by Molly Tanzer
“You’re trying to frighten me,” she said, before ripping into the package with her teeth and getting as many sweets in her mouth as she could.
“No, Miss Gray. I’m trying to kill you.”
She felt nothing but scorn for this man. Perhaps it was the demon. Perhaps it was learning all at once how completely he had betrayed her. Perhaps it was knowing she was the only one who could save her sister. Whatever it was, George had no power over her—not anymore. With confidence, she raised her blade and saluted him as if it were an epee and they were just having a lesson together, as they had at the academy.
George smiled, mocking her by not answering her salute but instead withdrawing his box of pastilles. Flipping open the lid with his thumbnail, he knocked back a few before casting the rest aside; they bounced away over the floor.
“Foolish girl!” he croaked. One had lodged in his throat. “You didn’t have to die like this, you know.”
“I won’t,” agreed Evadne, and charged.
Her feet weren’t her own; her arms belonged to something neither human nor divine. It felt as if gravity did not affect her as much as she expected it to. She felt guided, directed; all she had to do was give herself over—or rather give over everything she had, bone and blood, muscle and memory, determination and discipline.
Her first thrust was simply a test, to see what he would do. She thought he would counterattack, but he just blocked her. He didn’t need to do more. When their blades met, it was like hitting a wall—well, a wall that kicked like a mule, for his parry tore something deep within her shoulder as it sent her spinning away. All the demon could do was help her cope with the pain.
“You stupid girl,” he said, advancing on her. “You really thought you could beat me in a fight?”
She shook her head. “Never,” she gasped, her arm bright with terrible sensation.
His blade met hers again, and not only did her muscles scream as they weakened yet further, it felt like the bones in her arm were cracking. She desperately wanted more ginger, but sensed—and the demon confirmed—that she was putting her survival at risk if she consumed any more. Once again, a quick end to this fight was her only chance of winning it.
George was ruthless, going in again before she had recovered. Desperate, she disengaged her blade with a sweep and looked around to see what she could use against him. She fled, tipping a table in his path, shattering a vase at his feet. It scarcely slowed him. He was on her again in the blink of an eye, his sword falling on her time and again as if she were an anvil and he wielded a hammer.
She couldn’t take much more of this. His strikes were getting progressively heavier, but they were less frequent. He’s tired, said the demon. She agreed. As to how to take advantage of it, she did not yet know.
She watched him as he struck her yet again, and saw how stiffly he now held himself. He was a machine. One bent on killing her, but still a machine.
Not her. She was a living, breathing, thinking creature, a luminous being not bound by reality. “Oh,” moaned Evadne, blocking yet another blow and staggering back more than she needed, clutching dramatically at her injured shoulder.
George grinned. “Surrender,” he said. “You can’t outlast me, Miss Gray, but you can choose to live.”
“I choose,” she gasped, gathering herself as she pulled an agonized face, “to defend my sister!”
He only laughed, and charged.
She waited, watched. Only when he was close enough to stab her did she move, stepping with her uninjured leg into a far wider lunge than she could have managed had the demonic ginger not turned her body into malleable jelly. But even that could only do so much for her. Tendons ripped as her muscles screamed; she shifted her weight, actually dipping between George’s legs. Jabbing upward, Evadne sent the blade through the underside of his stomach. It stopped in his spine; she had not the strength to drive it farther.
She didn’t need to. Abandoning the blade, Evadne fell as her legs gave out from under her. He collapsed atop her, twitching, impossibly heavy.
“You’ve made a grave mistake,” he said through a mouthful of blood, his eyes dimming. “It will find you. We will find you. I am not its only servant, and now you’ve revealed yourself . . .”
She pulled herself out from under him, and scrambling to her feet, she ripped the blade from his body. She felt it widen the incision, and his eyes popped open in surprise and pain. Blood gushed from the bottom of his guts, but she paid him no mind, just cleaned the blade on his shirt and left him there.
She’d killed five men in one night. She had no energy left to feel anything about it. As for the demon inside her, it felt no remorse. Only a sense of satisfaction at the sublime execution of its will—and gratitude to her for saving its servants.
Coming back to herself, Evadne slowly straightened and looked around for the first time to see her sister and her colleagues. She found them looking at her with expressions ranging from admiration to astonishment. Dry-mouthed, she knew not what to say.
“I’m so sorry,” she croaked. It seemed like the best choice, under the circumstances.
“Why are you sorry?” said a small, rather satyric man with a Germanic accent.
“I betrayed you,” she said, astonished.
“I believe you saved us, Evadne,” said Lady Henry.
“I’d like to be untied, however,” suggested another woman.
“Of course.” Evadne turned to the person closest to her.
It was Dorina.
“My hero,” her sister said as Evadne cut her free. There was no irony, no mockery in Dorina’s words. Evadne smiled at the younger girl, helping her to her feet, but then her body seemed to melt away—or perhaps it re-formed into what it had been before. She felt her awareness of the demon fade as she became more cognizant of how her body felt, and it did not feel good. She was keenly aware of her shoulder wound, and her leg muscles were as fragile as wet paper. She could barely walk, and her arms were not strong enough to hold the sword. It clattered to the ground as she collapsed.
“Evadne!” shrieked Dorina. “Are you all right?”
Evadne shook her head. She was too busy trying not to vomit to speak. The demon expressed a sincere regret at what she was experiencing, but could do nothing for her. Embarrassing tears leaked from her eyes as Dorina cradled her in her slender arms.
“Rest,” she said. “I’ll get the others free.”
Evadne nodded.
“I have to say,” said one of the men, “that was the worst evening I’ve spent in a long while.”
“My apologies,” said the German. “It was not the program I intended . . .”
“It could have been worse,” said Lady Henry sternly. “No lasting damage done, at least not to any of us. As for our savior . . .”
It pained Evadne to be referred to as such when she was the cause of so much death and pain. She moaned, shaking her head.
“Shh.” It was Dorina; she had returned. Even with the diminishing potency of the demonic ginger in her blood, the sight of Dorina alive, and smiling, was the most exquisite thing Evadne had ever seen in her life.
“We must be gone from here,” said Lady Henry. She was just across the room, but it sounded to Evadne as if she were very far away. “We cannot stay here even tonight—who knows what the neighbors heard, and he said there were others . . .”
“I told . . . Basil . . . to pack things. Just in case,” Evadne managed.
“Very thoughtful,” said Lady Henry. Evadne winced again at the sincerity in the lady’s voice. The woman was very possibly on the brink of losing everything she had in the world, and she genuinely seemed to appreciate what Evadne had done to remedy her error.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, to herself, and then to her sister. “Dorina . . . can you forgive me?”
“I’m the one who should apologize,” said Dorina, running her cool fingers over Evadne’s aching brow. The others were getting to their feet, stretching, but Evadne had eyes only for
her sister. “I doubted your love.”
This seemed entirely reasonable to Evadne. “Why wouldn’t you?”
“You’ve never given me a single reason to, not really. That’s why. I’m so sorry, Evadne . . . After I mocked you, belittled you for your passion . . . without it, we’d . . . we’d all . . .” She wiped a tear from her eye. “You were magnificent. And if you hadn’t spent all that time practicing . . . I’m no expert, but that man, those men I mean, they all seemed like very good fencers indeed.” Evadne would have laughed, but it hurt to move. “What I mean to say is . . . maybe you told Mr. Cantrell about us, but he would have come for us one day, regardless. He told us so. Really, your fencing . . . it saved us. All of us. You couldn’t have done it if you hadn’t been you. Thank you.”
Evadne closed her eyes as tears spilled over her cheeks. She was astonished at herself. Mr. Perkins lay dead on the floor, and the corpses of the five men she’d slain were not yet cold. Her body was ruined and yet she felt insanely, deliriously happy. Dorina had just said, unasked, the only thing Evadne had ever wanted to hear.
Epilogue
Those who find ugly meanings in beautiful things are corrupt without being charming. This is a fault. Those who find beautiful meanings in beautiful things are the cultivated. For these there is hope. They are the elect to whom beautiful things mean only Beauty.
—Oscar Wilde
ONE YEAR LATER
Nearly two hundred miles from London, the little community nestled in the green hills outside Wath-on-Dearne was thriving.
The kitchen garden, overseen by Lady Henry, was nothing short of extraordinary. It was high summer, and cucumbers were bursting from their vines. Summer squash was abundant, as were the asparagus, peas, beans, strawberries, and cabbage. The tomatoes were ripening on the vines, and the potatoes under the earth. Lady Henry had never grown crops such as corn or wheat, but her extensive knowledge of root, leaf, and stem had served her well. If the yield was as grand as she expected, next year she had designs on brewing and distilling for the commune.
As for preserving the less potable portions of their crop, Miss Travers, in spite of her years writing a women’s column, had proven herself to be a terrible homemaker. While she was fantastic at carding and knitting the wool from the few sheep and goats they’d purchased (Dr. Sauber had been a herder in his youth, and had been happy to jump back into the role), Mr. Blake and Mrs. Hill had taken over the kitchen, canning what Lady Henry grew so that they might have fruit and vegetables to enjoy during the winter and early spring. Mr. Seward kept the accounts, and Mrs. Dhareshwar inventoried what was brought in and went out.
It wasn’t just in these ways that they were doing well. Mr. Seward had at one time been apprenticed to a carpenter, and remembering the skill had made several improvements to the sprawling but picturesque farmhouse in which they all now dwelt. Through enthusiasm and diligence he had improved so much over the last year that he was thinking of adding a second barn so that they could start keeping cows along with their goats, sheep, and placid workhorse that Dorina had improbably named Pegasus. He also wanted to improve the chicken coop so they could accommodate a larger flock. And Mr. Blake, when not busy in the kitchen, had adorned the plain walls of the common rooms with beautiful murals, and all the bedrooms and the parlor had Basil’s paintings to ornament them.
Paintings new and old, for Basil was working again. The change of scenery and pace had done him well. He was more cheerful, more engaged since the destruction of his lover’s portrait, and his newer works—while still darker in tone than those he used to paint before Lord Oliver’s passing—suggested hope as well as death.
Jonas had felt a bit useless for a time, given that everyone else had some hidden talent or skill that added to the community, but soon enough he’d realized that bringing people what they needed, when they needed it, was as noble an occupation as any other. To that end, he could always be found concocting cooling or warming beverages, and delivering them at the very moment someone breathed a sigh and sat back from their labors, or fetching a shady hat or extra sweater when it was needed.
Evadne had not known most of these people before that fateful night, and felt enormous guilt over their needing to pick up and move on her account. Or as Dorina would insist, on account of needing to disappear after the assault by George and his associates. Dorina, of course, had known them well, and when Evadne asked, a few months into their new situation, her sister had sworn to Evadne that in spite of their different circumstances, everyone was just as happy at Innisfree—a name that had occurred to Miss Travers not long into their residency—as they had been in London. Differently happy, to be sure, but still happy.
This pleased the demon that yet lived in Evadne’s mind more than it pleased her, but she had come to accept both her guilt and the obvious pleasure of those who surrounded her. Today, as she and Dorina sat together in Lady Henry’s rose garden, the bees buzzing about them and the breeze casting spent blossoms into the grass, she thought back on that conversation . . . and smiled.
Dorina was sprawled on a blanket, making tea, her bad leg out to the side. It had healed, after George Cantrell’s knocking it so badly, but she carried it differently. It didn’t matter; to Evadne’s mind, she looked lovelier than she ever had in the loose, comfortable caftans she wore now that she needed a bit of extra mobility.
Evadne was also dressed for comfort rather than style, but that had always suited her. Wrapped in blankets, though the day was warm, she nestled deep in the wheeled wicker chair she made use of on days when her legs didn’t seem to want to carry her very far.
“Dorina,” she said, the new low, husky rasp of her voice still a surprise to her ears, “I miss our parents.”
“I do too,” admitted Dorina. “I wish we could have let them know where we’d gone. They must be so worried. But . . .” She sighed. “We’re not the only ones who gave up our families, and we all made a pact . . .”
In the wake of that terrible night, they had retreated to Basil’s house—but only temporarily. With Evadne having slain five men, and George’s alleging that others would come, and soon, they had all agreed to disappear.
They had spent only enough time in London to withdraw the money from their accounts—Mr. Seward’s influence as a banker was terribly helpful with that aspect of their departure—and no one went out in public, save to collect what they could from their homes without it being too evident they were planning to be absent for more than a few days. Heirlooms had been left, art abandoned, wardrobes pared down into only what could be easily packed. Miss Travers had managed to bring her five cats, which had yowled all the way on the train—but they, too, had settled in nicely, and grown fat and sleek on the rats in the barn.
“How badly do you resent me for taking you from them? Our parents, I mean?” asked Evadne softly.
Dorina handed her a cup of tea. “Not at all. You know, Evadne, I wouldn’t change a thing about you, save for your insisting on saddling yourself with the responsibility for us being here in Wath-on-Dearne. I chose to pursue Henry. I chose to join her—to join with . . . well. And while it makes me a bit of a monster, I admit I’m happier than I’ve ever been.” She looked serious for a moment, but it only gave her a quiet dignity. “I never thought I could be happy, living in the country, away from London . . . but as it turns out, I’ve found peace. And really, it is possible that one day, I’ll—we’ll—be able to visit them, visit London. Just not now. Harry says we must give it time.”
Evadne sipped at her tea, spiced lightly with ginger. It soothed her throat, eased the pains coming back into her joints.
“Time,” she mused. “I wonder how much I have left.”
Evadne knew she still looked the same. She was, at first glance, a woman of not quite thirty years. But the longer she looked at herself—or anyone else looked at her, for that matter—the more it became evident that something was wrong. It was impossible to avoid the impression that she was older, far older than she would
be by any conventional reckoning. And it wasn’t just her appearance—she felt like an old woman most days, too.
When it became apparent just how much she had damaged herself that night, Evadne had felt humiliated. She valued strength, but she could now barely walk without assistance; she craved independence and was now forced to rely on others. And for the rest of her life, this was how she would be.
But soon enough she found there was no need to feel embarrassed. Asking for help when she needed it was a form of strength, and needing that help did not mean she wasn’t independent.
“You mustn’t think about things like how much time you have,” said Dorina. “Why, any of us might have only an hour left—lightning might strike me dead here as we speak, for example. The important thing is to live happily, beautifully, every moment.”
The demon within her—within them both—agreed.
“You’re right,” said Evadne, even though she was, truthfully, unsure if Dorina was. “Do you feel you are living beautifully? I know your desire to become an art critic has been . . . delayed.”
“Oh, I delayed it before we even thought of moving here,” said Dorina, with a wave of her lovely hand. “I hadn’t the stomach for it, not really. Anyway, once I began to live in art, I found I simply wanted to enjoy it, for myself, instead of telling others what to think about it.” She sighed. “I still think it was a lazy decision . . . So many critics put me on to art, and culture. I wanted very badly to do that for others, but I’d rather be than do.”
“Not both?”
“Maybe when I’m older. I still have so much to learn . . . and I ought to learn it, at least before I try to tell anyone anything.”
“I can’t argue with that.” Evadne smiled down at her sister. “I have a decade on you and I don’t feel I could tell anyone anything. Perhaps it won’t take you as long.”
