificity. Normally, Nancy would ask for clarification—when and for how long—even if she had no need of the lab. She typically just liked to know.

  “I’ll start right after breakfast. I’m not sure how long I’ll take,” Jane volunteered, hoping to provoke a more normal response.

  Nancy smiled. “Anything’s fine, unless Miriam needs to use it, of course. You must share.”

  “I don’t need the lab today,” said Miriam. She looked as concerned as Jane felt.

  “Perfect.” Nancy stood. “Have a good day, girls.”

  “Mother,” said Jane, “don’t you want any of your breakfast?”

  “Oh.” Nancy looked in surprise at her untouched plate. Jane didn’t think the cooled eggs looked particularly enticing, but surely her mother should eat something. Nancy was the one who had drilled into them how important it was not to waste food—ever, and certainly not with rationing.

  “Are you feeling all right?” asked Jane.

  “Of course,” said Nancy, standing up a bit straighter. “Why do you ask?”

  Jane didn’t know what to say, but for once, Miriam stepped up.

  “You love breakfast,” she said. This was true. “You once said I had to learn to eat more in the mornings if I was going to live in England.”

  “My mind was on my work, it’s true.” Jane was relieved to see her mother snap out of her reverie a bit. “And look, I’ve let these nice eggs get cold. I’m sorry, Jane—how rude of me. Perhaps Smudge would like them? The eggs I mean, I’m not sure if he ought to have bacon.”

  “He can have the eggs if he wants them,” said Jane. “The bacon we’ll save for lunch. But what will you have now?�
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  Nancy set down her book and buttered her toast before wrapping it in a napkin. “I’ll take this with me,” she said. “And I’ll eat it, I promise.” She smiled at them both. “How lucky I am to have two girls who look after me. What would I do without you?”

  She had obviously meant it kindly, but it struck Jane as ominous. Miriam did too, from her expression. But when Nancy took her leave of them, napkin in one hand and book under her arm, Miriam only said, “I’ll get the dishes,” and nothing more. Unsure what to think about that, Jane thanked her for her help and then went down to the lab.

  Jane had rendered diabolic materials down for their essences so many times, she barely had to check her notes about the details—though of course she did, just to be sure.

  She also wanted to draw it out a bit. She was enjoying the sensations she was experiencing. She felt good standing in front of the mix of scientific glass and carven wooden boxes before her on the table; the sense of contentment grew when she filled braziers with coals and incense and lit her Bunsen burner. She even caught herself humming as she set two pillowcases stuffed full to bursting with cat hair and a jar packed with nail clippings on the counter.

  Smudge leaped up beside them. Jane moved to shoo him only to recall that Smudge would not be twining himself around her equipment or knocking her ingredients to the ground anymore. Indeed, he simply settled himself in a low crouch, elbows and hips poking up above his back, and watched.

  Something behind him caught Jane’s eye, but it had been such a tiny flutter of motion that it might have been a trick of the light. It had seemed like Smudge’s ears had flickered differently on the wall than they had on his head, but that was of course impossible . . .

  “All right, Smudge?” she said, and the tip of the cat’s tail twitched in response, with an answering, identical twitch from the one cast on the wall. Jane went back to work with a lighter heart.

  She wasn’t just figuring out how to fly. She was proving there was more than one way to be a diabolist. She lived in a library, but she didn’t have to do things by the book.

  The fizzing and dripping and crackling and finally the hissing of rendering diabolic essence was music to Jane’s ears. She had a little warming pad beneath the metal bowl into which the distillate dropped, and as it evaporated, it left behind the residue she needed for the liniment.

  It produced a lot of residue—the potency of the hair was absurd. When Jane noticed, she glanced at the cat. He’d settled into a kind of loaf, his feet tucked up under his body, his eyes mere slits. Was it her imagination how pleased he looked with himself, as she used a soft brush to sweep every last bit of rendered essence into an old jam jar? Somehow, Jane didn’t think so.

  Jane reached out to scratch the cat under his ears and beneath his chin, as Smudge had always liked. The animal accepted the tribute of affection, seeming even more content than usual, nuzzling himself into her hand and prompting her with low yowls of pleasure. Probably the influence of the Connoisseur . . .

  Jane wondered about the age of the being inside this cat—how much it had seen, what it had experienced, here, in this world, and in its own. And yet here it was, hedonistically enjoying a chin rub. She felt a chill, thinking about it—but when she withdrew her hand, the cat demanded more attention, and what could she do but oblige?

  We’re not witches, Jane.

  And yet, here Jane was, petting her familiar.

  Jane turned back to her operation, feeling as smug as Smudge looked at how much diabolic essence she’d accumulated. At this point, she’d soon have sufficient quantity to begin compounding the liniment that would, hopefully, be the method by which she would achieve her cherished dream of soaring through the night sky astride her broom.

  20

  * * *

  THE LINIMENT TURNED OUT a bit runnier than Jane had expected, but she thought she could make it work. If it didn’t set over the following hours, Jane could just use a brush to paint it all over the broom. It might even work a bit better that way, in the end.

  Regardless, she would need to wait before using it. There was dinner to prepare, and the chores she’d put off in favor of work of a different kind. That was for the best, though. While it might already be dark, given the season, Jane wasn’t inclined to make her first flying attempt when anyone might still be awake.

  If she was successful, of course. An enormous “if,” admittedly—but at the same time, Jane was feeling fairly confident. And she had a hunch that Smudge would have done something, interfered in some way, were she completely at angles to the solution. After all, his purpose was to assist her, and he had proven himself not only capable but eager to do so.

  Dinner was a rushed affair—a savory cake made with grated winter vegetables. It hadn’t turned out too badly, Jane thought. Once again Miriam said she would handle all the clean-up, and Jane made them a cup of Bovril as she did.

  “Will you take this one to my mother?” she asked. “I assume you’re headed down . . .”

  Miriam nodded. “I will. And thank you. I’ve been a little under the weather recently. This should perk me right up.”

  Her own steaming mug in hand, Jane went upstairs, where she set to applying layers of salve to the broom with the cleanest of the paintbrushes she’d found in an old coffee can in the shed. The moment she touched bristle to wood, she knew something would happen that night. She was cheered by that familiar effervescent sensation—it happened sometimes, for no reason any diabolist had ever adequately explained—but that night she was especially thrilled to feel the energy that seemed to come from changing the natural via extra-natural means.

  The salve was absorbed by the wood with unnerving quickness—by the time Jane painted the final twig, the handle was dry. Dry, but not lighter than air. She glared at the broom as it lay heavily in her hands. She hadn’t been sure what success would look like, if she managed to achieve it, but she had reasonably assumed she’d be able to perceive some change.

  She’d failed. Whatever she’d done to the broom, it wasn’t going to fly.

  She looked to Smudge. The cat sat on the bed, blinking inscrutably at her.

  Jane uttered a wordless, guttural exclamation of frustration as she hurled the offending object across the room. She stalked to her bed and flung herself down upon it in a rage of disappointment and anger, sending Smudge jumping out of her way.

  “Meow.”

  Jane went completely still. Someone was in the room with her—someone who had just said the word meow, as if imitating a cat. It was a moment or two before her heart slowed enough for her to be able to sit up and peer over the edge of her bed.

  There was only Smudge, and he was sitting beneath her broom. Beneath it, because it was hanging there, right where Jane had thrown it, about three feet off the ground.

  Smudge looked even more pleased with himself than usual.

  Jane had eyes only for the broom. It was unsettling but also enthralling to behold, but Jane’s attention was drawn away from this miracle in part because she was also very concerned about the cat. If indeed it was a cat that sat there, purring happily, almost seeming to smile, his tail lashing back and forth across the floor.

  He said, “Meow,” again, like a human would when talking to a cat, before jumping up to sit on the bit of the broom where the bristles were tied to the shaft.

  It felt like an invitation. Jane took it. Climbing aboard, her skirt tucked up to guard her thighs against splinters, she felt both exhilarated and a bit embarrassed—like a child caught playing make-believe.

  She could still stand on her tiptoes astride the broom, and did so for a few moments while working up the courage to lift her feet. Jane wobbled, and then corrected—the required balance was just like and yet nothing like a bicycle’s. She lifted one foot, then the other, and then hung there for a few moments before clambering off the broom. Once again her legs failed her and she sank onto her bed.

  Smudge hadn’t moved. He looked back at her in silence, his long tail now
swishing from side to side in the empty air beneath the broom.

  “I did it,” said Jane, and then it occurred to her that she hadn’t, not really.

  She’d created a potion of levitation, not of flying.

  There were plenty of armamentaria out there for levitation, and some of them less baroque and more efficient than what she’d done.

  Jane said a bad word.

  The demon Quetzalcóatl’s Blood gave its host the power of flight. Real flight, like Peter Pan, with control of velocity, attitude, and so on. It also, however, gave its host an insatiable lust for human flesh, so it was on the “Not to Be Summoned” list. Thankfully, one of the Société’s official Botanists cultivated a coffee bush in her garden that had been discovered in the possession of a wild diabolist. Jane had wheedled three small coffee beans out of her, but had been told in no uncertain terms that that was all she would get.

  She’d used two and a half to make the salve.

  Jane pushed down on the broom. It wouldn’t budge. Then she picked it up and placed it somewhere else. There it stuck.

  While that was an admittedly neat trick, it wasn’t flight.

  Smudge stood. Stalking over to where her hand lay upon the wood, he put his paw on her hand.

  That time, the broom moved down a bit from the pressure of her hand. Down—and then up, as she willed it.

  She had done it. She’d figured out how to fly, but she needed Smudge to do it. The cat was the connection she needed to pilot the broom. And that meant the only way to prove that she’d done what she set out to do was to reveal her own unforgivable crime.

  Jane laughed aloud. It sounded hysterical, even to her own ears, and it snapped her back to her current situation. She had just figured out how to fly on her very own broomstick, and instead of going for her first flight, she was sitting in her room thinking about how to present her success to others! Surely she’d have plenty of time to come up with something.

  As for her first flight, there really was no time like the present.