by Kim Wilkins
“And why do you think that?”
“Because there are more angels and more demons than we have names for. Lazodeus, for instance, the guardian you called for my sisters. He is not accounted for.”
“He’s a fallen angel, probably of a lower order. He has no specific function. But you’re right, Deborah. The system, the charts and tables, cannot account for everything. There is much still mysterious to us, and in the mystery lurks the power.” Amelia stood. “You have earned the demon key.”
Deborah felt a shiver of apprehension, even though she had believed until this moment that she had come to terms with the aspects of magic which relied on spirits. The word “demon” still frightened her. Some old associations were hard to shake off. “Is it safe to use?”
“I’m safe, aren’t I?” Amelia snapped, going to a cabinet and pulling open a drawer. “You really must stop being so frightened, Deborah. Fear makes us weak.”
Amelia’s words were like a slap, and Deborah vowed not to show such weakness in front of her new mistress again. She waited while Amelia drew from the cabinet a silver box. She sat and passed the box across to Deborah.
“Go on, open it.”
Deborah sprang the catch on the box. Inside lay a tarnished silver bar with a small loop on the end, through which a chain was threaded. “It doesn’t look like a key at all,” she said.
“A key? Oh, I see what you mean. It has nothing to do with locks. Pull it out and I’ll show you.”
Deborah, baffled, pulled the key from its box and held it up. Amelia took it in her long fingers. It spun slowly on its chain. “Gisela,” she called, “bring me a cup of water.”
Deborah sat, transfixed, watching the demon key spinning between them. Gisela hurried out with a cup of water then retreated.
“Now, Deborah, an experiment. If I wished to turn this water into wine, who would I call upon?”
“Haagenti.”
Amelia nodded, then focussed her gaze upon the demon key. “Haagenti, I call upon you with this key as your commander, turn this water into wine.”
For a moment, nothing happened, but then Deborah realised a sound was gathering around the key. A sweet music, more delicious than anything she had ever heard, began to emanate from the dull silver bar. It tingled in her ears, and she thought of intricate cobwebs silvered with dew, or the finest sugar woven into delicate shapes. And yet, there was something wicked, forbidden, seductive about the music. Only five notes sounded, and then it fell silent.
“What was it?” she asked.
“The demon key. It is music, Deborah. The spirits have always been very fond of music. Here, drink this.” Amelia handed the cup to Deborah, who warily put it to her lips. It was no longer water; it was the sweetest wine.
“You did this?” Deborah asked.
“Yes.”
“Could I do this?”
Amelia handed over the demon key and shook her head. “No, not fully, not as an apprentice. You can call on the particular demons, but you will only be attended by their apprentices. The fresher you are to the craft, the weaker the demon you are assigned. It is an unreliable science for the first few years. And still, many years later, I find weaknesses in my own craft.” Amelia shifted to the seat next to Deborah, and helped her fasten the chain around her neck. “You may take this home and experiment with it. Call upon the demons who can explain astrology and geometry to you, and let them teach you now.”
“I’ll still be your apprentice, though?”
“Oh, yes, of course. You can come to me once a week and I shall answer your questions, in return for which you can fulfil small tasks for me.”
Deborah fingered the tarnished silver rod on its chain thoughtfully. She wanted very badly to ask, Is my soul in any danger? But she would not disappoint Amelia by doing so. Instead, she asked, “Is there an angel key?”
“I have no angel key,” Amelia said guardedly.
“But does such a thing exist?” She wondered how much infinitely sweeter the sound of angels’ music would be.
Amelia leaned back. “It is a foolish man who attempts to command the angels.”
“Is Lazodeus not an angel?”
“He is fallen. He is disconnected from the pure source.”
“From God?”
“Whatever you like to call it.”
Deborah’s curiosity was piqued. “What would I have to learn ere I could be granted an angel key?”
“Learning will not help. There is too much danger involved.”
“Danger for my soul?”
“For your life. One must be almost at the point of death, and when an angel comes to assess the state of your soul, one must seize the angel and demand the key. Nothing is worth that kind of danger.”
“Because one could die?”
“Yes, and because angels do not like to be commanded, and because angels may grant favours but ask for a repayment too great for an individual to bear.”
“What kind of repayment?”
“It matters not, Deborah. The angel key is not something with which you should concern yourself. Perhaps when you are an old woman, with nothing else to live for, you may attempt to experiment with angel keys. But a girl of your age need not even think upon it.”
Deborah nodded, persuaded. “That makes good sense.”
“You are a sensible girl.”
“When you speak of angels, I perceive that you believe they are not all good.”
Amelia waved a dismissive hand. “It is often the purest beings who can be the cruellest.”
“Lazodeus said that the war in Heaven was unfair, that he and the other fallen angels were unjustly expelled from Heaven.”
“While the religiously intolerant would be appalled to hear such a thing, I believe it may be true. I have never dealt with angels directly, but I know others who have, and they testify to a cruel, unforgiving streak. Good, by definition, Deborah, must be entirely good. To preserve such purity of purpose involves a certain blind severity.”
Deborah pondered this for a few minutes. Amelia returned to her own seat and said, “Now, I have answered your questions. It is time you performed your duties for me.”
Deborah looked up brightly. “Anything,” she said. She looked forward to helping with magical experiments, writing from dictation as she did with Father.
Amelia smiled. “Go to the kitchen and help Gisela pluck a turkey for dinner,” she said. “’Tis not all mystery and glamour.”
Anne could imagine no better time for her purpose. Mary was out walking Max; Deborah had disappeared that morning and was not yet returned; Betty and Liza were at the markets; and Father never ventured upstairs. She was alone for the first time since they returned to London and she could wait no longer. She had to see Lazodeus.
She stood tall in the middle of the room and closed her eyes. “Angel, Lazodeus, will you come to me?” He would come, of course he would.
She opened her eyes. He did not come.
“Please, please, please,” she whispered. Did he not know what great distress it had caused her to be separated from him for so long? “Can you at least give me a sign that you are nearby?”
Anne strained her ears for a whisper, glanced around for the lightest movement of the hangings. This was unbearable. She flopped onto the bed with an arm over her face, wanted to weep until she died. Had she known that love would be so painful, she would have guarded her heart more carefully. Too late now. Far too late for prudence.
The door burst open and Mary came in, carrying Max under one arm. Anne sat up with a start. “I thought you were out walking,” she said, and reminded herself she need not sound so guilty.
“We only got as far as the kitchen. Liza has baked sugar cakes — want one?” Mary offered her a hot biscuit with her free hand. Anne took it while Max sniffed it desperately.
“No, Max,” Mary said. “You’ve already had three.”
“Three? What will Liza say? Are there any left?”
“She should not lea
ve them out upon the table unattended to cool if she doesn’t want them stolen. Not with Mad Mary about,” Mary said, gently placing Max on the floor. “So, what is wrong with you?”
“Nothing is wrong with me,” Anne replied. She still wasn’t accustomed to how easy it was to lie now that she didn’t stutter so badly. She took a bite from the biscuit.
“When I came in, you were prostrate upon the bed in a gesture of despair.” Mary flung her arm over her forehead in a melodramatic impersonation. “In which vale of tears do you wander, sister?”
“None. I assure you I am perfect content,” Anne replied.
Mary sat on the bed next to her, and passed her another sugar cake. They ate in silence for a few minutes, then Mary said, “Do you ever think about the angel?”
Anne shook her head. “No. You?”
“No.”
“Why do you ask? Are you thinking of calling upon him?” The jealousy would be too much to bear. Anne felt her face flush at the thought. More than anything, she wanted Lazodeus only to herself.
“No, it is just that we haven’t discussed him for so long. The whole time we were away —”
“We didn’t speak of him. I know.” Because it was too secret, too intimate to share with her sisters. Especially with sisters who were rivals: Mary because of her obvious erotic interest; Deborah because of her fresh beauty. “But he is little use to us now we cannot command him.”
“I expect you are right. I expect that we would gain nothing from his attendance now.” Mary would not meet her eye. Anne watched her closely. Did Mary really care for the angel no longer? It was one of her dearest wishes. But …
“Anne, perhaps it would take all three of us in partnership to call him again anyway. We had to let him go so he could help others.”
“I’m afraid … I suppose that is true,” Anne said. “And Deborah would never agree.”
“It matters not. We do not want to call him again, do we?” Mary said, tossing a curl over her shoulder.
“No. We do not.”
Mary lifted herself off the bed and stretched. “I’m going to get more sugar cakes. Want some?”
“I shall be down anon.”
Mary nodded and left. Anne sat and pulled her knees up under her chin. Mary was most certainly right. All three of them would have to work together to summon Lazodeus, and she desperately didn’t want to share the angel with her sisters. What to do, then? Wait and hope that he came back of his own accord? Tempting, so tempting. He must feel the same way about her as she did about him. For love could surely not be so one-sided. The universe could not be so cruel.
11
Foul Distrust and Breach Disloyal
All through the long months at Chalfont, Betty had watched with satisfaction as John’s heart turned against his daughters. Now, one week back in London, with space between them all again, the urgency of his resentment was dissipating. They were useful to him: Deborah was good with languages, Mary had a fair hand, and Anne helped Liza with the chores. He hadn’t enough money to hire scribes and extra servants, and Betty — despite her attempts to improve — was simply not literate enough to be of great use to him.
So Betty had sent Liza in search of what evidence she could find to employ against the girls, any one of them. She had not shed her conviction that the girls were dallying with spirits, even if they had not done a single thing to suggest it was true for nearly a year. Sometimes, when Betty worried that Liza had invented the scene which had so inflamed her imagination, she reminded herself of Father Bailey’s words — not so frightening now at a distance of many months — but enough to keep her vigilant. You have devils in your house.
She sighed and paced from the window to the couch and back. Deborah sat in the garden below, reading. Mary and Anne were out collecting a turkey pie, so Betty had sent Liza up to investigate their bedroom. She leaned her back against the window frame. The room was bright with morning sun and fresh whitewash. Even so, she did not like this house as much as the one at Chalfont. She could never quite get used to the city, though John loved it unreservedly.
Liza burst in, brandishing a book. “Ma’am, I may have what you need,” she said breathlessly.
Betty hurried over. “What is it?”
“A book, but it looks wicked, ma’am.”
Betty seized the book and began to flick through the pages. Strange designs, tables of information and, here, invocations for spirits. She remembered Father Bailey listing such a book as a sure sign of necromancy. “Aha!” Betty cried. “I have them. Whose is it?”
“It belongs to Miss Deborah, ma’am,” Liza said. “’Twas under her pillow.”
“Good work, Liza. I shall take it to her father immediately.”
“There’s something else, ma’am. I found this under her bed.” Liza drew a bundle from her apron, and unwrapped it to reveal an elaborately carved mirror. “I wondered why she hid it, and then it occurred to me she might have stole it.”
Betty took the mirror and laid it on top of the book. There was something sinister about the stone carvings around the mirror; something grotesque and overwrought. But then, perhaps she felt that way because of the book about spirits, because she was frightened by it all.
“Thank you, Liza. I shan’t be needing you for a while. You may take a few hours off.”
Liza nodded and left the room, untying her apron. Betty took a deep breath and marched down the stairs to speak to John.
He stood by the window, his hand resting in a sunbeam, listening to the birdsong outside. As she entered, he turned to face her.
“Who’s there?”
“Betty,” she said.
“You walk with more purpose than usual, Betty. I did not recognise your gait. I thought it may be Mary.”
“Mary and Anne are at the pie shop. I have something of great importance to discuss with you.”
“Go on.”
“I believe that Deborah is communicating with evil spirits.”
The corner of John’s mouth twitched, and she realised he was suppressing a laugh.
“John, ’Tis true! You must not let your cynicism allow evil to happen in this house. I have here a book, filled with descriptions of demons and spirits, and ways that one may invoke them. Do not let your blindness make you ignorant of what those girls are doing.”
The smile faded and he became very serious. “I wish you would not refer to my blindness to support your arguments.”
“I’m sorry, John,” she said dropping her head.
“Bring Deborah in here, and we will question her about this book.”
Betty swelled with triumph. She placed the book and the mirror carefully on John’s desk and hurried to the garden to find her stepdaughter.
Deborah glanced up through her ill-fitting spectacles. “Are you looking for me, Betty?”
“Yes. In fact, your father is looking for you. He wishes to question you about a certain book which was in your possession.” Betty’s reward was the sight of Deborah’s pretty pink face drawing pale.
“What do you mean?”
“We have found a certain book, about which your father wishes to question you,” Betty said again, grabbing her by the elbow and dragging her to her feet. “Come, girl, ’Tis time you explained yourself.”
“Ow, let me go.”
Betty pulled Deborah through the kitchen roughly. “I’ve known for a long time there’s something not quite right with the three of you. How involved are your sisters? Was it magic that made Anne’s stutter disappear?”
“What are you talking about? The surgeon at Chalfont said it was common for such an infliction to disappear at adulthood. Magic? Betty, are you mad?”
“You protest too fiercely for someone who claims innocence.” They reached John’s study and she pushed Deborah ahead of her. “Explain to your father what you have been doing.” Deborah stumbled into the study, then gathered herself and stood tall in front of John. He had taken the book and the mirror and sat with them in his lap. Deborah�
�s eyebrows shot up when she saw the mirror, but she was soon composed again.
Betty wondered if it was more than a stolen mirror. Was it a magic mirror? She had heard of such things and it caused a darting fear: bad luck, extreme bad luck. John fingered the grotesque carvings on it idly.
“Deborah, your stepmother has found items in your possession which we would like you to account for,” John said.
“Certainly, Father. What questions would you have me answer?”
“First, this book. Betty tells me it has information in it about demons and commanding spirits.”
“That is true, Father. But it contains information about angels withal. You write of angels, and I wished to know more of them. I found the book in the house at Chalfont, and have been reading parts of it ever since.”
“You brought it back to London with you? That is stealing. Colonel Fleetwood may miss it.”
“I assumed he would never return from America. Now the King is restored, it were dangerous for him to come back.”
John nodded, finding this statement reasonable.
“But John,” Betty complained, reminding herself to try harder not to whine, “’Tis a guide for necromancy surely.”
“No, I assure you,” Deborah said, turning to Betty. “Divers good men and proper have an interest in such things which is critical rather than practical.” She moved to John’s chair and knelt beside it. “Father, I know my place. I know it is not for women to be involved in such things as how the universe works and which beings may people it. I assure you that my interest was solely derived from working on your Paradise Lost.”
John stroked the cover of the book and was silent for a few moments. “I believe you,” he said at last.
“I do not!” Betty cried.
“Betty —” John began.
“No, John. The book should be burned. There is far more in it about demons than angels.”
“We cannot burn it, for it belongs to Colonel Fleetwood,” Deborah said and, damn her, produced a triumphant smile that John would never see. There had been a time when Betty felt fondness for Deborah, but now the girl was becoming as insolent as Mary.
