Angel of Ruin

by Kim Wilkins

  “Why, why, why?” she found herself saying, over and over. She could feel a trail of drool from her mouth to the rough covers, and wiped her lips with a shaking, damp palm. She sat up and shook her hair out of her eyes. Her face was hot. She caught sight of herself in the glass and began to cry anew. Ugly, so ugly. Not beautiful and clever and honey-haired like Deborah; not round and bow-lipped and alluring like Mary. She pressed her face into her palms and wept like a child.

  Something brushed against her hand and she looked up, startled.

  “Lazodeus.” Her heart suddenly doubled its rhythm.

  “Anne, I cannot bear to see you cry.”

  “Wh-what … Where have you b-b-b —”

  “Sh, sh. Wait.” He placed a finger over her lips, and for a brief, perfect moment she could taste his skin, sweet and hot.

  “Now, speak,” he said.

  “Where have you been?” And the words came freely tumbling off her lips.

  “I have been away.”

  “I thought you were supposed to protect us. I thought we were your commanders. But you haven’t come when I have called and I have been so desperate.”

  “I wanted to come, I really did, Anne.”

  “Then why?”

  “Mary has made a terrible mistake.”

  “Mary? You have spoken with Mary?” The barb of jealousy was swift and sharp.

  “A long time ago now. It was she who dismissed me from my duties.”

  Anne looked at him bewildered. “How? How is that possible?”

  “She commanded me to be your friend rather than your servant. I had to grant her command and so it was.”

  Anne shook her head. “’Tis not possible that she should be so foolish.”

  “And yet she was. But be not angry with her. She did not understand what she asked. She is not as wise and thoughtful as you.”

  She felt a smile come to her lips in spite of herself. “Oh. Well …” She paused, attempted to regain her composure. “So you are no longer our servant?”

  He knelt down in front of her. “I am, I am. But not by command, not by decree. I am your servant for the love I bear you, but as I am not assigned to you through an enchantment any more, it is not possible for me to come whenever you call. I have other duties. But I shall try. Anne, I do not wish to see you cry. I shall try harder to come when you need me.”

  When she needed him. But she had needed him so often and so desperately in the past few months, and he had ignored her pleas. She turned her eyes down, felt another small shudder of a sob ready to shake her chest.

  “Anne, what is it?”

  “You have not come. So often I have called —”

  “I explained —”

  “But how can I trust you? How can I trust you to watch over me when you have been so far from me for so long?” She tilted her face up to him again. Every perfect feature was somehow more exquisite than she had remembered it.

  His eyes narrowed slightly. “You question my trustworthiness?”

  It hurt to see him offended. “No, I just —”

  He put his finger to her lips to silence her again. The touch was all too brief, seemed to leave a burning imprint on her skin. “Very well, Anne Milton. I shall show you why you should trust me. Though it will cost me dearly, though the powers above me in Pandemonium may punish me severely —”

  “No! I don’t want you to be hurt. I will trust you.”

  “Anne, I can make it so that you can always speak without hindrance.”

  She held her breath. “I … How?”

  “Through angel magic. But we are not supposed to alter so vastly the state of mortals without due permission.”

  “I don’t want you to be punished for my sake,” she said, infusing her voice with as much sincerity as she could manage. You must not —”

  Suddenly he grabbed her by the upper arms and pulled her against his chest. Before she had a chance to savour the moment, he had pressed his lips hard against her own. Sweet, blissful touch. He parted her lips with his tongue, and her body seemed to break its own bounds, to float outwards into the universe. Then a second later it was over.

  “It is done,” he said, pulling away from her.

  A moment passed before she could speak. “What will happen to you?”

  “I know not. But it will go better for me if I return immediately and tell what I have done.”

  “Then go. Go quickly, for I will suffer with guilt until I see you returned to us, safe and whole.”

  He smiled. “Feel no guilt, Anne. It was all my pleasure.” His attention was suddenly drawn downwards as though he may have heard a supernatural voice calling him from below the earth, and Anne felt a moment’s chill apprehension.

  “Goodbye,” he said. “I promise to return as soon as I may.”

  “Goodbye,” she said, but he had already disappeared.

  She slumped back on her bed and closed her eyes. Licked her lips to see if she could still taste him. It wasn’t a kiss, it was only magic, and she shouldn’t read anything more than his concern as her guardian into it. But the way he had spoken of his pleasure …

  She opened her eyes and said out loud, “Anthony Minshull, may you die of a pestilence.” The words came as easily as breathing. Now all she needed was the courage to say it to his face. The power to speak did not necessarily equate with the power to speak out.

  Deborah was enjoying a few quiet moments of solitude in Father’s study — he and Betty and Anthony had gone walking. She opened the trunk and began searching through for the book she had been reading the previous day. Here, Jerome Zanchy’s De Operibus Dei; a modern text on angels Father had used early in his research for the poem. She found her place and began to read.

  This had been her world for the last few months. Reading voraciously, everything she could find about angels and the spirit world, so that she could make the right decision about Lazodeus. The further she delved the more surprised she became: much evidence existed that the command of spirits was not evil, that fallen angels did not necessarily endanger one’s soul, that a long and great tradition of men dealing with ethereal beings preceded her.

  Men. Not women. She thought of Amelia’s words again and they stung. Was she flinching from it because she was a woman? Was her caution really just misplaced timidity?

  Still, she would not rush her decision. Mary had long since stopped nagging her about making up her mind, and Anne seemed happy to go along with her for as long as it took to decide what was right.

  She sat back on her feet and sighed. All the reading in the world was not going to tell her what to do, not really. And she owed her sisters an answer very soon. She was far too young to have such a responsibility of choice thrust upon her. Why, she knew girls of her age who had barely put away their poppets.

  Outside a heavy rain began to fall, and she expected the three of them back home any moment. Liza and Anne were in the kitchen, and Mary hadn’t been seen all morning. Presumably she was doing whatever it was she did in her secret room. Deborah dreaded Anthony’s return. Not because he was cruel to her like he was cruel to Mary and Anne — no, he took Father’s lead and was more patient with her. She dreaded it because Father had chosen him to be his eyes; Deborah had been all but relieved of her duties as scribe and reading companion.

  And he wasn’t even as clever as she was! That was the killing blow. For all that Anthony had spent time on the continent, he certainly hadn’t used his days in learning the languages. She knew for a certainty that his Italian was far worse than hers, but Father never mentioned it. Not once.

  She heard a scuffle and a whimper from up the stairs, and put the book aside to investigate. The whimpering grew louder, frantic, and she hurried to the withdrawing room to find Max with his paw jammed firmly between the bottom two stairs.

  “There, Max, there,” she said, gently easing his paw free.

  He yelped, but was soon freed. She put him on the floor and watched him limp a few paces, then sit down with his paw he
ld out, quivering.

  “Oh, you poor, dear thing. Is it sore?” She collected him into her arms, but he wouldn’t be consoled. He needed Mary. “Come, then, little fellow. We shall find your mistress, shall we?” She stood and headed up the stairs, closed the bedroom door behind her and went to the window.

  “Mary? Mary, come home. Max is hurt.”

  No answer.

  “Mary?” she asked again, louder.

  Curious. Mary normally responded instantly. Deborah looked at Max. “Where is she?” If she had gone walking, she would have taken the dog. Deborah leaned out the window and looked across. “Mary? Is everything well with you?”

  Perhaps Mary was ill, or injured. Deborah gently set Max on the bed — he trembled still, but she suspected it was more from fright than from pain — and returned to the window. She hadn’t been in to Mary’s secret room since the night she had first seen it. Mary had become very possessive about it, forbidding them to enter, and in any case, the walk along the ledge did not appeal to her. She assessed it now, the rain dripping onto it.

  But if Mary were hurt …

  She hoisted her skirts up and gingerly climbed out. Edged along to the window and grasped the sill firmly in her hands. Curtains. They hadn’t been there before. And they looked like rich brocade, not secondhand rags. She parted them and peered in, her sister’s name poised on her lips.

  “Oh, my God!” she exclaimed instead when she saw the room. She clambered in and landed on a pile of wine-red velvet cushions. Mary was nowhere in sight. She advanced into the room. Burnished candlesticks were positioned around the room, thick hangings in white and gold adorned the walls, and everywhere were cushions piled high in different colours, rich fabrics. “Oh, my,” Deborah said, touching one of the wall hangings, feeling its soft friction slip between her fingertips. She admired a gilt-framed landscape on the wall, and a marble statue, about two feet high, of a young wood nymph. Where on earth had Mary acquired all these fine things? One of her rich suitors? But then how did she carry them up here? She had no access except via the ledge. How could she have brought all these cushions up through the house and out the bedroom window without being noticed?

  Then the answer struck her. Lazodeus. It was just the kind of thing Mary would command an angel to do. She felt her cheeks grow hot with anger. They had agreed, they had all agreed to wait, to weigh the situation, to be rational, not impulsive.

  She marched to the window and hoisted herself out onto the ledge. She could hear somebody moving about in the bedroom and stopped to peek before she went in. It wouldn’t do for Betty or Liza to find out about the secret room. She had expected to see Anne, but instead it was Mary, slipping off her shoes and taking a tiara out of her hair.

  “Mary, where have you been?” Deborah asked.

  She looked up guiltily as Deborah slid in the window, then said, “Where have you been? I didn’t give you permission to go into my room.”

  Deborah’s eyes widened in astonishment. Mary was wearing an exotic pendant with a large blue stone, and four different gemstone rings. “Where did you get these jewels?”

  Mary sniffed and tossed her hair back. “I’ve been with Wallace.”

  Deborah felt a vast weight of tiredness. Why on earth did Mary prostitute herself like this? “And was it worth it? Was it worth your dignity to acquire these jewels?”

  “Don’t be silly. I have no dignity,” Mary said, pulling off the rings and placing them side by side on the dresser. “And you still haven’t told what you were doing in my secret room.”

  “Max was hurt and —”

  “Max? Where is he?”

  “He must have grown tired of waiting for you.”

  “Was he hurt badly?”

  “No, no. He merely twisted his paw and pined for your sympathy. I went to look for you and instead found a room full of expensive things. Would you care to explain?”

  “Wallace sent them to me.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “Well, who else?”

  Deborah nearly said Lazodeus’s name, but stopped herself. It was not right to assume Mary was lying. She owed her a chance to explain. “How did you get it all up there?”

  “’Twas a surprise. He acquired a key and took it all up through the front of the building.”

  Deborah considered this. Maybe it was true. Everyone knew where the Miltons lived, and Wallace may well have the power to acquire keys to empty houses. She suspected rich men might do as they please most of the time. “I see. And how many times have you had to lie with him to gain such treasures?”

  “None of your business.”

  “’Tis hardly an efficient method of earning. You should hang out a shingle, Mary, set a price and stick to it.”

  Without warning, Mary stood up and slapped her. Deborah took a step back in shock. Her face stung.

  “Don’t you say that to me.”

  “I …” So many times before Deborah and Mary had argued over this point, but Mary had never become violent.

  “So what if Wallace is an ugly old man? So what if they’re all ugly old men? What does it matter to you? What does it matter to anyone?”

  “Mary, if I hurt you I —”

  “You make a habit of hurting me, and I already hurt so much.” Mary’s voice quivered a little, then she set her jaw against tears and said, “Father was looking for you. He and Anthony have plans for a poetry reading and he wants you to help. Sounds like a waste of everybody’s time, but I expect you’ll be there with your eager face and your foul spectacles.”

  “Mary, I’m your sister. I bear you no ill will, so bear me none.”

  Max came trotting in, and Mary bent to scoop him up. “Dear Max, where does it hurt?” The little dog put out his paw, as though he understood Mary’s question. Deborah decided it best to leave Mary alone a while so her temper might cool. She had never seen her so angry, so passionate, before. In truth, it frightened her.

  Anne chose suppertime the next day to make her debut as the reformed, clearly spoken woman she had become. In the meantime, she kept her head down and spoke to nobody, afraid that the power to speak would leave her if she dared to boast that she finally possessed it.

  But it was with a measure of confidence that she took her seat at the table that evening. Liza had laid out bread and jams and cheese and salted fish. Betty was preparing Father a selection of morsels when Anne took a deep breath and said, “Mary, I would be most grateful if you could pass me the butter.”

  It seemed everyone stopped what they were doing and stared at her. Father, an uncertain frown on his brow, said, “Deborah?”

  “No, Father, ’Tis Anne,” she said.

  Mary passed her the butter dish, wide-eyed.

  “Anne, you speak so clearly,” Deborah said.

  “I believe that perhaps I have outgrown my old stammer.”

  “Overnight?” Mary said, her eyebrows raised suspiciously.

  “Yes. Last night I dreamed that I could speak clearly, and this morning I awoke and it was so.” Anne turned her eyes downwards, concentrating on the bread in front of her.

  “Why, the other day you stammered like a fool,” Anthony said.

  “Yes, Anthony, and maybe your taunting finally made me ashamed enough to stop. For that, perhaps, I owe you thanks.”

  Anthony laughed out loud. Father leaned forward. “Speak again, Anne, for I can barely distinguish you from Deborah.”

  “What would you have me say, Father?”

  “Ah, yes. Your voice is softer, less certain. I shall be able to tell you apart after all. Well done, child.” This was the first time her father had ever bestowed his regard upon her, and it stunned her into silence.

  “Yes, well done, I suppose,” Mary said, scowling.

  Anne knew Mary suspected Lazodeus, of course she did. But torture wouldn’t drag from Anne the truth about her newfound clarity of speech. She and Lazodeus shared a confidence, and that felt sweet and secret. She glanced at Deborah, who was picking at her fo
od. If her youngest sister suspected that the angel had been involved, she hid it well.

  Deborah lay awake for a very long time. She had heard Mary and Anne arguing in whispers for the first half hour after retiring. Mary demanded that Anne confess to having called Lazodeus, Anne rejected the accusation repeatedly, and finally Mary had given up and mumbled something about it being “possible, I suppose” that Anne had spontaneously discarded a lifelong habit.

  Deborah refused to believe it. Now she suspected that both her sisters had contacted Lazodeus and tried to hide the fact. But the only way to know for sure was to ask the angel himself.

  And this is what she told herself as she crept silently from the room and down the stairs, out through the kitchen and into the garden. She told herself that she was calling Lazodeus to command him to tell whether either of her sisters had been in contact with him, in spite of the solemn vow they had made to wait upon Deborah’s investigations.

  If, while she was in his company, she asked him a few questions about angel magic, there was no harm in it. It did not mean she was ready to take his side, and forgive him for lying to them about what he was.

  It had been a hot day, but now Deborah felt a shiver of gooseflesh across her back and arms. Above her, the half moon shone dimly on black trees. A cat crept along the stone wall which divided their house from the one behind it. The garden was tiny, no bigger than her closet, but she would be less likely to be heard out here.

  She took a deep breath and said, “Lazodeus, I command you to come.”

  In the next instant he was there, and she had to admit she enjoyed that power.

  “Mistress Deborah,” he said, bowing low, “what would you have me do?”

  “Only tell the truth. Has my sister Anne been in contact with you?”