Creatures of Will and Temper

by Molly Tanzer

  It was his frankness, his honesty that convinced Evadne she’d done the right thing as she nodded her assent. He was a professional; he’d dealt with demons before. Of course he needed time to think. But he would help.

  “Thank you,” she said, standing.

  He got up, too. But, instead of showing her to the door, he stood over her. He was so much taller than her, and so broad in the chest. He smelled like fresh sweat and leather and the lingering hint of shaving soap. She inhaled deeply, not aware she did so.

  “Don’t thank me yet,” he said. “I haven’t done anything.”

  She looked up and saw that same intense expression on his face. Her cheeks felt warm.

  “I feel better having confided in you,” she murmured. “That’s something.”

  “I’m glad,” he said. “I only wish I could do more, right now.”

  His hand found her shoulder, and Evadne trembled. Something was happening, something she didn’t quite understand, even if it was something she had longed for, terrified as she was by it. George—Saint George—was drawing her closer, closer . . .

  He leaned in, leaned down, and kissed her.

  Evadne had never been kissed—not by a boy at least, and not like this. His mouth tasted delicious, a little sweet, and his grip on her shoulders was tight, bordering on uncomfortable. But she did not cry out, or pull away; in fact, as she relaxed into his embrace, the pain became pleasurable. He was a forge, and Evadne metal that could be worked if she could but endure the heat and force. She felt herself shifting, changing. George always brought out the best in her, and this was just another way for him to shape her. She wanted this moment to never end, never—

  A knock at the door came, and they sprang apart like startled deer. Evadne tried to gain control of her blushes, tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear, and patted herself down, but when Mr. Perkins entered, he seemed to know something had been going on. Evadne made her excuses quickly, then fled the room, fled the studio, almost running into Trawless in her haste to be gone.

  “All right, Miss Gray?” he called after her.

  “Oh yes!” she said over her shoulder.

  The day was fine, and it was still bright and sunny. Evadne decided to walk for a bit, before hailing a cab, enjoying the air and her sense of freedom. At some point it occurred to her that her face hurt, but when she raised a hand to her aching cheek, she realized it was because she’d been smiling.

  2

  What the gods give us, they quickly take away. What demons give us, they give forever.

  —On the Summoning of Demons

  Waiting was the worst trial Evadne had ever endured, and that included that night on the rooftop. Time seemed to pass even more slowly than when she had been with Dorina and Lady Henry, talking of art and taste—and far less comfortably. Instead of feeling bored or annoyed or offended, Evadne simply felt wretched. Her body became a foreign thing, an enemy at war with her. Her stomach crackled like a pile of autumn leaves and heaved like the ocean. She retched every morning and had to get a cup of tea down before she could even consider breakfast—unusual, for she usually woke with an appetite. She shivered when she was warm, sweated when she was cold, and felt faint anytime she thought about what would happen when Lady Henry and her friends announced another meeting. Her skin hurt, her body felt weak and tired, and yet she could not sleep. She stayed up late, though she had nothing to do, and woke up early, only to lie in bed, tossing and turning—but getting up was to admit the day had begun, and she would have to find some way to fill the endless hours.

  The only time she did not feel ill with worry was during fencing practice, though only when she was at the academy. She no longer felt able to practice at home, for there she was surrounded by reminders of Dorina, and overwhelmed by her worries. The effect of her new slackness was swift and noticeable. She became slower; her body no longer responded to her will as well as it had in the past. Mr. Perkins actually took her aside one day after practice to ask if everything was “quite all right,” and the other students were very obviously concerned, too.

  George, of course, knew exactly what was troubling her, but his only advice was patience; his only command, her continued silence. She asked him once, after that afternoon, if he had a plan yet. He only shook his head, and squeezed her shoulder for comfort.

  It hadn’t been particularly comforting.

  It wasn’t that she expected another kiss. Evadne got the sense George was embarrassed for having betrayed himself that afternoon. She could understand that, accept it. She did not need to be kissed to be certain of his affection for her. She knew it by the way he kept training her. He would brook no protests, telling her privately that he knew she was struggling, but that was no excuse. That she would recover from whatever anxious malaise was making her limbs feel like iron and her joints, rusty bearings. That waiting did this to people, when they were like her—sensitive, and built for action.

  It wasn’t just the waiting, though. Evadne was also worried that after their row, Dorina wouldn’t mention her friends’ next gathering. To guard against missing it, she’d counted back the days, checking against a lunar calendar, but it didn’t seem as if Lady Henry’s group were bound to, say, the full moon, as the rooftop diabolist had been. The two meetings had been unevenly spaced. So she tried to ask discreet questions about what Dorina might be up to in the mornings, though usually the response was just Dorina throwing her interest back in her face.

  In the end, Evadne needn’t have worried—at least, not about that. In spite of her blossoming relationship with Lady Henry, Dorina had not spent another night at Lady Henry’s house. When one morning she casually mentioned at breakfast that they ought not to expect her back that night, Evadne perked up, even if the announcement scarcely made their haggard uncle look up from his papers.

  “Expecting to be out late?” he asked, as if letting a seventeen-year-old on her first visit to London stay out all night was a perfectly normal thing for a guardian to do.

  “The last program went a little overtime,” she said with astonishing cool, “and we’re expecting a simply marvelous presentation tonight. I don’t want to worry either of you, like I did last time, so I think it’s best to just pack an overnight bag.”

  “Very good,” said Basil.

  “I hope you have a grand time,” said Evadne, affecting as little interest as possible.

  “You don’t object?”

  “Why should I?” Evadne’s eyes flickered over to Basil. “You don’t object to me going to the academy today, do you?”

  “I . . . I suppose not,” said Dorina. She stood up. “Well . . . goodbye. I’d better pack. Harry wanted me to come a bit early.”

  “I’m sure she did,” said Evadne, allowing a bit of archness to creep into her tone. This actually seemed to reassure her sister, and after an impressive display of coordination—rolling her eyes and tossing her hair at the same time—she departed.

  “I’ll be gone too, this afternoon,” Evadne told her uncle.

  “Hmm?”

  “I’m off to the fencing academy.”

  “Have fun,” he said vaguely, and without another word, stood, and wandered off in the direction of his studio.

  Really, Evadne didn’t know what Dorina was so worried about. It was obvious the man didn’t care at all what either of them did.

  She’d intended to drop in to George’s late class that afternoon, but when the clock struck five Evadne realized she had been dawdling, and then she had to rush. It was the need to hustle that propelled her out the door, oddly enough—as she hopped into a cab, bag with her weapons and fencing clothes bouncing against her side, she felt extreme reluctance to tell George what she knew. Perhaps it was just mixed feelings about “tattling” on her sister, as Dorina would surely call it.

  Perhaps it was her memories of what had happened the last time she went chasing demons.

  But none of that mattered. She was doing this for Dorina. Evadne had no desire to see Henry re
vealed as a monster like that rooftop diabolist, but neither did she want to see her sister end up as the victim in that scene. And if anyone knew how to prevent that, George did.

  The school seemed so normal as she walked inside. There was Trawless, scribbling over something at the front desk—he nodded to her, smiling, as usual. Beyond the door, students practiced. The familiar smell of leather, sweat, canvas, and polish hit her nose, the ring of metal on metal, the squeal of indiarubber soles on the floor. There was Mr. Perkins, frowning over two boys sparring—and there Reid was, giving someone a lesson. Evadne was surprised not to see George out on the floor among them, and after watching for a moment, she slipped back into the foyer.

  “Mr. Trawless . . . is Mr. Cantrell here?”

  “No,” he said, setting down his pen. “Why? You haven’t a lesson today, Miss Gray.”

  “No . . .”

  “Stockton is going to take over the class, if you came for that.”

  “I did . . . but mostly I came to see Mr. Cantrell.”

  “I’m afraid he’s taken ill.”

  “Ill!” Evadne’s overworked stomach flopped over. George couldn’t be ill! It was the worst possible time for such a thing. “He can’t be!”

  “Oh, he’ll be all right,” said Trawless, avuncular and reassuring, as always. “Don’t worry. He’s just a little under the weather.”

  “But I must speak to him! Immediately!”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “He’s at home.”

  “What is his address?”

  Trawless hesitated. “I’m afraid I can’t—”

  “Mr. Trawless,” she said crisply, “I have information Mr. Cantrell demanded I relay to him the moment I came into possession of it.” He still looked uncertain, so she added, “I believe you know me well enough that I should not need to reassure you of my character. Do I seem like the sort of woman who would visit a man at his private residence if it were not of the utmost importance?”

  “No, I suppose not,” he said slowly.

  She looked at him for a few moments as he blinked at her. “Well?”

  “Miss Gray . . . would you at least allow me to take you thither? George’s residence is in a part of town with which you are not likely acquainted,” he said, the very picture of delicacy.

  Should she allow him to come with her? Evadne considered this. Yes, it would be better to have an escort, especially going into an unfamiliar part of London.

  She nodded. “Thank you.”

  “Let me just tell someone I’m going out,” he said, and disappeared into the school.

  It took longer than Evadne had anticipated for Trawless to reemerge. She shifted from foot to foot as she waited, anxious and ready to be gone, but then at last he was by her side, and quickly after they were in a cab.

  Their destination was indeed an unfamiliar part of town, still respectable but showing signs of shabbiness and degeneration. She looked out of the window in silence; Trawless did not press her about her troubles, nor did he make conversation. Once, when she hadn’t realized how long she’d been staring at her folded hands, he reached out and patted them. The gesture, though familiar, brought tears of gratitude to Evadne’s eyes, rather than offending her.

  When the cab halted before a seedy boarding house, Evadne thought the driver must have made a mistake, and almost remarked on it—then, she remembered that Freddie had long ago said something about George being a scholarship student. Sneered about it, really, the snob. Evadne blushed, remembering Dorina criticizing her for the same thing as regarded Jonas, and resolved to not betray any alarm or dismay over George’s circumstances.

  Trawless paid the cabdriver over Evadne’s protests, and led her up the front steps. They were let in by a suspicious landlady, but escaped quickly by climbing a flight of stairs to get to George’s set of rooms. Evadne almost bumped into Trawless in her haste to knock on the door.

  Evadne assumed the frail man who opened the door must be George’s servant, but on second look she saw with a start that the sickly, wracked-looking fellow was wearing a housecoat, that his limp hair was not gray, but sandy. It was George, even if he didn’t look like himself at all.

  “Good God, what’s happened to you?” she exclaimed.

  She didn’t mean to be insulting, but she was appalled. Normally, seeing George filled her with joy, an effect he’d had on her even before his romantic overtures. This evening, however, she felt only horror. It was uncanny, his appearance—he was possessed of none of his usual vigor. He was even leaning heavily on a cane!

  She felt a strangely protective rush of emotion for him—George quite obviously needed someone to look after him right now. How he must have suffered, all alone and so ill!

  “What are you doing here?”

  This chilly welcome snapped Evadne out of her momentary fantasy of feeding George mugs of Bovril and stroking his brow. Well, she deserved it, after her outburst. Then again, George seemed unaccountably annoyed at Trawless, too . . .

  “Miss Gray was very insistent—said she had to see you immediately,” said Trawless nervously in the face of George’s displeasure. “She said you wanted her to come and tell you something . . . said it was urgent. I didn’t know what, ah . . .”

  Evadne nodded, desperate to justify her intrusion. “Tonight. They’re meeting—she told me so this morning. Dorina, I mean.” Evadne couldn’t quite put a name to his expression as she spoke, but surprise and annoyance were both featured. Desperate to please him, she continued, “I know Mr. Trawless said you weren’t feeling well . . . but I thought you would still want to know.”

  George nodded. “I see. Well, you’d better come in,” he said, hobbling out of their way. “Forgive my rudeness . . . I was surprised.”

  They followed him inside. Evadne, though worried for George—and for her sister—was composed enough to note that in spite of their exterior shabbiness and location within London, George had rented a very comfortable set of rooms. The things in them were nice enough; in particular, a pair of crossed rapiers over the fireplace caught her eye—fine pieces, though the roaring fire beneath them seemed out of place, for it was already so very hot.

  “I’m in no state to offer you anything,” he said, his voice gravelly and hoarse. Poor thing, he really was ill—he didn’t even sound like himself! “I’m sorry.”

  “Can I get you anything?” asked Evadne. The notion of traipsing into his kitchen to make tea seemed awfully personal and definitely a little ridiculous, but this was George she was talking about. She’d do just about anything for him.

  “No, no. Thank you.” George eased himself onto a settee; Evadne took a chair, as did Trawless. An awkward silence descended. Evadne’s toe tapped against the faded Turkish rug. She was full of nervous energy, split between eagerness to help her sister and genuine concern for the health of one for whom she had come to care very much.

  “I’m sorry I surprised you,” she said after a moment or two. “But forgive me . . . time is of the essence. After all, she is there now . . .”

  George nodded, and managed a smile. “Yes, that is so.”

  There was something queer about George’s manner, something Evadne couldn’t quite parse. “Yes, I know it is so,” she said. “So what are we going to do about it?” To her annoyance, George and Trawless exchanged another look, and she finally lost her cool. “Look at me, not each other!” she snapped, springing to her feet. “Dorina is my sister! So please, tell me—do we have a plan? Any idea what we ought to do? You’ve had weeks to think at this point!” Realizing she was gesturing animatedly as she paced back and forth, Evadne took a deep breath, and made a conscious effort to keep her hands by her sides. “You must give me something to do,” she said somewhat more calmly. “Please, or I’m sure I shall go mad!”

  “We have to tell her,” said Trawless, again to George . . . and there was something about his tone that gave Evadne pause.

  “What?” she said. “Tell me what? Someone tell me what is happening!”

/>   Her voice sounded high, shrill, not at all like her own—more like a teapot’s whistle. To be fair, she had been under a lot of pressure: worrying over her sister, being put off, told to wait. She felt she might crack, being treated like an outsider by people she had trusted, people she had fought beside; it was too much, receiving a cold welcome from one who had at one time been so warm toward her. One who inspired similar feelings of warmth.

  George sighed and winced as he rose slowly. Evadne was once again struck by how frail and ill he was, and doubted herself. She ought not to be so frustrated with someone who was clearly suffering. This was Saint George, after all—her George. The George who trained her to be the best fencer she could be, who had had held her in his arms, who had promised to help her sister . . .

  “This will not be easy,” he said, “but I hope you understand the need for the deception once I explain.”

  Evadne stopped pacing. Deception?

  He held up a trembling hand, asking for silence; he needn’t have worried, her voice was frozen in her throat. “Hear me out. I did deceive you . . . at least in part. You see, I was already aware of the meeting tonight.”

  Evadne sat down—she had to, or she risked falling to her knees. She felt so disappointed in herself. What had she done to make George distrust her?

  “I have been anticipating this evening as keenly as you have, Gray. And I am glad you told me—glad you insisted on coming to tell me. It shows your strength of character. That’s one thing I’ve always admired about you—your integrity. Oh come now, don’t look so cross. Aren’t you a little glad to know I knew?” He gave her a queasy smile. “It means I’ve had time to formulate a plan.”

  Evadne felt no surge of relief. She felt disillusioned and betrayed. To her mind, this wasn’t a deception in part. George had known, intimately, how these past few weeks had affected her, had noticed their effect on her fencing, her general health, and had done nothing about it. What a fool she had been to think him so different from Freddie—Freddie, who had been aware of her affection, but let her cling to hope as he courted another. Both had allowed her to suffer for their own arcane purposes.