by Molly Tanzer
“What do I call you?” asked Jane.
The woman smiled almost sheepishly. “Not Mother,” she said. “But other than that, I’m willing to entertain suggestions. We could stick with Miriam if you wanted. That might make us both more comfortable. Nancy’s fine, too—but I never felt comfortable calling my mother by her first name.”
Her manner was frank, as Nancy’s had been, and warm, as Miriam’s was—or at least the way it had been once upon a time when they had gotten along so famously. The eager twinkle in her strange but familiar eye was neither Miriam’s nor Nancy’s; even so, Jane liked it.
She liked this woman, if first impressions could be trusted.
Jane had an idea. “What about Cornelia?” she suggested. Their shared middle name seemed almost prophetic, at this point.
“Of course,” said the woman now called Cornelia. “Good idea.”
“So, Cornelia,” said Jane, warming to it, “what do you think we should do next?” Jane looked around, but there was no sign anywhere of either Smudge or Smudge’s shadow. “We still need to fix your devil-trap, and—”
“No, we don’t,” said Cornelia.
Jane paused. She’d assumed that when Miriam and Nancy became one being, their memories would combine, too.
“But Smudge’s shadow is still loose and dangerous,” said Jane slowly. “Don’t you remember?”
“Of course I do. That’s why it’s time for you to banish it,” said Cornelia. “All this business with devil-traps and scrolls . . . there’s no need for it.”
“But—”
“No more buts,” said Cornelia, sounding very much like Nancy once had. “The only reason we needed to mend the bowl was to prevent the Lord Indigator from taking possession of Nancy. That problem has been solved—perhaps not ideally, but at least permanently—which means it’s in all of our best interests for you to send Smudge back from whence he came. The dying body upstairs might seem more appetizing now that this one has been taken.”
Jane stared at Cornelia. This woman already didn’t look much like her mother anymore; the way she carried herself, the set of her chin, her motions—they were all different. But she was acting like Nancy, a bit . . . that imperiousness was extremely familiar. And frankly, a lot like Miriam, when she was at her most impossible.
Only then did Jane realize her mother and her best friend were really and truly gone—gone forever, like rainwater soaking into the earth.
“Best not to dawdle,” said Cornelia, as if Jane were idling out of laziness. “Only you can do it.”
“I don’t want to banish Smudge,” said Jane. “We agreed not to. He saved me—earlier, I mean, when the shadow attacked. It’s the shadow that’s the problem, not him!”
“That’s not what happened, Jane,” said Cornelia. Jane began to feel as if that first, positive impression had been deceiving. This woman may have acquired Miriam’s wry humor and Nancy’s confidence, but she seemed to be twice as much of a know-it-all. “Smudge wasn’t very concerned for you, from what I saw.”
“What do you mean?” said Jane, shocked. Smudge had battled the shadow-cat and gotten it off her, then defended her from it when it had tried to go back for a second strike.
“He didn’t exactly leap to your defense like a loyal mastiff,” said Cornelia. “He waited until it was convenient for him. Hardly the action of a devoted familiar.”
Jane didn’t like this, not one bit. It seemed that no matter what, Nancy and Miriam would always end up ganging up on her . . .
“Jane,” said Cornelia. “I know you’re very attached to Smudge, but that demon is a menace, and not only that . . .”
“What?”
“It’s just . . . your first binding didn’t go so well, now did it?” said Cornelia, with a patronizing tone that set Jane’s teeth on edge. “I can’t find any possible justification for trying it again.”
Jane looked into the eyes of this woman who sneered at her like her mother but was not her mother, who spoke without thought for anyone’s feelings like her friend, but was not her friend. Their earlier pleasant moment left Jane’s mind as her temper flared. How dare this woman suggest Jane banish Smudge! Smudge had supported her—he’d saved her, no matter what this newly minted “Cornelia” said.
Something brittle inside Jane finally snapped. She’d tried—by all the demons in the Book, she’d tried! Her whole life had been one long exhausting exercise in failing to live up to her mother’s expectations, worrying about the Société’s rules, trying not to hurt her friend’s feelings—doing what she could to be what everyone demanded of her and never achieving it.
No longer.
She’d failed her Test, hadn’t she? And failed in other ways, too. Cornelia was yet another manifestation of Jane’s hubris, after all. And the unbound shadow prowling around the house, wreaking havoc here and in the village while Jane’s eye was elsewhere . . . for Sam’s death was on her hands, too.
It had been madness to ever think they’d get away with any it—fooling Jane’s father, hiding Smudge, explaining away the state of the Library by blaming influenza, convincing the Société that all was well and she and Miriam were on the path to Mastery . . . Patrice Durand would have seen through it in an instant, and meted out what justice he saw fit.
We’re not witches, Jane!
Maybe not, but Jane vowed she’d be gone by the time the moon was up—flying away on her broom for once and for all, just as she’d always dreamed of doing. She was surprised by her reaction to the thought; she had not expected to cry when it came time for her to leave this place, but she was.
“All right,” she croaked, and from the relieved look on Cornelia’s face, not even Jane’s idols on the silver screen had ever given a more convincing performance of resignation and grief. “I’ll need to get a few things.”
“Do you need any help?” asked Cornelia. She was all sympathy now that Jane was seemingly obedient.
“Not yet,” said Jane.
The tear she wiped away was real, but she let Cornelia come to her own conclusions about why she wept.
As Jane left the kitchen, Cornelia said, “You’re doing the right thing.”
“I know.”
In fact, Jane had never felt more confident in her life.
* * *
JANE CALLED FOR SMUDGE as soon as Cornelia was out of earshot. She knew he would be close at hand. He had to be.
The cat emerged from the shadows as she reached the top of the stairs. She looked down at him fondly.
“Meow,” he said.
“Come with me,” said Jane. “We need to talk.”
“Meow,” agreed Smudge. He sauntered inside her room first, tail held high.
She shut the door behind them. “Smudge, will you please you call your shadow here?” It never hurt to be polite.
Smudge nodded. He jumped up on the desk, and a moment later, there the shadow was on the wall behind her cat, just where it should be—even if it shouldn’t be looking at Jane out of those empty but expressive almond eyes.
“Hello,” said Jane.
The shadow cocked its smoky head at her.
“It was very naughty of you to slash my face,” said Jane.
The shadow-cat licked its paw, making a show of ignoring her.
Jane turned back to Smudge. She hoped the cat would not notice how she’d started sweating. But the truth was, she was nervous. Her previous attempts to bargain with demons had not been unalloyed successes, as Cornelia had pointed out.
“For safety’s sake,” said Jane, “will you please secure this room completely? I’d like it so that we can’t be overheard or interrupted as we speak. I don’t want anyone to be able to come in here or leave, given Cornelia’s attitude toward us both.”
Smudge nodded, his tail lashing back and forth across her desk.
Jane smiled at him. “Does that mean you have ensured that no one can observe us, and no one can come or go, until I say so?”
Once again, the cat nodded.
“She wants me to banish you,” said Jane, and then looked to the shadow. “Both of you. But I don’t want to.”
“Meow,” said Smudge.
“I’m ready to leave this all behind me,” said Jane, speaking the truth of her heart aloud to this beast, just as she had always done. “But I can’t. Not yet.”
Smudge said nothing. He and his shadow watched her out of narrowed eyes, waiting to hear what she had to say.
“I can’t leave here with your shadow loose and able to do as it likes,” said Jane. “We all know you can’t be trusted,” she said, turning to the shadow. “That’s the truth. So here’s your choice, Smudge—and Smudge’s shadow. I just ordered you to secure this room so that no one and nothing will ever leave it again. I will never release you from that unless you let me bind you and your shadow entirely to my will. Do you understand me?”
Both cats stared at her angrily, tails lashing in unison. Jane crossed her arms.
“Half a loaf, and all that,” she said. “Partial freedom with me, or imprisonment—potentially—forever.” She smiled and petted Smudge on the head. “You’d know better than I if you’ll be stuck here after I die. Is your binding stronger than our original contract? That one specified my death, so I’m not quite sure how it would work, beyond that you’d certainly either be banished or trapped . . .”
Jane’s heartbeat was loud in her ears during the long moment that followed.
Smudge and his shadow nodded their assent.
“Excellent,” said Jane. She was very pleased, indeed.
Though Jane worked carefully, the binding went much more quickly than last time. She’d kept such meticulous notes that it was but the work of a moment to set everything up. Threading the needle was the hardest part, but soon enough she was using it to bind the shadow to Smudge, and bind Smudge again under the name Lord Indigator.
When she was done, she knelt down and scooped Smudge up into her arms. He submitted humbly to being held like a baby, on his back, and she kissed his nose.
“That’s a good demon,” she said. And looking at the cat’s shadow on the wall, she said, “And I hope to say the same of you one day.”
The shadow closed its empty eyes and yawned, displaying a jagged, but bored maw of shadow-teeth.
* * *
JANE WASN’T SURPRISED WHEN a knock came at the door as she and Smudge were packing her valise. Evening had fallen as they worked; naturally Cornelia would want an update. They had taken their time, thinking carefully about what items, diabolic and mundane, they would take. Edith’s dress was carefully wrapped in paper and set at the bottom; it needed mending before Jane could wear it again. Instead, she had donned her smartest blouse, skirt, and hat. Her cloak she would have to sacrifice, but one day she could get another. Black, just like she’d always wanted.
“Jane?” called Cornelia. “How’s it going?”
“Let her hear me,” Jane said to Smudge. “All right,” she called. “Just trying to do it right the first time, you know! Can’t muck it up.”
“You had everything you needed?” Cornelia seemed surprised and a little suspicious.
Jane thought fast. “No, not everything,” she said. “Could you get me some liquid essence from the storeroom?”
“Why not take a break and come get it with me,” said Cornelia. “You’ve been in there for hours.”
“She’s on to us,” whispered Jane. “We need to get out of here, and quickly.” Smudge nodded as Jane threw the last few items she’d set out into her bag, not bothering to place them carefully as she had with the rest.
“Open the door,” said Cornelia. “Jane, open up! The Patron says—”
But Jane never found out what the Patron had to say. Instead, she placed her broom outside her window to hang there in the early spring gloaming. Valise in hand, Jane took one last look at her room and then turned away to see Smudge had already jumped onto the handle. He purred as she clambered up behind him.
“Meow,” he said.
“That’s just what I was thinking,” said Jane, and turned them up and away from the old farmhouse and into the purple starlit twilight of the wider world.
Epilogue
* * *
EDITH’S CITROëN JOLTED ALONG THE muddy road into Hawkshead, but Edith was not behind the wheel. Her feet no longer reached the pedals.
“I hate the way you drive,” she said to Patrice Durand, who downshifted exactly when Edith would not have.
“Well, I hate your car. The French can do anything except make a decent automobile. You should replace this hunk of junk with a Jaguar or an Alfa Romeo.”
Edith frowned as Mercurialis betrayed her with a chuckle.
Oh, it’s not so bad, is it? it said. At least we still have each other . . .
It was such an oddly sentimental thing for a demon to say that Edith spent the rest of the ride and much of their time in the mule cart thinking about it. From the first moments of her apprenticeship she’d been taught never to trust a demon when it spoke of friendship or love. Not for the first time did she wonder if perhaps there were possibilities beyond the proscriptions of the Société.
Maybe, said Mercurialis.
So much had changed for Edith since that ill-fated attack on Braune’s castle, but the old farmhouse was still exactly the same. Rain-wet, unfashionable, isolated . . . comfortable, and familiar.
Then Edith hopped out of the cart and approached the front door. It looked like it would to a child—enormous, imposing, and built for the convenience of people much larger than she.
A light rain was misting down upon them, but Edith couldn’t make herself ring the bell.
“Can’t you reach?” asked Patrice.
It had been Patrice’s way to tease her when she was in a funk over the changes she’d gone through. But this time, Edith ignored the sally.
“Odd, isn’t it?” she said. “Them not coming to meet us, I mean. They always did before.”
“They don’t know you’re here,” said Patrice. “And their reply telegram said something about flu . . .”
“That’s right, flu,” said Edith. She had forgotten the excuse, for then as now that had seemed like a lie.
Patrice put an avuncular hand on Edith’s half-sized shoulder. “It will be all right,” he said. “No one will laugh, no one will—”
Edith rang the doorbell.
After a few moments, Nancy answered. She looked strange.
Maybe she really had come down with the flu . . .
“Hello, Patrice,” she said stiffly. Then she noticed who stood beside him. “Aunt—ah, Edith!”
Aunt Edith.
Mercurialis rumbled in her mind, but Edith didn’t betray any surprise. She sensed there was much here that she would learn in time, if she were patient.
“I wanted you to see I was all right,” said Edith.
“Come in,” said the woman who looked like Nancy. “Warm up with a spot of tea, and I’ve baked too. Currant scones.”
“Thank you,” said Patrice. He was staring at Nancy like she was an angel who had stepped down off of a cloud. Edith was a bit embarrassed. Soppiness didn’t become him.
They shed their coats in the quiet entryway, and then Nancy ushered them into the kitchen. It smelled of warm baking in there, and Nancy bustled to make some tea. Edith stood awkwardly. She was a bit surprised at Nancy—for some reason, Edith was having a hard time thinking of this woman as her sister. She didn’t need to be fussed over, but at the same time, she’d been shrunk by half and Nancy hadn’t said even a word about it.
“So. Where’s Jane?” asked Patrice, sitting awkwardly at the rustic kitchen table. He kept sneaking glances at Nancy. It would have been sweet except for the obvious awkwardness.
“She’s out,” said Nancy.
“And Miriam?” asked Edith.
Nancy set the tea upon th
e table. “Patrice, would you excuse us for a moment? I’d like to speak to my sister in private.”
“But of course,” said Patrice, rising as the two women made their exit. “I’ll keep an eye on the tea, and it will be ready when you’re back.”
“Help yourself to it and the scones in the meantime,” said Nancy.
She fairly dragged Edith away from the kitchen, leading her up the stairs with a child’s urgency. They stopped in front of Miriam’s room.
“What’s gotten into you, Nance?” asked Edith, playing along for now.
“You’d be surprised,” said Nancy. “What I’m about to show you will shock you, but it can’t be helped. I need you, Edith. Please say you’ll help me?”
“Help you with what?” asked Edith.
Then Nancy pushed open Miriam’s bedroom door, and Edith understood.
Miriam lay upon the bed—Edith was certain it was Miriam, even if the girl looked like an immeasurably ancient woman with her white hair spilling over her pillow and the deep lines marring her face. She was still breathing, but barely.
“What happened?” asked Edith.
“I don’t even know where to begin,” said Nancy.
“Then just pick somewhere and start!” Edith was getting a bit frustrated. It wasn’t like Nancy to keep her in suspense. “Tell me the most surprising thing first, then work backwards if you have to.”
“That’s not a bad idea,” said Nancy. She took a deep breath. “I’m not your sister anymore. My name is Cornelia, and I am the spiritual amalgamation of your sister Nancy and Miriam Cantor. Miriam’s body is dying; she overspent herself trying to find out what happened to her parents. And meanwhile, Jane has absconded with the diabolic familiar she summoned into her pet cat, in spite of my best efforts to get her to banish it. And all this is happening while the Société’s Evaluator is sitting in my parlor.”
Edith was too shocked to say anything, but Mercurialis wasn’t.
This trip is going to be much more interesting than I anticipated, it said.
Acknowledgments