by Molly Tanzer
Henry sat on the edge of her desk, steadying herself with her hand. Dorina sat back in the desk chair so that Henry wasn’t looming over her.
“It is real,” said Henry.
She couldn’t lie to the girl. She’d know. She was very perceptive.
“Is it ginger? Have you . . .” Dorina’s eyes flickered to the closed book. “Did you conjure demonic essence into ginger?”
Henry nodded.
“Your candies . . . your snuff, your cigarettes . . . when you close the door on Mr. Walmsley and me, you were eating this special ginger?”
Henry nodded again. “You have the measure of it.”
“Well . . . can I have a cigarette?”
“Good God, Dorina! No!” Henry sprang off the desk and began to pace, rubbing her hands together. “Of course not! You read the book—at least some of it. Don’t you know what you’re suggesting?”
“You’re right, you’re right,” said Dorina. Leaning forward, she opened the book and pointed at a page. “I ought to ask, what was the . . . bargain? What did you get, and what did you give?”
“That’s not how it . . .”
“It’s not?”
Henry ran her hand through her short hair. The girl was impossible—and even worse, the demon was laughing at her, at them both.
“So what does it give you?”
Henry looked at Dorina. The girl wasn’t smiling, she was deadly serious. This was the worst possible moment, the worst possible conversation. Once Dorina knew, there was no going back.
Tell her. Let her choose for herself.
Henry walked over to the armchair where she liked to read and almost collapsed into it. “Dorina . . .” She sighed. Against two such strong and willful characters, she could not prevail. “All right.”
“All right what?”
Henry shot her a look, and the girl quieted down. “Demons are defined, in ways that we as humans are not, by their obsessions. In their own realm . . . Well, I don’t actually know all that much about it, so let’s confine our conversation to what I do know.”
Dorina nodded.
Henry’s head suddenly felt heavy. She rested it in the palm of her hand. “Some demons crave power. Some crave worship. Some crave . . . experiences.” She looked up, cocking an eyebrow at Dorina. “The demon . . . the one I . . . the one that is part of me, it . . . it is concerned with experiences. An aesthetic adventurer, I suppose you could call it. It cares nothing for pride, power, adulation; it is at war with no others of its kind, and craves nothing more than the friendship—after a fashion—of those humans who would cohabit with it, and it enhances our appreciation of the world. It expands the senses, gives us a deeper understanding of art, culture . . . everything we touch, or see, or smell . . . taste . . .” She saw Dorina’s eyes shining like stars, and Henry hated herself then, hated her weakness. Of course once Dorina knew this, she would be satisfied by nothing but initiation. It was awful; part of Henry at last admitted she had known this would happen eventually, even though she’d denied it to herself while they had gotten to know one another better, even as she’d let Dorina kiss her, and lead her to bed.
“I want to do it,” said Dorina. “It’s always been my dream . . .”
“You didn’t even believe in demons a month ago.” Henry had to smile, remembering their brief conversation in the National Gallery. Had that been Henry—or her companion? Which of them had been baiting the hook?
Dorina rose, slippers shoofing across the Oriental carpet, and came to rest on the arm of Henry’s chair. She put her tender hand on Henry’s tweed-encased shoulder, slid down onto the seat beside her and nuzzled her neck before Henry pushed her away.
“Stop!” she said, almost leaping from the chair. “You don’t understand, Dorina—it’s not so simple!”
“Is there a ritual or something?”
“That’s not what I mean!” Henry felt faint, like her head was a buzzing hive of bees. “Dorina, please . . .”
“What is wrong?” she asked gently, and Henry, for the first time in she couldn’t remember how long, began to weep.
“Henry!” cried Dorina. “My goodness! I never expected . . . What have I done?”
“Nothing,” she sobbed, leaning into the girl. Her body felt so good, damnably so—and being held while she wept felt even better.
“Tell me,” said Dorina. “When you can—take your time.”
“It shortens your life,” explained Henry once she could, after dabbing at her eyes. “You remain young, and beautiful, but you die early. How can I let you die, Dorina? You are so young . . . You have your whole life . . .”
“How much does it shorten your life?”
“It’s difficult to say. It might only be a few years . . . or . . .” Henry sniffled, and blew her nose on her pocket handkerchief. “Dorina, here is what I have been trying to say: I have lived with this demon for almost ten years. I was the one who summoned it; I founded my group; I introduced them all. And by and large, I think it has made their lives better.”
“Yes, and they all seem so happy!”
“But Oliver . . .”
Dorina’s hand found hers, and squeezed. “What happened?”
Henry took a deep breath. “He wanted to know the demon better, more completely. He did not feel as if he could truly appreciate all that it gave us.” Henry swallowed; it seemed incredible that not an hour ago she’d been buying almond croissants, thinking to break things off with this girl, and now she was telling her everything. “He began taking bigger and bigger doses. He claimed it expanded his mind, gave him new senses beyond those that ordinary men possessed. It made him . . . I can’t explain it to you. And eventually, he took so much, such a large dose, that he . . .” She tore her hand away from Dorina and buried her face in the silk of her handkerchief. “When I found him, his eyes . . . he was bleeding out his ears, his nose . . . everywhere. But he was smiling.”
The demon responded to her distress, tried to comfort her, but she pushed it away. Its infinite patience and understanding irked her—but it understood that, too. Infuriating creature.
“Oh, Harry,” said Dorina. “I . . . I’m so sorry.”
“I showed him, Dorina. Oliver, I mean. I showed him what it was; I gave him his first dose. It will be on my conscience forever. You see now why I can’t . . . if you were to . . . if I lost you, the way I lost him . . . if I had another death on my hands . . .”
“I would never do anything like what he did,” said Dorina.
“You can’t know that!”
“I can’t know if I shall be murdered on my way home. Henry, I want to do this. I want to know.”
“If you don’t like it, if you want to stop . . . Basil, he was a part of our group. But after Oliver . . . he couldn’t stomach it anymore. He went through a withdrawal. I helped him, but it was horrible.”
“Is that why he’s so frail?”
Henry nodded. “Exactly.”
Dorina squared her shoulders. “I still want to,” she declared. “It’s my choice to make, and . . . and if you don’t help me, I’ll find a way to do it myself!” She eyed Henry, seeing the effect her words produced. “Who knows which one I’ll find, or what it will do to me . . . I’d rather meet yours—”
“It’s not mine! If anything, I belong to it.”
The demon agreed.
“It seems lovely. I mean, I’d rather meet the one you know personally,” she said. “Who knows, maybe I’ll meet one of the horrible ones you mentioned. Or . . .” She smiled deviously. “You could introduce me, introduce us, and we could have a lovely time. Why, we could go back to the National Gallery . . . see what is to be seen . . . but through enhanced eyes . . .”
Henry shrugged helplessly. “I came back and I was going to send you away, never see you again . . . and now I find I am bound to you more tightly than ever.”
“You were going to what?” Dorina sank to her knees at Henry’s feet. “Last night was the most wonderful of my life,” she said s
oftly. “Please don’t send me away. Henry . . . I love you.”
“And I you,” said Henry, raising her up. “Dorina . . .”
“Let me choose for myself. I choose you . . . and it,” she whispered. “Please?”
The demon in Henry’s mind stirred, urging her to give in.
“I am outvoted, it seems, for it wishes to meet you too,” she said helplessly. “All right, Dorina. May I be forgiven, but all right.”
“Do I get a cigarette?”
“No,” said Henry firmly. “You may try a candy, and then we’ll go to the National Gallery.”
Dorina kissed her. “Henry,” she whispered, “you won’t regret this.”
I already do, she thought, but she knew this was a lie, as her intention to keep Dorina away from her life and her ways always had been.
The demon . . . it just laughed, and urged her to hurry. To its mind, she had already waited far too long.
Part Three
1
What is this morning—or yesterday afternoon—or last week? We have lived since then.
—On the Summoning of Demons
When Evadne woke to find her sister gone, she immediately resolved to go and fetch her back again. It was of the utmost importance that they talk. But every time Evadne tried to stand for more than a moment, much less dress or walk, she felt too sick to manage it, as if she suffered from flu or some other sort of fever. Her bones ached inside of aching muscles; her neck felt like a vise pinched it right below her head. There was another clamp around her temples, one that opened and closed at odd intervals. She did not want to eat, even though she was hungry; didn’t want to drink, even though her throat was parched. Everything she lifted to her lips tasted wrong, but by midafternoon she felt so listless she knew she had to take something.
A little beef tea seemed like a good thing, unseasonable as it might be; she took it down to her uncle’s studio with her, where he was painting. She hoped conversation would distract her. It was difficult to swallow when all she had to think about was her sister, and all she had to look at was Lord Oliver’s sword.
Basil did not seem well, either. When she finally made her way downstairs, wrapped in a warm robe though the day was hot, mug in hand, she found him sitting before his picture of Oliver Wotton. Even Evadne, who cared little for art—or the Wottons—was taken aback by its beauty every time she saw it. Today, it seemed lit from within; it shimmered with its own luminescence.
Her uncle held uncannily still, holding a brush in his hand, its bristles caked with drying paint the exact hue of the peacock feathers featured on the painting sitting on his easel, and had an untouched cup of tea balanced on his thigh, a film drifting like clouds across its surface.
“May I join you?” asked Evadne.
He nodded, but said nothing and did not look at her. That was not so very unusual; he was a quiet man. At least, he was these days. Once, he had been outgoing and gregarious, but whatever illness had touched him had left him introspective, with tongue leaden and slow. And he did not seem to be recovering; if anything, he looked worse than when they’d first arrived.
She had intended to ask if he would dispatch a servant to try to bring her sister home, but the soporific quietude of the studio and the warmth of her drink proved overpowering, and Evadne fell asleep on the couch. When she awoke, it was dark again, and cooler. She felt confused, and a little annoyed that he had left her—left her and gone out to his club!
Evadne did not know what to do with herself, so she went to the kitchen and asked for a little more broth. It helped, but as the minutes turned into hours, and the hours became long stretches where the only noise was the ticking of the clock, and still no Dorina, even the light soup became as the richest supper, churning and swirling inside her unpleasantly. She waited, worrying, until it was too late to send someone, for the servants had all gone to bed.
She listened to the slow chiming of the quarter-hours in Basil’s sitting room, bundled, feeling as wretched as she’d ever felt in her life. She thought only of Dorina—fearing for her, rather than wondering why she did not return, worrying about what might happen to her sister in the house of someone whose brother trafficked with demons, someone who seemed likely to do so herself. Would Dorina come home? Or would she go missing, just like the girl whom Evadne and her companions had failed to rescue? Would she find her sister on a similar rooftop, body on display and guts spilled free as forces beyond the understanding of men worked their will through her flesh?
Sleep did not come. At least, it did not come until it did, catching Evadne by surprise, and leaving her with a crick in her neck when she finally woke up in the wee hours, as the windows were just beginning to brighten.
Evadne felt a bit better, even after sleeping on a sofa in a dressing gown. She had an appetite, and made her way to the kitchen, where she procured tea and toast. Solid food helped even more, and her aches finally began to melt away as she stood, stretched, and decided she would take a bath.
It was the sight of the tub that did it—all the memories of her awful night on the rooftop came back to her. She’d been so focused on needing to tell Dorina of her suspicions and make sure her sister understood the danger she was in that she’d scarcely thought about what had granted her this burdensome knowledge. The image of that homunculus, its teeth bared, its eye pierced by her sword’s blade . . . She fell back against the wall of the bathroom, reeling. The smell of that unnamed girl’s entrails, the perfume of the blossoms, the viridescent color of George’s fire that had burned it all to ash. What had once been that girl, had been those things . . . it was all just particulate matter now. It had changed into something wholly different, as she had, and over the course of just a few hours.
Sometime later she sat on her bed, hair piled on top of her head, body clean, if damp, with very little memory of how that had happened. Then, just as strangely, she was dressed and downstairs, waiting for her sister with The School of Fencing open on her lap. She tried to read it, but even the familiar words would not make sense.
The bell rang, and Evadne was on her feet and running for the door before she realized Dorina would not ring the bell. Indeed, instead, she found George there. He looked about as she felt—exhausted.
“Gray,” he said.
She stepped out to meet him, rather than inviting him inside; she felt awkward having a man over without asking her uncle’s permission. In fact, it was odd he’d come to find her at all—it was terribly improper. How had he known where she was staying?
Of course—he must have looked at the paperwork she’d filled out. And anyway, why was she worrying about this when they’d slain actual demons together?
“Mr. Cantrell,” she said. “How are you?”
“It’s Mr. Cantrell, is it?” He seemed amused, and a little sad.
“George,” she said softly. “I’m sorry. I’ve had a difficult . . .”
“I can imagine. I came by to apologize. Had I known, I never would have . . .”
“How is Mr. Stockton?”
“He’s fine, just fine.”
“And you?”
George smiled at her. “You’re worried about me? Gray, you’re too good. I came here enquiring after your health.”
“I have been very tired and sore, but I believe I’ve weathered the worst of it.” Evadne did not meet his eyes. His presence pleased her, but it also alarmed her.
“Forgive me.” His tone brought her attention to the present. “You do not seem yourself. Is it just exhaustion, or is something bothering you?”
How could she open her mouth? If she did, she had no idea what might come tumbling out. It wouldn’t be pearls and flowers—more like toads and snakes. If they had been sisters in a fairy tale, Dorina would be the one rewarded with extra graces for her winning personality; Evadne, the one condemned to being yet more loathsome for failing to appreciate the import of some crucial interaction.
“No,” she managed at last, with a shake of her head. “Just a bit tired.
”
“I can imagine. That was quite a first adventure,” he said, a little more warmth in his voice. “Thank goodness we were successful!”
“You would call that a success?”
“Yes,” he said gravely. “Though only a partial one, naturally. I had hoped to take him alive, as you know. But the most important thing is those creatures were destroyed, and their contagion cannot spread. After you left I burned everything on the roof and in his room that might be used for fell purposes.” He sighed, but to Evadne’s relief he did not try to touch her to comfort her—it would be an embarrassment, to be touched by a man in the street, and she felt grateful to him for understanding. “Sometimes, that is what we who are called by duty to defend the world of men call a success.”
She had nothing to say, given that she was not as convinced on this side of her adventure that this was indeed the path she was born to walk.
“It’s not strange, you know, to have second thoughts after . . .”
She glanced up, as George had somehow divined her thoughts. He smiled at her gently, his handsome, craggy face softening.
“There are many who never go on another mission after seeing something like that. Most are lucky enough that their first few experiences aren’t so hideous, which is why I wanted to say if you did not wish to—”
“Hello, Evadne!” cried Dorina. Startled, Evadne looked wildly at the street, and saw Lady Henry’s carriage rattling away. She hadn’t noticed it pulling up. “How are you! What are you doing outside? And . . .” Dorina stared at George for a moment, and he back at her.
“Dorina! Ah, this is my . . . friend, Mr. Cantrell,” she said awkwardly. “Mr. Cantrell, this is my sister, Miss Dorina Gray.”
“Charmed,” said Dorina, offering her hand promptly, like a man would. George took it, shaking it firmly to Dorina’s obvious approval.
“Have we met, Mr. Cantrell?” she asked. “You seem familiar . . .”
