by Molly Tanzer
His wrinkled shirt also told a story—the fine cut of it coupled with the excellent quality of the jacket he’d slung over the back of his chair showed he was not usually so rumpled and harried.
It was not a Nazi uniform jacket. It was a suit jacket, such as a professional might wear, but around one sleeve was the telltale armband that made Miriam buzz her wings in anger.
In addition to the door she’d come through, there were three others, one on either side of the man’s desk and one on the far wall. Also on the far wall were cages with a veritable menagerie inside of them—a rabbit; some mice and rats; and a lithe, long creature with a sleek pelt, either an otter or a marten. All seemed dejected and defeated; the fight had long since gone out of them.
Miriam felt the door move beneath all six of her legs; she buzzed away to a dark corner as a robust sandy-haired woman in a starched nurse’s uniform appeared.
She was wearing a cattle prod at her waist.
The man—perhaps the aforementioned Dr. Querner—looked up but didn’t smile. He rubbed at his temple and said something. Miriam felt the vibration but could not interpret the sensation as words through her antennae.
Miriam was frustrated by the limitations of the wasp. These two seemed on intimate terms, from their posture and manner as they spoke to one another. The wasp body had gotten her down here, but it was failing her now that she needed information.
Miriam selected a mouse from the cages on the wall. It was so downtrodden, it didn’t flinch as the wasp came near it. Once she’d cleaved to the mouse, the small creature’s acute hearing served her well and she began to listen in.
“—wasn’t reckless,” said the man. “I knew Wolfram Braune personally; he’s the last person in the world I’d accuse of recklessness, and yet they’re saying this was entirely his fault.”
“How could it be his fault?”
“Ach, who knows?” Dr. Querner gave the woman a rueful smile. “These days, everyone is looking for someone to blame, are they not?”
“That is sadly true,” said the nurse. “I met Dr. Braune once, long ago. I was sorry to hear of his death.”
“And all his test subjects! It is terrible, Franzi. And it couldn’t come at a worse time.” The doctor rubbed his fair temples. “I had hoped that together Wolfram and I could make a difference.” He sighed. “I am glad they thought to send me his notes. It seems he recently gained some insights that may help with my next experiment on the Hunter sisters.”
Nurse Franzi’s plain face contorted into a sneer. “Even if you are unable to extract any specific diabolic essence from those little whores tomorrow, I am still grateful they are imprisoned here where they can do no further harm.”
“I fear ultimately for the worst, no matter what happens,” said Dr. Querner.
Miriam burned to know what on earth they were discussing. Extracting general diabolic essence from an animal subject was one thing, but specific essence? That was supposed to be impossible.
“It is not yet too late,” said Franzi. “There is always something that can be done.”
“Your faith is touching. I, too, hope so. At least we are doing all we can. And really, even if we lose, we have helped cleanse the world of many of its stains. That must be a comfort to us.”
“Have faith in yourself,” said the nurse. “You are the finest diabolist I have ever known. The Fatherland could be in no better hands. But of course I don’t mean to put it all on your shoulders, Dr. Querner—only to express my confidence in your ability.”
“I hope it is not misplaced,” he replied. “I would have said the same of Wolfram, once, and look what happened to him.”
The nurse turned to go, but Miriam was not ready for their conversation to end. Whatever Querner was up to, he thought there was still a possibility of success, however remote.
She had to know more. She had no time to hesitate, no time to think it through. This is why she’d screwed up her courage, using the veil knife to slice away her spiritual body’s entire left ear. If she was brave enough to do that, she was brave enough to be like Jane and act.
And so Miriam—in spite of what she’d read in Badgerskin—left her mouse body behind and cleaved to the nurse’s.
As she struggled to take possession of the nurse as she had the mouse, and the wasp, and the rest, Miriam felt a horror at herself that she never had before. With the animals, she had been able to deny what she was doing. With Nurse Franzi, there was no escaping the reality of her act. She had become a dybbuk, a possessing spirit sticking to someone else’s body.
She knew she didn’t have much time. She’d been away from her own body too long. But she could not squander this opportunity. Only by accident had she found this place at all, much less returned when Querner himself was present and talking.
Franzi turned back to the doctor, as was Miriam’s will.
“Have you been able to find out any more about what happened to Dr. Braune?” she asked.
“What’s that?” it was almost as if Dr. Querner had forgotten the nurse’s presence the moment she’d turned away from him. “Oh, of course. You wouldn’t have heard. Or, wait—didn’t you tell me that you’d heard the disaster was due to a kind of rescue attempt?”
Miriam thought fast. “I might have told you they suspected it, but I didn’t know it had been confirmed.”
Querner looked puzzled, then shook his head. “In any case, they—members of the Société des Éclairées, those degenerates—knew the location of Braune’s lab. That’s what he gets for setting up in a castle, I suppose. What a nightmare, and embarrassing—it seems the party was led by an African savage who had apparently divined a way to apply cosmetics that would change her appearance more dramatically than rouge and lipstick ordinarily can. She died, along with the rest, under the lamps.”
If there was anything that ought to be described as “savage,” it was Dr. Querner’s dispassionate tone as he recounted these horrors. Miriam stared at him in absolute terror, torn between grief—for who else could it be but her poor aunt Edith to whom Querner referred—and a fear-fueled curiosity that made her ask, “Lamps?”
Querner nodded. “Yes, a special lamp designed by Braune himself. We have them too,” he pointed at the very bright bulbs. “They combust diabolic matter when they come into contact with an otherwise harmless gas. Both laboratories were equipped with them just in case things went very wrong.”
“What a tragic loss of life,” said Miriam, and decided to take a risk. “But of course we have also had our setbacks. Egon Cantor . . .”
Dr. Querner nodded. “Ah, yes. I regret my haste with that one; he was a valuable test subject. I should have waited until I’d heard from Braune about the effectiveness of the crystal. I say, Franzi, are you feeling quite well?”
Miriam nodded to buy herself time. She had to set aside any feelings until she was done with the nurse. “I heard he was married to a German woman.”
“Oh, yes. Quite shocking, don’t you think?”
“Disgusting,” said Miriam. “Was she also a diabolist?”
“Yes, she was one of Braune’s test subjects. She died months before the rescue attempt.” Querner took off his glasses to stare at her keenly. “Why do you ask?”
Miriam panicked, her mind whirling in two directions. Her mother—also dead!
“Franzi?”
“What if they attack us, too?” she said. “The Société, I mean.”
“Ah,” said Dr. Querner. “I see. Rest easy, my dear. I sincerely doubt the Société has enough resources for another strike like that—and, anyway, if my experiment on the Hunter sisters tomorrow does not yield results, we won’t have to worry! The war will be over soon enough, and we’ll all be dead or on trial for our crimes. Just keep that in mind—I do. I find it helps me relax.”
“Thank you, doctor,” said Miriam, and then happily left, shutting the door behind her at Querner’s bidding. After it was shut, she waited for a moment, then ran all the way to the first landing of
the stairs before realizing she could flee much farther, and more quickly, if she simply returned to her own body.
Leaving behind the nurse felt like inhaling after holding her breath for too long. It was such a relief to be back in her own skin that at first Miriam didn’t realize how depleted she felt.
Too soon it hit her. She’d had influenza once—this was far, far worse. Then, her skin had ached; now, it was as if every scrap of clothing she wore was flaying her when she made even the slightest movement. Yet she had to move—because sitting upon her chair was too painful to endure for more than a few moments. She felt the bite of the wood into her flesh. At least her stomach seemed to be all right—she’d been careful after that first attempt to never eat while spiritually abroad.
Her arm shook as she set down the mirror, flat, so the bowl could safely materialize at its leisure. Inside her skin, she felt her aching muscles; she was even aware of her bones and joints. In that moment, Miriam understood what it meant to be frail.
She had to keep her hand on the wall to steady herself, but eventually she managed to reach her bed and collapsed onto it. Shedding her clothes, or even her shoes or her cardigan, was beyond her power, as was getting under the covers. She fell asleep immediately.
By the time she woke, it was evening. She still felt bone-tired, but she could sit up without her eyes sliding out of focus. She was also extremely hungry.
Jane would likely be cooking at this hour, but Miriam wondered if she might be able to snag a bite of something before everything was ready. To that end, she straightened her clothes as best she could and ran her fingers through her hair. She still felt a bit groggy, however, so she went to the bathroom to splash some water on her face.
When she peered into the looking glass after drying her face with a towel, Miriam gasped. Someone else had been in the mirror looking out at her. But that was impossible . . . Heart pounding, Miriam looked again—and found it difficult to breathe at all.
While it was true that the mirror in the upstairs bathroom was more functional than flattering, there was very obviously something wrong with Miriam beyond the smeary nature of her reflection. She did not look like herself—or, rather, she appeared as if she’d been in bed for far longer than an afternoon, and stricken with a very serious ailment. Her eyes looked unhealthy, clouded, and beneath them were gray hollows that held shadows and secrets. Her lips were thinner, and likewise her skin had a waxy appearance to it—and when she leaned in closer, she spied several white hairs sprouting from the crown of her head.
Badgerskin had warned her. The body did not like to be separated from its soul. As Miriam looked at herself, she finally understood. Before, it had all seemed a bit vague, just hints of what might happen. A little accelerated aging didn’t seem so bad when it was all words on the page. Now, however, the stakes were laid bare—and it was time to make a choice.
Her parents were dead. It troubled Miriam that they had died as prisoners—victims. Neither heroes nor traitors. Not that it mattered. They were dead just the same.
She had the answers she’d set out to get. The choice was whether or not she would go back for other reasons.
She still wasn’t sure what Dr. Querner was trying to do, but he was trying to do something. Something big. It would be unconscionable to do nothing; she had to act, and quickly. Delaying long enough even to tell the Société might mean ruin.
She had to go back. As Miriam looked at herself in the mirror, she knew she wouldn’t be able to forgive herself if her weakness resulted in catastrophe—but she also knew she did not possess the power at the moment to control so much as an ant. She could barely find enough will to haul herself downstairs for dinner.
But she had to eat. Her body was screaming with hunger. After wrapping a scarf around her head to obscure her newly graying hair, she headed downstairs. She would claim to have a cold, so neither Jane nor Nancy would look at her too keenly.
Miriam padded into the kitchen, drawn by a savory smell. Nancy was staring off into space; she barely said hello. When Jane turned around, her expression went from neutral to outright alarmed. Miriam’s heart sank. She would not escape this meal unquestioned.
“There you are at last,” Jane said brightly. “Dinner’s almost ready!”
Miriam went over to the pot of stew and sniffed with genuine enthusiasm.
“Smells great,” she said.
Miriam tucked in as soon as her bowl was cool enough. She’d never tasted anything so exquisite, not even the first supper she’d eaten on English soil after crossing the channel. Jane’s stew had a succulence to it that Miriam suspected might have been lost on her had she been less hungry. She didn’t care; indeed, she got herself a second helping before Jane had finished her first and before Nancy had even picked out a few morsels of mutton.
The questioning came after Nancy toddled off. Miriam set to work washing the dishes, even if she wished she could save them until tomorrow.
Jane hung around, tidying things that were not hers to tidy. Miriam let her, coming up with a few replies to such questions that she thought Jane might ask: just a cold, didn’t sleep well last night and napped too long; no, nothing’s wrong. But when Jane finally worked up the nerve to sidle up to the counter and speak, she didn’t say at all what Miriam expected her to.
“So . . .” Jane seemed uncomfortable. “How are you, Miriam?”
“I’m a bit tired,” said Miriam, telling the truth. “A long day of research.”
“Research.” Jane didn’t sound impressed. “Is that all?”
Miriam turned to Jane, resigned to discussing her appearance. She’d been a fool to think she could hide something like this. “Say what you have to say.”
Jane hesitated before once again saying something Miriam did not anticipate: “I went into town today when you were in your room. I ran into Sam.”
Miriam said nothing for a moment as she collected her scattered thoughts. She had put Sam out of her mind entirely after that afternoon. He was irrelevant, an indistinct background figure in the larger picture of her life. His rudeness to her was unfortunate, but people were dying—and more would perish if she didn’t concentrate on thwarting Querner.
“I’m so sorry. I thought he was better than that,” said Jane, when the silence stretched into an awkward length.
“Better than what?” asked Miriam.
“That he wouldn’t see you as . . .” Jane looked nervous. “For shuttering his heart against you just because you—you’re . . .”
“I’m what?” said Miriam. She knew none of this was Jane’s fault, but at the same time none of it was Jane’s business, either. Miriam was tired, and she was cranky, and she was rapidly becoming angry. She’d heard enough about who was who and what was what today.
Jane was blushing mightily.
The strain got to Miriam a bit in that moment. “Say it,” she demanded, raising her voice a little. “Don’t be a coward, Jane. Say what you’re thinking.”
“Miriam . . .”
“Say it!”
“Because you’re Jewish,” whispered Jane.
“Only because you and everyone else have decided that!”
Miriam hadn’t meant to snarl this truth that was also a lie, but snarl she did. All the frustration she’d felt for years—all the rage that had been simmering, it suddenly boiled over as she spat this at her best friend.
She was angry that Jane couldn’t understand, that none of them could understand what it meant to be caught in the strange middle space of not being Jewish at all in the eyes of other Jews, but still Jewish enough to be sent to a camp and gassed with the rest. They could not perceive the strain of living with that nagging sense of having nowhere in the world she truly belonged, no people who would claim her. Jane, Sam, everyone else—they thought it was easy to put her in a box, whereas Miriam constantly felt like she had been chopped to pieces and packed away into a million crates.
“You girls have a good night.”
Nancy stood in th
e doorway of the kitchen, serene and beatific. If she hadn’t yet gone downstairs to read and ponder, she must have heard Miriam, loud as she had been. Yet here she was, smiling as if nothing had happened.
“Don’t stay up too late,” she said, like any other mother might.
The thing was, Nancy was not every other mother.
“We won’t,” said the girls, in unison.
Satisfied, Nancy headed for the Library, leaving them with yet another long and painful silence that neither Miriam nor Jane knew how to fill.
22
* * *
AFTER HER LATE NIGHT OF trying out her new broom for the first time, Jane was glad that Miriam elected to spend her day quietly in her own room, locked away doing whatever she was doing behind her closed door. She, too, was in need of rest and quiet. It wasn’t just the exhaustion of being up too late, either—her arms and shoulders were surprisingly sore, and her bottom ached where the wood of the broom had chafed her. She also was horrified to find a bit of windburn on her cheeks. Jane hadn’t thought about that; she’d have to prepare accordingly for future flights.
And there would be future flights. Sore arms and bottom be damned—the pain only added to her pleasure, every ache a fond memory of the euphoric sensations she had experienced the night before.
Jane would never give up her broom, not now. Given her familiar’s role in the matter, that meant never giving up Smudge, either. But Jane felt increasingly more comfortable with that idea.
Yes, she missed Smudge or, rather, the way Smudge used to be—she’d adored that cat, nuisance though he had surely been. But Smudge as he was now was undeniably more useful. And friendly. And he also let her sleep all the way through the night without waking her up for no reason beyond that he was bored.
Being tired always made Jane snappish and fumble-brained, so she had decided to walk into the village rather than attempt any of the more intellectual work she had waiting. And it was a thoroughly decent day, for early March at least, and they needed some items from the grocer’s.