by Molly Tanzer
The prose was not exactly transparent. Dorina was about to set the book aside when at last she reached just how a human might contact a demon. Then, she could not but read more:
If one wishes to speak with a demon, the body must be tempered like a cook tempers an egg for custard. The flesh, the bone, the mind must all be inoculated with a small bit of demonic essence, or the mind will curdle, so to speak. The easiest way, honored by time, is to commune with one of their race via the consumption of a sacrament contaminated with their unique essence.
Plant matter is the safest and easiest method by which achieve this, for animals of all sorts are far more likely than plants to be destroyed by demonic contact. A would-be diabolist therefore conducts a ritual to lure the demon into some sort of plant, and if the demon is interested, and successfully summoned, the plant may either be consumed in the moment, or planted for the purposes of propagation. Even someone with only a window box may—if they are clever, and have a green enough thumb—cultivate an endless supply of demonically infused plant matter.
By consuming a small amount of said plant, over time the human body becomes sensitized to the toxic presence of the demon. Not all survive this diabolic grand feu—but if one does, one becomes a remarkable vessel fired for a remarkable purpose. And like clay, one takes on new, often useful, properties.
Now I must say beware to those who would seek such a result. While one receives gifts from demons, such as beauty, strength, or insight, there is always a cost. The cost can be physical, or mental; regardless, it will be paid—and in full.
It is also good to understand that demonic essence possesses an addictive property. While a tiny amount of demonic essence may suffice at first, the human body is supremely adaptable. It craves what pleases it; it will need more over time. But increasing the dose risks the body’s integrity, and one must be very careful never to go too far . . .
“Too far,” murmured Dorina, but then a noise startled her, and she looked up to see Henry in the doorway. She was holding a box of pastries from Dorina’s favorite bakery.
“What are you doing?” she asked calmly. Too calmly. There was steel behind her words, not mere conversational interest.
Dorina swallowed. She’d been caught. She should have heeded that nagging sense of guilt, that sensation of maybe I shouldn’t be doing this. But she hadn’t. What good would lying do now?
“Is it real?” she asked boldly. “Is this what you all do? Your appreciation society, I mean. Do you traffic with demons?”
8
With demons, as with men, real communication begins where intellectual expression ends.
—On the Summoning of Demons
Henry had awoken early to find Dorina curled into her, the girl’s soft body a warm, substantial weight in her armpit. Awake, Dorina was always a simmering pot on the edge of boiling, but asleep, she looked at peace. A slight smile gently turned up the corners of her mouth, and when Henry moved, hoping to free herself—her arm was numb, under Dorina’s head—the girl snuggled in yet closer.
Henry, however, was not at peace. She ought to be. What they’d shared last night had been one of the most astonishing experiences of her life. She was used to taking the lead, or at least being equally active during her affairs. Dorina, however, had practically devoured her, barely letting her do a thing. No one had ever been so free with her, or so rough. It made her wonder if her previous lovers had been intimidated by her status, her title. Not Dorina. The girl had bitten at her lips—jammed her fingers inside her as though she were desperately attempting to catch some precious object that had fallen down a drain before it slipped away forever. Henry had been shocked at first, to be treated so outrageously by this naïve country strumpet, but she had never come so hard, writhing as Dorina stared at her, watching her reactions with eager concentration. Her body had been a violin, and Dorina’s touch, a bow . . . but that implied too much separateness. They had been one flesh, just like they were taught in Sunday school.
Well, maybe not quite like Sunday school.
Even so, she knew she’d made a grave error, giving in, giving over. Her demon companion contradicted her, which it very rarely did; it thought she’d finally made the right decision. But where Dorina was concerned she could not trust it, could not ask its advice. It liked the girl—as much as it could “like” anything. Perhaps it would be better to say it approved of her.
It wanted her.
Henry had hosted her demon for years now, close to a decade, and she had always been able to keep its will separate from hers. It was important to her to be able to identify the ways in which they were distinct, even if she welcomed its intrusion into her thoughts and feelings.
It wasn’t the demon that made her anxious about Dorina. She hadn’t lived as a monk since her decision to let it into her mind; she had had several affairs of varying lengths. The most successful had been with Hyacinth Travers, but when they had mutually decided they were better as “just friends,” Henry had not felt too many regrets. She was past the time in her life when she always needed someone in her bed when she woke up. While it was pleasant, especially in the winter, she liked her mornings to herself, so much so that she had considered whether or not she ever wanted another romantic relationship. They only led to hurt feelings.
How could her affairs not? Hyacinth had been the only woman who had known—had understood. The others were just acquaintances, lovely and pleasant ones, to be sure, but none of them had had the temperament or the sort of spirit Henry liked to see in potential members of her society. How could an affair last with someone who was not a part of it? So, in the end, she’d let them all go, for their sake as well as hers. They were hurt by her attention to other people, other matters. And she knew that they would never understand how not only her mind but her physical body was different than other women’s.
She wasn’t old; she neither looked nor felt like she was past her prime, but her life would be shorter than most. That had been part of the bargain she’d struck. The demon would preserve her. She would never grow sick or elderly, or become enfeebled, but she would live for fewer years because of it. They all would, every one of her friends . . . which was why they were, admittedly, a fairly close group. The shared presence in their minds was a kind of companionship, but the body as well as the soul has its needs. Even so, all of them, over the years, had come to the conclusion that it simply wasn’t possible to carry on with anyone who wasn’t a part of their enhanced existence . . . even Dr. Sauber, bless his soul. Then again, the man had been voluntarily celibate before he even joined them. He claimed retaining his “vital essences” kept his mind clear.
As Henry looked at Dorina, and began the process of extracting herself without waking the girl, she felt nothing but regret for what she would have to do. Dorina was so young, so innocent. She thought she was such a worldly creature, with her love of art, and her unapologetic attraction to and experience with women . . . How little she really knew!
How little Henry wanted her to know.
She had to end it. She would do it gently—of course she would—but this had to be their last meeting. She would send Dorina back to her uncle, and never see her again. Dorina would protest Henry’s decision, second-guess her, but this was how it had to be. Henry knew her own heart too well—she would not be able to resist a second, and then a third night, and so on and so forth, and given how much everyone liked Dorina, how much the demon liked Dorina, eventually she would insinuate herself into the group . . . and then there would be no turning back.
Yes, she had to end it, and she had to do it now, before either of them became too attached.
Henry grabbed clothes and dressed in another room, then wrote a note in her study so the scratching would not disturb Dorina. That’s when she got Jonas up and shooed him out of the house, even though the other part of her urged her to give up this madness—to take off her clothes, get back into bed . . .
“I’d assumed you’d sleep late today,” he said, yawni
ng, as they trotted down Curzon Street toward the Shepherd Market. There was a bakery there whose almond-paste croissants Dorina craved constantly, and Henry thought to pick up a box to share before they said goodbye.
“You thought wrong,” she said waspishly.
“You’re not going to deny something happened, are you?”
Henry shot him a look.
“Then what’s wrong?”
Henry stopped in the middle of the busy lane. “Are you so thick?” Her voice did not sound like her own, was not her own. She did not quarrel with Jonas. They never had, not even after Oliver’s death, when they’d neither of them been themselves for many months.
“Let’s assume for the moment that I am,” said Jonas evenly. “Explain to me what you’re feeling.”
Henry shook her head. “Not here,” she said. “Let’s . . . let’s get a coffee at the bakery, and we can talk there.”
But it wasn’t any easier to talk about once they were settled in the cozy little shop, with its red and gold wallpaper and ornate stained glass windows. Jonas claimed a table in the corner; she returned with two coffees, her hands shaking a little. A pinch of ginger snuff helped her feel a bit better, but also depressed her. She stared at the delicate white china, and the deep blackness it contained so easily, brooding over it until Jonas interrupted her thoughts.
“Is she awful in bed?”
The demon was more amused by the question than Henry.
“It happens. Even the ones who seem like they’d be fantastic, they’re just—”
“Don’t be . . .” She stopped herself from snapping at him again. “No,” she said primly. “That is not the issue.”
“So she’s good, then?”
“Jonas!”
He smiled at her. She realized what he was doing, and smiled back sheepishly.
“Let’s just say she didn’t make it easy for me to end this.”
“What? Why? Why are you ending it, I mean?”
“You can’t be serious,” she said. “You know I can’t—” The presence in her mind disagreed vehemently. “Or rather, I mustn’t,” she amended. It had nothing to say to that. “How could I? How could I do that to her?”
Jonas cocked his head. “I’m not sure I follow you.”
“What are my options? Hide myself while continuing on with her, as if I wasn’t what I was? She deserves better than that.” Henry’s hands tightened on her cup of coffee; mechanically, she brought it to her lips and sipped. It tasted of ashes. “And as for the other . . . it is impossible.”
“It doesn’t have to be.”
“I’m a gardener. No matter how beautiful a bloom is, when you snip it free and put it in a vase it withers and dies.”
“But if you leave it, that same blossom will just rot on the stem.”
“It takes longer.”
“Ah,” said Jonas. He understood now; she saw it in his eyes. He looked sad. “And you don’t want to give your bloom the choice?”
“I know what she’d choose!” exclaimed Henry. Then lowering her voice, she said, “It is obvious to you, me, and all of us that Dorina is . . . she’s not a blossom. She’s a damned tuning fork, and our meetings have struck her like a mallet.” The demon agreed wholeheartedly with this sentiment, to her dismay rather than her pleasure. “There is nothing in the world that would suit her more than . . .” Henry shrugged. “But how can I do that to her? How can she know what she really wants at such a young age? How can she know what she will want, a year from now, ten years from now?”
“How can you? Happily married women in their middle years have affairs; men late in life go back and pick up the instrument they hated practicing in their youth. Perhaps Dorina knows what she wants now, even as young as she is. Stranger things have happened.”
“Oh, I know that. But you know what it would mean for her.”
“I also know that she’s a very intelligent young woman—precocious, even. So few people trust young women. Are you one of their number?”
“Don’t you dare appeal to that part of me.”
“What, your better nature?”
Henry sighed. “I take your point, but . . .”
“Do you love her?”
The question shocked Henry, even as it delighted the presence in her mind. It knew the answer.
“Do you? If you don’t, then . . .”
“I think I do,” she said, hating herself for dissembling even that much.
Jonas knew what she meant. His amused smile spoke volumes.
“Then there doesn’t seem to me to be a problem. Take it from one who has fallen very hard for one whom he senses will never return his affections.” He held up his hand as Henry opened her mouth. Poor Jonas; she could absolutely see what he saw in Evadne, but she could never abide that sort of rejection and coldness. She would have given up the chase a long time ago. “Things are good, Henry. Your path is clear. You know what you feel about her, and you know what she will say if you offer her what you can offer her.”
“It’s not as easy as that!”
“It could be.”
“If I love her,” said Henry, “then what I ought to do is send her away, and you know exactly why.”
Jonas reached across the table and took Henry’s hand in his. “You can’t blame yourself forever. Oliver—”
“Let’s get those pastries and head back,” said Henry suddenly. She didn’t want to have this conversation, not now, not ever. She didn’t blame herself for what had happened. Why couldn’t Jonas—why couldn’t Basil, or Hyacinth, or anyone else—understand that she didn’t blame herself! It was just that she had suffered the consequences of her choices in ways none of them had, and it had changed her, just as the demon’s presence in their lives had changed them.
“All right, Henry,” said Jonas sadly. “I just hate to think you’ll go your whole life alone.”
“I haven’t!”
“You cut Hyacinth off and she would have stayed with you forever.”
“We mutually decided—”
“Tommyrot.” Jonas’s bluntness shocked her. “She let you think that because you were grieving, but you hurt her badly. She’s over you now; she and Robert have taken up together in some strange way—I don’t know the details and I don’t wish to—but I do know that she was devoted to you, worshiped you, and you fed me the same line when you booted her into the street.”
“I don’t have to take this,” said Henry. She was actually annoyed now. “I don’t have to listen to you going on about my faults.”
“I’m not, you silly ass,” he said, gentler now. “I’m trying to say that I love you and I want you to be happy. You’ve cocooned yourself in isolation because you’re frightened, and I understand why . . . but you once told me that Oliver knew what he was doing, and that you let him do it because he went into it with his eyes open.”
Henry kept her eyes on her coffee. She missed her brother more than she could ever say, so she had never tried. Perhaps she should have told him that, before he . . . She closed her eyes momentarily, and let go the thought, for she knew in her heart that there was nothing she could have said, could have done, to change Oliver’s mind.
The demon agreed with her.
“Henry.” Jonas brought her attention back to himself. “Maybe you doubt Oliver now; maybe you don’t. Maybe you doubt yourself . . . I can’t say. What I do know is that you have a chance for something good with this girl. I know she loves you; anyone who’s around the two of you for five minutes can see it. And it’s not some young person’s obsession—she hasn’t taken to borrowing your clothes, or affecting your style or mannerisms. She just likes to look at you; she hangs on your every word, respects you even when she disagrees with you. And you love her, too. You’re making this difficult for yourself, for the two of you, and you don’t have to.”
“You can’t make an impossible thing more difficult,” said Henry.
He sighed. “As you say.”
Jonas didn’t have to understand. She k
new she was doing the right thing.
She had kept her mouth shut during their walk home, thinking about what she had to do, and why she had to do it. Jonas had a gift for conversation, and perhaps for philosophy, too . . . but neither conversation nor philosophy was what was needed now. Only strength of will and self-knowledge.
But then she had come home to find Dorina with the one book she had vowed the girl would never read. And what did she say, but:
“Is it real? Is this what you all do?”
Who had given it to her? Hyacinth had had it last . . . Anger flared in Henry’s breast, but she saw the brown paper on her desk, and she knew then Dorina had unwrapped it, never knowing she was reading the most deadly book in the world—the only book in Henry’s library she would have denied her.
“Can . . . I do it too?”
Henry walked to her desk, and setting down the pastries, took the book out of Dorina’s hands, shut it, and set it down.
“Are you angry with me?” Dorina was obviously quite anxious for her to say something, but Henry didn’t know what to say. She’d come here to end this, to keep Dorina safe, knowing it had been her own fault that she was at risk in the first place—and the silly girl had gone and taken the first step into death and peril on her own. “If you’re angry with me, it means it must be real. But how can that be?”
