Creatures of Will and Temper

by Molly Tanzer

  “Oh stop,” said Lady Henry, with a roll of her pale eyes. “There’s no Goddess Henrietta.”

  “No, but there is a Hera, and you’d make for a passable one,” said Jonas, looking her up and down appraisingly. “True, you’re a bit gamey for Zeus’s taste, if Rubens’s, ah, bottoms are any indication, but I rather doubt you’d lose much sleep over trying to please him.”

  “No indeed,” said Lady Henry.

  “Now, Miss Dorina I think would make an elegant love goddess, a modern Aphrodite,” he continued, disappointing Dorina terribly. She loved compliments, but if Jonas liked Evadne, what was he about? He ought to be crowning her sister the Queen of Love! “Those waving tresses . . . those pouting lips! Who could fail to believe her capable of charming Adonis himself?”

  “Though why I would wish to is another matter entirely,” she said, with a toss of said waving tresses.

  “Now, as for Miss Gray . . .” He turned once again to Dorina’s sister, who was looking even more sour than usual. In fact, she looked downright annoyed. Could Evadne possibly return Jonas’s interest? Already? As far as Dorina knew, Evadne had never loved anyone other than Freddie. She hoped Jonas’s next statement would mollify her sister. “In Miss Gray we have a perfect Athena. Her strength, her integrity, her proficiency in the martial arts! She is a warrior, and—”

  “You’re wrong,” said Evadne, who had gone red, then white. Dorina could see that something was wrong; what, she couldn’t imagine. A more flattering description of her sister, or one more likely to please, she had never heard in her life. But it had not pleased her for some unfathomable reason. “I’m no Athena. I’d never want be her. I’d rather—rather be anyone but her!”

  “Miss Gray!” Jonas looked shocked. “I apologize; I did not mean to offend.”

  “Athena is the most unnatural goddess of them all,” she said, voice low and hard. “Born from a man, doomed to be alone—forever consulted, but never cherished, neither bride nor mother. What woman would be pleased to be compared to her?”

  “I meant only to compliment you, Miss Gray,” said Jonas, looking forlorn.

  “I have no interest in being complimented,” Evadne said haughtily. “I believe we ought to spend our time here more rationally—for why else have we come?”

  “Let’s leave the classical world, shall we?” said Lady Henry. “I tire of the ancients.”

  “I’d love to take a longer look at some of those triptychs we passed,” admitted Dorina. “Jonas . . . do you have any preference? Evadne?”

  “Anything is fine by me,” said Jonas as Evadne shrugged.

  “Onward, then,” said Lady Henry. “Let us go and bask before stern glances, so we may repent our sins.”

  Dorina shot her a wry glance as Evadne, more somber than any saint, took off in the direction Lady Henry pointed.

  The rest of their afternoon at the National Gallery passed quietly, and in something of a haze. Dorina tried to listen attentively to all Lady Henry had to say about this picture or that, but the entire time, she was preoccupied by her sullen sister and her new friend’s assertion that demons might be real.

  Really real, too—not metaphors, not moral lessons, but beings that lived in the same world as men and beasts.

  She was so distracted that afterward, when Evadne requested they go home to Uncle Basil’s rather than joining Lady Henry and Jonas for dinner, Dorina didn’t argue. Indeed, she felt a quiet night in might be just what she needed to cool her heated mind. Lady Henry seemed surprised, but did not press the issue; she merely bid her coachman to drive to Chelsea rather than Curzon Street. There, they said their goodnights, and it was decided they should meet again tomorrow, if the weather proved fair, to go to the Royal Botanic Gardens.

  Uncle Basil was working when they arrived home, and he tended not to eat when he was thus occupied, according to his housekeeper. Dorina had no desire to dine at a big table with only her sister for company, for Evadne’s countenance had darkened with the evening, so she asked if something might be sent to their rooms in a few hours. In the meantime she stripped off her clothes, took a long bath, and tried to relax.

  And yet, she found she could not. Demons! Of all the strange things for such a rational creature like Lady Henry to believe in! Dorina thought back to old folk tales she’d heard as a girl. Her great aunt had once delighted her with a yarn about a man who made a deal with a demon, and it gave him power over unmarried girls. The man collected one hundred of them in a castle, but one of the hundred had a sister, a young wife, who disguised herself and defeated him with a cross of willow wood tied together with her wedding garter. She plunged it straight through his heart, saving her sister and the rest.

  And then there had been the tale of the poor scholar who so longed to travel that he spent years finding the name of a demon who could show him the world. He denied Christ and made a bargain with it, but his wording wasn’t quite right, and it betrayed him by turning him into the wind.

  Ridiculous, of course—as ridiculous as a wolf in a wig fooling Red Riding Hood, or a cat tricking an entire countryside into believing his master was the Marquis of Carabas.

  Or was it?

  She tried her best to reason it through. She wouldn’t be disturbed or bemused to find out a new acquaintance believed—really believed—in God. Why did a belief in demons seem so much more peculiar? People believed they had seen evidence of the existence of God, or the Devil, even if she herself had never experienced anything that indicated either existed.

  She chuckled to herself, shaking her head. If her mother—if most people—heard that she doubted the existence of God, they would surely be just as appalled as she was by Lady Henry’s suggestion that something far less benevolent might be real!

  Dorina was famished by the time her supper arrived. But when she summoned her sister with a knock on Evadne’s door, there was no reply. Dorina knocked a second time, and the light spilling out onto the hall carpet went out suddenly. Taking the hint, Dorina returned to her own chambers to pick at her meal. After, she fought the urge to go knock on Evadne’s door again, to see if she could discover what was troubling her sister so much. If Evadne wanted to be alone . . .

  Dorina slept but ill that night, plagued by nightmares inspired by her day at the National Gallery. In one, she and her sister squabbled jealously over something bright and beautiful, the shape of which she could not remember when she gasped herself awake. When at last she fell asleep again, Dorina dreamed she was Ariadne, terrified of a deity that bounded toward her on long golden legs. She ran from it, but it caught her in its paws. While its touch was gentle, she smelled its hot spicy breath as it breathed down her neck; its claws pressed into her flesh; she was powerless to stop its teeth from sinking into her throat. And yet, this violation gave her only pleasure. She moaned at its touch, even as the blood ran down her neck, over her breasts, through her pubic hair.

  Dorina awoke, her eyes sandy, her back aching. Evadne somehow looked even worse when she finally stumbled down to breakfast; her hair did not appear to be thoroughly brushed, and her skin looked a bit gray. Dorina was just spreading marmalade on her toast when her sister lurched into a chair to fumble for the teapot.

  “Did you girls have a nice time yesterday?” Uncle Basil, who for once seemed the healthiest of their little family, was totally oblivious to anything save what he was immediately concentrating upon: in this case, taking the top off his egg. “How was your first gallery visit?”

  “Lovely,” Dorina mumbled, after swallowing a bite of her toast.

  Evadne snorted, not looking up from her tea. Maybe it was her poor night’s sleep, or maybe it was her mounting frustration with her sister, but the sound piqued Dorina’s ire. She was in no mood to put up with Evadne’s constant disdain for everyone and everything.

  “What was that, Evadne?” asked Basil.

  “Hmm?”

  “He heard you,” answered Dorina.

  “Heard me what?”

  “Heard you sno
rt derisively when I said we’d had a lovely time.”

  “I did nothing of the sort!”

  “Of course you did!”

  “My goodness!” exclaimed Basil, turning from one to the other. “Evadne, did you not enjoy yourself?”

  “Of course I didn’t!” Evadne seemed astonished Basil could have ever imagined otherwise. “What interest have I in galleries? What people call art seems to me to be merely a bunch of naked bodies clustered together.”

  “Nude, not naked,” corrected Dorina.

  Evadne ignored her. “People like looking at them, and claim they’re actually allegories with some moral worth to excuse what’s really just—just voyeurism!”

  “You don’t really believe that!” cried Dorina.

  “How would you know?” snapped Evadne. “You’ve never asked—never cared!”

  “That’s not true!”

  “Isn’t it?” Evadne set down her teacup. “What have we done since arriving but humor your whims? You haven’t asked me once what I might like to do! Why, you made plans to go to some stupid garden today without seeing if I’ve any interest in such a thing!”

  “Why should I?” Dorina shot back, furious. “This was supposed to be my trip to London—you inserted yourself where you weren’t wanted, so you can either go along with what I want to do, or go occupy yourself in some way you find more pleasing!”

  Evadne seemed to swell as Dorina spoke. Dorina thrust her chin in the air defiantly. Let her sister puff herself up with righteous indignation; she’d have a difficult time denying anything Dorina had said. It might have been rude, but it had all been true.

  “Not wanted!” said Evadne. “Just yesterday you said you were glad I’d come along!”

  “That was before you spent more time making yourself unpleasant than doing anything else!” Dorina was in high dudgeon now; she had keenly felt Evadne’s barb regarding not asking what her sister might like to do—Evadne was, of course, correct—but as she had felt concern over her sister’s lack of enjoyment, the allegation of selfishness made her savage. “You’re so determined to hate everything, even me, that already I’m sick to death of you! All you do is stomp around looking like you’re sucking on a lemon, and you take no pleasure in anything that doesn’t involve ruining other people’s fun! You huff and smack and sniff at everything you see, including me, because nothing lives up to your personal standards! Like poor Jonas! You were downright cruel to him! And for what—the crime of paying you a compliment?”

  “It wasn’t a compliment I appreciated!” But Dorina could see from Evadne’s expression that she knew very well what she’d done.

  “Still pining after Freddie? Do you only like boys who aren’t actually interested in you? I suppose that would disqualify Jonas!”

  “Jonas isn’t interested in me!”

  “Girls!” Uncle Basil stood, hands on the table, looking more ferocious than Dorina would have thought possible, given his frail state. “I must insist you cease this bickering!”

  Dorina crossed her arms under her bosom. Evadne sniffed haughtily again, but realizing she had, turned crimson.

  “You’re such a spoiled little child,” said Evadne. “Silly of me to expect you might appreciate anything as pedestrian as a sister’s sincere concern for your future.”

  Basil looked alarmed, and Dorina suddenly realized she was in grave danger of getting herself disinvited without a week in London having passed.

  “You may think I’m a spoiled child,” she said, “but I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself. Why, I haven’t even considered going out without a chaperone!”

  “Your chaperone . . .” Evadne, after glancing at Uncle Basil, who was now looking lost rather than annoyed, continued, “doesn’t know how much she’s bitten off.” It was obviously not what she’d meant to say, but Dorina let it be, given Basil was staring at them as if they were monstrosities in a zoo. “Much luck to the both of you. As by your own admission you’re sick of me, I shall go off on my own and do what I please—beyond stomping around looking like I’m sucking on a lemon, I mean.”

  “Evadne,” said Dorina, regretting at least some of her harsh words, but her sister had already pushed her chair back from the table. She did not look back as she strode from the room.

  “Do sisters always fight?” Basil mopped his forehead with a handkerchief. “I confess, when I invited you both, I didn’t think there would be a row!”

  “We won’t let it happen again,” she promised. “I’m sorry, Uncle.”

  “Oh, it’s all right,” he said, turning back to his now-cold egg. “I was thinking I would have to write to your mother about it, but if you’re sorry . . . just can’t stand the noise. Bad for my nerves, you know.”

  Dorina longed to ask what his nerves had to do with anything—if they, perhaps, were the source of his strange change.

  “Please excuse me,” she said. “Lady Henry will be here soon, and I should get ready.”

  “Have fun,” said her uncle, already absorbed in his paper. He looked small again, wasted and washed out, poor thing. What could have happened to him?

  Evadne’s door wasn’t just shut—it was locked. Dorina knew because after there was yet again no response to her knocking, she tried the handle. Her anger returned at this snub, and she flounced across to her own room. Let her sister skip all her meals and sulk in her room if that’s what she wanted!

  She calmed down after almost yanking out her hair while brushing it, but she dressed herself more calmly, forcing herself to go slowly. By the time she finished it all, she heard the bell ring, and she descended with dignity to find Lady Henry in the hall, looking dashing in a natty pinstripe morning suit.

  “Ah, Dorina,” she said. “You’re looking much better. You were not yourself last night.”

  “No,” she agreed. “I apologize.”

  “No apology necessary,” said Lady Henry. “I was concerned, that’s all. Well! The weather is very fine. Shall we go to Kew? Or would you prefer some other sojourn?”

  Dorina thought of Evadne, alone in her room, and almost suggested that they consult her to see what she might like. Then she remembered that door, locked against her, and tossed her hair defiantly.

  “The Royal Gardens sound lovely,” she said.

  “Fantastic! There are several interesting arrangements I think you would enjoy seeing, if your appreciation of my humble greenhouse is any indication. But where is your sister? Will she be joining us?”

  “No,” said Dorina, and dissolved into tears.

  6

  Becoming a diabolist is not by any means an easy process. There are only two ways by which man can attain it. One is by being cultured; the other, by being corrupt.

  —On the Summoning of Demons

  Lady Henry did not take Dorina deeper inside Basil Hallward’s house to comfort her; instead, she gave Dorina her handkerchief, which was scented with a delicate ginger perfume, and led her outside to the waiting coach. It was a decent drive to Kew, so they would have time to talk over whatever could be the matter before they need face the public, and anyway, she did not like the idea that Evadne might walk in on them. She sensed that Dorina would speak of her sister quite freely before she’d cried herself out.

  “She’s always been like this,” gasped Dorina. “All my life, she’s hated me.”

  “Surely not,” said Henry mildly. This was why she had been so certain that Evadne would be the more interesting of the two girls: young women of eight and twenty did not often dramatically declare that their siblings “hated” them while weeping and carrying on. They tended to be more temperate in their views; their life experience helped them reason through their emotions.

  Then again, she had been wrong about Dorina to begin with; perhaps the sisters did have deeper troubles. Evadne was hardly the most pleasant person she’d ever met in her life, it was true.

  If only all siblings could be as happy as she and Oliver had been!

  The thought of Oliver caused th
e presence in her mind to stir and shiver, like a cat stretches during a nap without fully awakening. Henry fought the urge to take a pinch of snuff to enhance her appreciation and understanding of the situation, at least aesthetically speaking, but eventually she gave in and sent a puff up either nostril.

  Dorina became yet more beautiful; her grief, more elegant as the demon woke, drinking the girl in as Henry did. Its admiration was palpable, like a pleasant pressure in her mind.

  “She does hate me,” said Dorina. “She’s always resented me.”

  Goodness. “Why do you think that?” asked Henry patiently.

  “I don’t know! She hates everything!”

  The girl might be a prodigy, but she was in danger of becoming tiresome. “Not everything,” Henry corrected her. “She loves fencing, and swords, and—”

  “Bother her swords! She’d stick one into me if she could.”

  “That seems rather unfair, don’t you think?”

  Dorina sighed. “Perhaps. But Lady Henry—”

  “Why don’t you just call me Henry? I’ve been remiss in calling you Miss Dorina, after all, and there’s no reason we shouldn’t treat one another as equals.”

  This calmed the girl substantially; Henry was pleased to have said the right thing.

  She was such a queer creature, Dorina—so awfully predictable in some ways; so delightfully surprising in others. She was wise but innocent, fresh but savvy. Henry liked her very much, but couldn’t help but feel she ought to be reserved around her. The way Dorina looked at her made her worry that Dorina might be interested in initiating something more than friendship—more than what passed between mentor and pupil.