by Molly Tanzer
How?
Evadne almost swooned as images flooded her mind. The back door of Lady Henry’s townhouse in Curzon Street, which flew open; then she was inside, up the stairs. A picture on the Lady’s bedroom wall, of ginger of course, and behind it, a safe full of Lady Henry’s supply of ginger-infused substances: cigarettes, snuff, candy, and so on. Dizzyingly, the vision shifted to Jonas’s bedroom, to where the safe key was secreted away in the false bottom of his shoe chest. Evadne was appalled by the idea of sneaking into his private chambers, which amused the demon—but she would have to do it. She needed to deepen her connection to the demon by actually consuming something. By letting it inside her.
The demon correctly interpreted her revulsion toward the tobacco products, and expressed that there would be enough of the edible material to facilitate what needed to happen.
What needed to happen . . . Meaning, of course, when she had to face George, and the rest of them.
The answering sensation seemed to be questioning her resolution to do this. Evadne answered with her own feeling of puzzlement: Dorina was her sister. Of course she would do this. She would do anything for her.
Then she understood. It was telling her that there would be a price.
I will pay it, she said without hesitation. After all, her sister wouldn’t be in this situation but for her. She hadn’t told their mother Dorina was in danger, hadn’t insisted they go back home. She had let Dorina run wild, out of a combination of spite over the unfairness of life and distraction in the form of the fencing school. Not only that, but she had handed off her responsibility regarding Dorina to someone else. If her character had been stronger, none of this would be happening. She had to make that right, no matter the cost.
The demon heard her thoughts, but fascinatingly, she felt no judgment from it. It did not chide her over her betrayal of its pets to George; it did not admonish her for being resentful and stubborn regarding Dorina’s relationship with Henry. It was merely interested in her and her feelings—it wanted to know more about her, not less. This total acceptance . . . she felt absolved by it.
And then she realized that was exactly why someone would risk everything to commune with something like this demon. What had Henry said, weeks ago?
Why else would anyone agree to traffic with such a being? Surely no one would if it were boring, or annoying, or unpleasant.
Now she knew.
Once I get the ginger, where must I go? she asked.
She saw a scene she sensed was happening as they spoke. She saw George, looking like his usual self, directing Stockton as he shifted furniture in Henry’s golden salon.
“They’re there?” she said aloud, startled. “At the house? How can I possibly sneak past them?”
To this, it had no answer. It only conveyed that she must. George was going to soon begin a ritual and kill them. She resigned herself to being as quiet as she could. If she went in through the servants’ door . . .
Then an image of her uncle came to mind.
“Oh,” she said aloud. It hadn’t occurred to her that her uncle would be any help at all. In fact, she was fairly certain he wouldn’t be, but when needs must and all that.
A devil was certainly driving.
At least she now had a plan, knew what to do. Mostly. With a mental farewell, Evadne let go the sword. The feeling of connection disappeared instantly.
She undressed, and then put on her fencing ensemble. Socks, bloomers, skirt. Shirt, breastplate, plastron. She tied on her shoes, and tucked her gloves inside her jacket. She tied back her hair, grabbed her mask, and finally felt ready to do what she needed to do. It might be a Chinese sword she’d be wielding that night, but she would know what to do with it. She was particularly sensitive, after all.
While this knowledge had caused her horror before, she was now very grateful indeed.
She had no scabbard that would fit the blade, which was unfortunate—save that it was a relief to make contact with the demon again. Sword in hand, demon in mind, Evadne left her room, calling her uncle’s name.
He did not answer.
She checked his bedroom, only peeking in, but he was not there, nor was he in the sitting room. The third time was the charm—he was in his studio, sitting before his favorite painting, doing nothing, merely staring at it. Perhaps it was the light, but she thought he looked even worse than when she had left that afternoon; he was huddled in a blanket in the stifling room as if it were midwinter and not high summer.
As for the painting, it looked more glamorous, more beautiful . . .
“Uncle, you must help,” she blurted, not taking the time to compose herself. “They’re going for Lady Henry, and Dorina’s there.”
He turned, slowly blinking at her like an owl. He didn’t even seem surprised to see her dressed for a fight, with Oliver Wotton’s Chinese sword in her hand. “They?” he asked, only politely interested at best.
“My fencing teacher and his associates. They’re also diabolists, and they’re—”
Basil stood then, backing away from her and staring as if she’d grown another head. She realized he must be ever so surprised she would know anything about the matter at all. She took strength from the presence in her mind, and tried again.
“I know all about it,” she said, plunging ahead. “And . . . and I assume you do too, being friends with Lady Henry . . . and with Lord Oliver, too.” Her eyes darted to the painting as she spoke the name aloud. “The important thing is, we have to help them!”
To her surprise, Basil shook his head.
“There’s nothing to be done,” he said, turning away and shoving his hands in his pockets as he wandered toward a stand of ferns. “If they’re already under attack what good can we do? They’re lost to us, sacrificed on the same altar as my dear Oliver. I told Harry, but she wouldn’t listen. And old fool that I am, I didn’t think she would involve Dorina. At least, not like that,” he said when Evadne gave an incredulous snort. “I thought I could hide it from you girls . . . Dorina wanted to come so badly and as I’m your family’s only London friend or relation . . .”
“None of that matters!” said Evadne, unwilling to be distracted by a broken man’s handwringing, not now, of all times. The demon approved of this, even as it felt a bit wounded by Basil’s allegations. “The time for regrets is over; we must act.”
“You can’t save them,” he said. “Aren’t you listening to me? I couldn’t save Oliver . . .”
“I’m not you, and the situations are very different,” she snapped. “I have to try—can’t you see that? I can’t just sit here and do nothing!”
“No. There will be no sitting. You must go home. Immediately. I’ll escort you. We’ll both go.”
“Go! And leave them!”
“Wiser to leave. If they betray us—”
“They betray us?” Evadne shook her head, knowing she was the betrayer, not her sister. The demon reassured her, but she pushed aside its comfort. “You don’t believe that, do you, uncle?”
“It doesn’t matter,” he said, deflecting her question.
“It does! Your friend is in trouble.” He winced, turning his back on the painting; Evadne decided to appeal to his odd obsession with the image. “It’s his sister, you know! And Dorina is your niece. She worships you—you know that, don’t you? Maybe things have been strained between you of late . . . but she is seventeen. Things are strained between her and everyone who thinks she ought to have concerns beyond exactly what she wants to be concerned with.”
“She made her choice,” he said, looking down at his hands, avoiding Evadne’s eyes.
“Of course it was a choice. What person her age, with her interests, would not choose glamour and novelty and intrigue over . . . over anything, really?” Evadne silently rebuked herself for not acknowledging this about Dorina’s motivations before this very moment. “I can’t believe you’d have me sit by just because . . . because what? You’re frightened? Hurt? Angry at someone who can’t respond or defend
himself?”
Basil looked genuinely shocked, as well he might, but he said nothing. Evadne, finally sick to the teeth of her uncle—his attitude, his inaction, his moping and weeping—adjusted her grip on her sword with a wince, and pointed it at the face of Oliver Wotton. Her bandaged palm ached, but she kept the blade still.
“What would he want?” she asked, glad to see some display of dismay from her uncle at last. “Do you think he would have you sit by and let his sister be killed?”
“What would you have me do?”
“Do you have any ginger left?”
He shook his head, eyes flickering to the painting. “I put it in the paint. I didn’t want it . . .”
“The paint . . .” She stared at the portrait, despairing. Such waste, such foolishness! “Then . . . come with me. I need a distraction to keep them occupied while I sneak in the back . . .” She trailed off as he looked at her with increasing incredulity. “I know it’s dangerous, but they’re your friends, and Dorina is—”
“They’re not my friends!” he cried. “Perhaps they once were, but no longer. I have no need of them—look at them! They’re a danger to themselves, and to me. I have everything I need in this house!” Once again, his eyes were drawn to the painting.
Evadne had finally had enough. Furious and frustrated, she slashed it in half with one swoop of the blade. The canvas made a satisfying ripping sound and then peeled apart, right through Lord Oliver’s perfect face.
Basil rushed forward, pressing his fingertips to the ruined painting, trying to press the edges together. “Oliver!” he cried.
“It’s not Oliver!” she shouted. “It’s just a painting of him—a painting you made! It’s not real!”
Dropping the sword, she tore the canvas from the frame. Pushing past her uncle’s weak attempt to stop her, ignoring his entreaties to cease, she hurled the remnants into the fireplace. After a brief but intense flare of golden sparks, it was gone.
“You burned it,” he said, kneeling before the blaze. He turned to her, his eyes wild and full of tears. “It was all I had left of him, and you burned it!”
“No!” Evadne knelt beside him, and putting her hands on his shoulders, shook him gently. “You have his sister; you have his friends; you have his memory! He is more a part of those things than any static image, no matter how lovely. And more importantly, you have your life, which you can choose to live, if you would only leave this sorrow behind you!”
After a long moment, Basil nodded, and rose. Was it just her imagination, or did he look better—steadier—already?
“Evadne,” he said. “I’m sorry. I haven’t been a good guardian, to you or to Dorina. Let me make it up to you. Tell me what you need.”
Looking over him, Evadne decided it would likely be better to put him into some other role than “distraction.” The man was an absolute wreck. Thankfully, she knew of someone who might be able to help . . . and he didn’t live too far away . . .
“If I am successful tonight, we will need to get out of town, and quickly,” she said, thinking of what she would likely have to do at Lady Henry’s house, and with Trawless, when he woke up. “Go and get enough train fares for all of us, out of town. Is there anywhere you all discussed going, if something like this occurred?”
“Actually, yes,” said Basil, his eyes focusing fully for perhaps the first time since she’d come to London. “I can do that. And pack some bags, with things we might need . . .”
“Good. Maybe it won’t be necessary, but just in case.”
“I’ll see it done.”
“I have to go,” she said as she picked up the sword to find the demon anxious for her, urging her to extricate herself.
“Go, and be safe,” said Basil. He did look better, and she smiled at him, grateful for his sincere encouragement. One brief nod, and she turned, heading into the night, to face she knew not what.
5
It is dangerous to traffic with demons, but only in danger can we really experience delight.
—On the Summoning of Demons
Henry had always been pleased that her parlor was among the most comfortable in London. The furniture had been built to her specifications—elegantly, of course, but her primary concern had been for it all to be plush and supportive. Unfortunately, she had not possessed the foresight to design it to accommodate persons with their hands tied behind their back and their ankles bound together. Every time she tried to adjust herself on her sofa she only managed to sink down farther and lose circulation somewhere else.
Not that her discomfort was her most pressing concern . . . Walmsley—George Cantrell—that utter fiend, had dispatched his minion Bourne after getting them into the salon; the man was allegedly bringing back Evadne and one more of their number. It was intolerable, watching him and the one called Stockton shift tables and furniture and rugs so Cantrell could chalk some obscene diagram on her lovely mahogany floors, all while listening to the stomping they occasionally heard from upstairs, for the gorilla-like Reid and poor Jonas had not yet returned.
“What can they be doing?” Cantrell paused to look at his pocket watch. “I do hope your friend isn’t attempting to dissemble with him. Reid has many excellent qualities but patience and understanding aren’t among them.”
Jonas, of course, knew exactly where the sword was. Something must be going on. Henry was worried about him; the only thing keeping her calm was the demonic presence in her mind. The massive dose of ginger from her dessert would keep her connected for a time, but it wouldn’t last. It never lasted.
“I think it’s time to fetch the servants,” said Cantrell, getting up off his knees. He dusted his palms on his trousers, leaving inelegant white smears. “They should have drained well enough by now.”
“Drained?” The sound of Dorina’s voice, usually so delightful to Henry, made her heart sink. She ought to keep quiet. “Drained of what?”
“What do you think?” he asked, one eyebrow raised. “How many substances can be drained out of a body, you stupid girl?”
“You killed them?” Dorina looked horrified. Henry was astonished—Cantrell had betrayed them, ambushed them, bound them, and was clearly planning to murder them all to please his patron demon, and Dorina was surprised they’d dispatched her servants? “That’s monstrous!” Her voice rose in both volume and pitch. “They were innocent!”
Cantrell picked up his cane from where he had set it against the wall, and turning it over in his hands a few times, walked to Dorina. Before she—indeed, before any of them realized what he might be thinking—the man struck Dorina on the kneecap sharply. The crack of the metal top against bone was nauseating; Dorina’s answering shriek, heartrending. Henry lunged at Cantrell before she remembered she was bound like a rabbit, and fell to the floor, hard, on her face. She felt blood gush from her nose as pain blossomed.
“Ungh,” she mumbled, twisting herself to try to get onto her back, but then Cantrell was there, looming over her.
“That was foolish,” he said. “The two of you are well matched. Or were, rather.”
He picked her up. His strength was incredible; she felt like a doll in his arms as he lifted her and dumped her back onto the couch. She cried out—she couldn’t help it. Her back hurt, her bones felt misaligned, her face was sticky with blood still flowing over her lips, but all she could think about was what his strike had done to poor Dorina, who was weeping, almost choking as she squirmed on her chair, tears running down her cheeks, into her mouth as she heaved and convulsed. She had failed Dorina. Differently than how she had failed Oliver, but she had doomed them both.
Mr. Seward apparently felt the same way. He couldn’t even look at Dorina, or Henry. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he said, but Henry couldn’t tell if it was to himself, or the rest of them.
“Yes, you really are. All of you. I played you like a fiddle, Mr. Seward . . . when I came into the bank, and later when I came in . . . Well, I don’t like to tell tales out of school.”
“Y
ou’re disgusting,” said Henry, desperate to reach out to Dorina, who was still whimpering in pain. The demon inside her told her it was helping the girl as much as it could, but that was little comfort to Henry. Her darling Dorina was in pain, and she could do nothing.
“And here I thought you approved of catamites,” said Mr. Cantrell, eyes flickering to the weeping girl. “Or, whatever the feminine equivalent might be, I suppose.”
Henry couldn’t speak, she was so heartsick. Poor Mr. Seward, who had only acted in good faith.
Cantrell laughed. “Ah, but it’s such fun to make the insufferably arrogant question themselves.”
This she could not brook. “You think I am arrogant?” Henry’s voice sounded thick in her ears, with the blood filling her nose. It hurt to speak, but she knew, too, that the longer she kept him talking, the longer she lived. She loved living so much . . .
“Unquestionably so. All of you, actually. When I joined your little group, you did not seem like discerning, mature aesthetes, but rather cliquish schoolchildren pretending at sophistication. It was awful, attending so many meetings . . . like experiencing Oxford all over again. You’re just a lot of snobs who think you’re better than everyone—assuring one another that the choices you’ve made are so rarified, so unique. Well, they’re not. Anyone can do the things you do, as I have proven.”
“All you have proven is that jealousy can consume a heart as a worm gnaws at an apple,” said Mr. Seward. “You have not done what we have; you have given yourself wholly to hatred and rage. The power you think you have gained is an illusion.”
