by Molly Tanzer
A knock at the door startled Dorina, but she welcomed the cup of tea. After thanking the maid and telling her she’d require nothing else that night, Dorina sipped thoughtfully, and wandered to the casement to look out at the quiet street beyond, and the old, rather romantic house across the way. The mist and the gaslights together lent a magical glamour to the view—the trees looked softer; the rare passersby, more intimate in their conversations under their umbrellas.
She tried to see the scene as her uncle would, but it was no good. She wasn’t one for penny dreadfuls or sensation novels; the fiction in Lippincott’s was quite horrific enough for her taste. Why, Mr. Conan Doyle’s The Sign of the Four had very nearly sent her into fits when she got to that bit about the poisoned dart. Likely her uncle would imagine that gentleman there with a cadaver’s head. The thought of seeing such an apparition made Dorina shudder.
For some reason, that thought put her in mind of the picture of Oliver Wotton. What a curious thing it was—how beautiful, how lifelike. How it had transfixed her like no other painting had ever done! The memory of the sensation instantly reignited her curiosity; she resolved to look at it again now that she was at her leisure, without the risk of anyone interrupting her.
She threw a shawl over her shoulders, and after lighting a candle she ventured into the darkened corridor. The sound of the rain almost disappeared as she trod the heavy carpet of the hallway—she thought perhaps the deluge had slaked, but that was not the case; if anything, the storm was worse, rain and wind lashing the windowpanes. Thankfully, Basil’s studio was snug; her candle did not so much as gutter, for which she was grateful. The thought of a man with a skull’s face was still in the back of her mind, and she did not want to be alone in the dismal room without a light.
As she approached the portrait she held up the candle to look again on the visage of her friend’s twin. They were even more alike by the dim light, when she could not see their fine differences; this, if anything, obsessed her further.
At first, she avoided Lord Oliver’s eyes, instead focusing on anything, everything else . . . but eventually, his gaze claimed her. It seemed more intense, more captivating, more beautiful than before. She knew not how long she stood staring into his eyes, feeling them pierce her very soul. She felt as if he might be speaking to her, somehow, a fancy that seemed even more real in the darkness of the chamber, late in the evening, with the drum of the unceasing rain in her ears. But try as she might, she could not understand the low whispers at the back of her mind.
The sound of the front door slamming and what could only be her uncle’s footsteps pulled Dorina from her reverie. She panicked, sensing she should not be here, should not be staring at this strange picture, not alone, not with a candle, not in her dressing gown. Not at this hour. For reasons she could not explain she felt as if she had been discovered in the middle of an intimate act—she felt more bashful about this than even when Evadne had found her with poor, forgotten Juliana. She blew out the light and quickly retreated into the shadows behind an easel, drawing an enormous fern on castors a bit in front of herself, too, for good measure.
Her hope that Basil would not come into the studio was dashed when she heard the door creak on its hinges and then heavy footsteps. Basil was mumbling to himself—she couldn’t quite hear what he was saying, but soon his intentions were clear.
Dorina and her uncle were of one mind, for he, too, approached the painting.
She drew back farther into the gloaming, smelling spirits. Her uncle was drunk! He had been at his club; still, it didn’t seem like him. The times he had visited Swallowsroost he rarely had more than a glass or two of wine, perhaps an after-dinner sip of port or brandy, but he was stumbling about like a sot. He would put his foot through a painting or plant if he wasn’t careful!
“Oliver,” he said, the first coherent word she’d heard from him. “My dearest Oliver! Why?”
This was worse than anything Dorina could have imagined. Long had she suspected that she and her uncle were of a kind, so to speak, but for him to tell her unknowingly, while intoxicated, speaking to a painting . . . it was embarrassing beyond anything. If she could have escaped, she would have, but as it stood she had to listen. She might startle him into doing something foolish if she revealed her presence now.
Her uncle ungracefully dragged a chair over before the portrait; he almost fell into it, and then she heard a hollow pop. He had uncorked a bottle with his teeth! Spitting away the stopper, he drank deeply.
“Oliver,” he breathed, beholding his portrait, “I could have understood, in time, if there had been another . . . but there wasn’t, at least, not another man. Or woman. Even that I could have borne, just not you leaving me alone like . . . like this . . .”
Basil sighed deeply, and drank more. She heard him retch a little.
“Ugh,” he said, wiping his mouth with his hand, dropping the bottle; its contents spilled over the floor. Basil scarcely seemed to notice. “Oliver . . .” he muttered. “Oh, Oliver, I’ve never despised someone for possessing ideals, but . . .” The sound of sick gurgled in his throat again. Dorina felt the tea she’d drunk rolling around in her own stomach. There was really nothing more disgusting than listening to someone vomit. “I always told you, your ideals were a dead end, a disaster. Moderation was never your strong point. If only I could damn your sister for what she did, what she did to you, what she showed you . . . but I can’t. It made you happy . . . happier than I made you . . . than I ever could have made you, not in ten thousand years as your hierophant. I understand, of course . . . I know what it’s like. I know what it does, how it bewitches you, makes you see . . . but just the same, Oliver, it couldn’t hold you . . . couldn’t sleep beside you . . .”
Thank goodness his mumbling became incoherent after that, and finally a snore told Dorina her uncle had fallen asleep in his chair. She waited for a few moments, then cautiously moved aside the potted fern, slipped from her hiding place—and fled.
She knew it would be a kindness to alert someone to her uncle’s situation, but how could she? To do so would be to admit she had seen him, which meant admitting she had been in his studio. She had no desire to let him know that she had heard his drunken ramblings!
And yet . . . curiosity made her question her decision. Pausing outside his studio door, Dorina contemplated getting him up, getting him to bed. Then she could ask him what he had meant by it all. What had Henry shown her brother that had damned him, but made him happy? What had bewitched him? What had made him see? It—whatever it was—had claimed Oliver, according to her uncle, but Basil knew, and both he and Henry were alive . . .
A sound from Basil’s studio made her decision for her. Over the sound of the rain, she heard that her uncle had woken, and was now sobbing his heart out.
“Oliver,” he cried, but Dorina would stay and hear no more. Yes, she wanted answers, but not enough to listen to a grown man weeping for his dead lover. Lightly she fled, down the hall, up the stairs, through the dark house, for she had left her candle in the studio. Hopefully he wouldn’t notice it before the servants cleared it away.
It wasn’t until she was back in her room that Dorina let herself breathe, gasping for several seconds, her back against the shut door. What a strange night! She felt desperately sorry for her unhappy uncle, but though it pained her to admit it, she felt sorry for herself, too. She couldn’t think of a single way she could ask Henry about what she had heard her uncle saying without admitting she had eavesdropped—or admitting that at least in part, Basil blamed her for the death of her twin brother.
3
To give one’s self to a demon is to be cherished without risk of abandonment. The risk is, rather, that they will never grow tired of you—and if they agree to release you, it will be only with the strongest reluctance. Other men will never understand that sort of commitment; their lives change too often.
—On the Summoning of Demons
The rain woke Dorina late the next morning. Her eyes
were sandy and her mouth dry; she coughed as she rose, and groped blindly for the water glass she always kept on her bedside table. A few swallows and she felt much better, but remembering what she had done last night, and how she had left her uncle, she collapsed back against the pillows.
A soft knock brought her back to herself. When Evadne let herself in, her hair already combed and dressed in an almost pretty morning gown, Dorina sat up.
“Forgive me,” she said, “the rain kept me asleep.”
“There was no reason for you to rise,” said Evadne, coming to sit on the foot of her bed. “I don’t think we’ll be traversing London Bridge—at least, not today.”
“Perhaps not,” admitted Dorina. “But, we shall find something to do, to wile away the hours until you go to your fencing clinic.”
“Fencing clinic!” Evadne rose, and went to stand before the rain-splashed windows. Whatever she saw on the street below made her shake her head and turn away again. “I don’t know if I shall go. It seems rather, well, wet.”
“Oh, but you must go!” cried Dorina. “You were so looking forward to it.”
Evadne looked surprised, as if she had not expected Dorina to understand this. “True, but I have no wish to catch my death getting damp and chilled.”
“Surely the exercise will keep you warm, and then once you’re back, have Hannah draw you a bath. Trust me, you’ll feel ever so much better if you get out for a bit.”
“Are you going out?”
Dorina frowned, thinking of Henry’s refusal to invite her to her party. “Probably not, but who can say what the day will hold?”
Evadne patted Dorina’s foot under the coverlet. “Come down to breakfast,” she said. “You’ll feel better with a bit of toast in you.”
“What do you mean?” It was Dorina’s turn to be surprised.
“You didn’t leap out of bed at first light to tell everyone how they’re failing to appreciate the glories of the dawn. Something must be troubling you.”
Dorina smiled fondly at her sister. “You’re right . . . tea and toast will be just the thing.”
“So you are troubled?” Evadne’s concern was sincere, but Dorina did not feel she could confide in her sister without making Evadne further doubt the fitness of their guardian. She shook her head.
“Not really,” she said, “just disappointed. I had very much wanted to go out with you.”
“Oh, it’s all right,” said Evadne, blushing slightly. “It’s my fault. If I were more interested in the sorts of things you like, our plans need not have changed at all, eh? But, as the thought of spending another moment of my life gazing at Sabine women or doubting Thomases makes me want to scream . . .” She shrugged.
“Well, we can’t have you screaming,” said Dorina, throwing her bedcovers over her sister’s head. As Evadne struggled to get free, protesting loudly, Dorina got out of bed and grabbed her brush and let down her hair. She was suddenly ravenous, and therefore eager to make herself presentable. “Hmm,” she said, “and I’ll warrant your fencing class is during high tea.”
“See you downstairs,” said Evadne, straightening her hair with her fingers—but she was smiling.
Dorina rushed through her ablutions, and came down just as Evadne had started on the sausages. Dorina took a bit of everything.
“No sign of Uncle Basil,” remarked Evadne. “I wonder if he had a late night at his club?”
“Mmph,” said Dorina, taking an enormous bite of marmalade-slathered toast to avoid replying.
As they had nothing to do and nowhere to go, they lingered over their meal, each drinking several more cups of tea than they were accustomed to, which resulted in them becoming even more jittery and dissatisfied with staying in. They asked a maid to bring in a guidebook to the city and were just in the final stages of deciding whether they should bother visiting the Crystal Palace when Basil finally came downstairs, ashen-faced and a little unsteady on his feet.
“Uncle,” said Evadne, who to Dorina’s relief seemed amused rather than appalled, “did you have a good time last night?”
“I had a fine time,” he assured her weakly. “Thank you.” He winced as he sat down, suppressing a belch. To Dorina’s amazement, Evadne seemed actually cheerful to see her uncle in a bad way; then again, she was the sort of person to take delight in the consequences of someone else’s excess. “But, what about you?” he managed after a moment. “A dull evening in, and now I fear for a dull day.”
“Not at all,” said Evadne heartily. “Dorina and I have resolved to enjoy ourselves no matter what.”
The doorbell rang, and Dorina jumped—a quick glance at the clock revealed it was the hour that Henry was to have come for them. She felt suddenly apprehensive, fearing her friend’s presence would upset the pleasant peace. Likely not even Basil’s distress would counterbalance Lady Henry Wotton at ten in the morning.
“I wonder who that could be?” asked Evadne, turning back to the guidebook.
“Henry, I wouldn’t doubt,” muttered Basil. Dorina detected a hint of sourness; apparently, his thoughts of last night were still on his mind. “Probably she doesn’t have anything better to do than lord over me in my weakness.”
Evadne had looked up sharply when Basil mentioned Henry’s name, and Dorina couldn’t quite meet her sister’s gaze when Basil was proven right and the lady strode in, Jonas in her wake. Dorina did not need visual confirmation to know the storm had come indoors.
Henry looked dashing in a morning coat and trousers the same color as the sky outside, but a waistcoat of egg-yolk yellow with blue beadwork as bright as any sunny summer’s day. Jonas, while attired far more plainly in a well-cut dark suit, looked just as tidy—tidier than usual, actually, which was saying something. He kept turning to Evadne, eager for her to acknowledge him. The extra grooming had clearly been for her sake. Poor man! Evadne was the last person in the world who would pick up on it. Dorina tried to think of something, anything, to say to get Evadne to look up from her plate, but her uncle beat her to it, as Jonas had the day’s papers under his arm.
“Good of you to bring those broadsheets,” he said, reaching for them.
“Ah, Dorina—I don’t think we’ll be taking that walk across the bridge,” said Henry, by way of hello over the rustling of newsprint. “Sorry, girls, but it’s coming down sideways; even an umbrella won’t do us much good.”
“We had already decided against it,” said Evadne, looking annoyed as Henry sat down beside Dorina. “We have enough sense to stay in when it’s wet.”
Demonstrating the very patience of Job, Henry actually smiled as she poured herself a cup of tea. Jonas hovered behind Basil—he had been moving to take a chair beside Evadne, but her chilliness was making him uncertain. Dorina caught his eye and nodded; he blushed, and went for it. Unfortunately, Evadne gave him a look that would wither an oak tree and turned away from him, nose in the air. Dorina’s heart went out to the young man—he looked so disappointed.
“Plenty to do indoors,” he said anxiously, his desire for her attention so obvious it was almost painful. “Ah, and I see you have a recent Baedeker’s, what were you considering?”
“I think I heard the Crystal Palace mentioned,” said Basil, who had just helped himself to dry toast.
“I’m afraid it would take too much time,” buzzed Evadne waspishly. “I have an afternoon appointment.”
“Oh?” Henry reached for a croissant. “What will you be doing?”
“Evadne’s taking fencing lessons,” said Dorina quickly, before Evadne could tell the woman to mind her own business.
“Really!” cried Jonas, with genuine enthusiasm. “How wonderful, Miss Gray! There are so many good schools in the area. When you said you weren’t planning on attending any lessons I was disappointed, but I didn’t like to second-guess a lady . . . Still, I confess it seemed a shame to fail to take advantage of what London has to offer while you’re here. I think it’s a fantastic idea!”
Evadne looked a bit less li
ke an ice sculpture by the end of this pretty speech, but when Henry spoke, she froze over again.
“I do wish you’d told us before signing up,” Henry said, unaware of the chill—or choosing to ignore it. “I could have told you the name of Oliver’s old school. It was called the something Academy . . .”
“The Westminster Fencing Academy,” supplied Jonas. “The head teacher, Mr. Perkins, is supposed to be the best in the city. We could very easily introduce you if you like . . .”
Evadne, oddly enough, seemed displeased. “I need no introduction. That’s where I’m going,” she said stiffly. “A friend recommended the school to me, actually. They remember your brother, Lady Henry, and speak very highly of him.”
“Independent confirmations of superiority often speak to something’s merit,” said Basil. “If one of my paintings received such universal praise from the critics, I feel I’d be justified in considering myself a genius.”
“I should hope not,” said Dorina, hoping to divert the conversation; Evadne looked ready to bolt. “It’s when the critics disagree that an artist knows he’s doing what he ought.”
“I’m not sure if the same applies to fencing schools,” said Henry, amused. “What did you think of the academy, Evadne? Oliver always thought the world of Perkins.”
“Mr. Perkins seems very experienced,” she said, now glacial. “I believe I shall improve under his tutelage.”
“Yesterday you seemed thrilled with the place!” cried Dorina, by way of protesting her sister’s coolness. But Evadne was like Rapunzel in the story; she had let down her hair for a few moments, only to pull it back up and hide in her tower, presenting no opportunity for anyone to join her in her isolation.
“Don’t worry, Evadne,” said Henry kindly. “I never fenced, nor do I plan to begin; my relationship with the academy ended with my brother’s death. I doubt they’d even know me there if I showed up . . . Well, maybe in these clothes—we were twins after all—but barring that, I can’t imagine . . . Evadne?”
