Angel of Ruin

by Kim Wilkins

  Perhaps not always. She had read the Old Testament, and Yahweh — Father Infinite — was often cruel and unforgiving. Besides, the Bible itself was full of internal contradictions, gaps and weaknesses of representation. Even Father had once urged caution over complete confidence in its accuracy. The hands of too many fallible men had passed over it; the true way to God was via her own conscience.

  Could evil from one perspective be foolish reaction from another? Of course it could. She had witnessed enough fights between Mary and Betty to understand diversity of perspective. But the whole world believed Lucifer was evil. Could she side against the opinion of the whole world? Amelia would encourage her to do so, but Amelia did not have her innate caution.

  It was tempting to try to see Lazodeus again, now he had returned from his long absence. Deborah scrambled to the trunk at the end of the bed and pulled out the scrying mirror. If she could see him when he didn’t know she was looking, he may prove himself to her. Or betray himself to her. She passed a hand over the gleaming surface. “Show me Lazodeus,” she said quietly.

  Nothing. The mirror continued to reflect her own curious face in the candlelight. Perhaps ethereal beings were not able to be seen in the mirror. She pondered for a few moments, then decided to test this theory. She had most recently called upon the apprentices of Andromalius. Were they able to be seen in the mirror?

  “Show me the apprentices of Andromalius.”

  She should have prepared herself for what such beings might look like: toad-faced, squatting creatures, surrounded by fiery light, wriggling against each other trying to get comfortable. But nothing could have prepared her for where she found them: in the walls of her closet. She gasped and looked around her. The walls seemed ordinary and benign, but when her gaze returned to the mirror, there they were: crammed against each other behind the boards, their softly glowing hides only visible in the scrying mirror. With a shaking hand, she passed her fingers over the mirror again. “Let me hear them.”

  A soft chittering and snorting began to sound, then she cleared the mirror, not wanting to hear it any more, not wanting to see their ugly wriggling bodies. How was she supposed to sleep in here now, knowing that they surrounded her? Could they see her? She even gave a few moments to the selfish idea of swapping the room with Anne or Mary, but surmised that the beings would follow her. They came with the key, or maybe with the mirror or the books. They were hers. The shock drove all thoughts of Lazodeus out of her head for a while, as she extinguished the candle and took refuge under the covers. In the dark she stared at the walls around her, strained her ears, but could distinguish no sight, no sound of the creatures she knew were there.

  Then she began to ponder. If the scrying mirror could see the demons, why couldn’t it see Lazodeus? The conviction returned to her as it always did: he was being less than honest, he was hiding himself from her. It was perfect logic. He knew she didn’t trust him, he knew that she would eventually be tempted to check on him, so he had deliberately charmed the mirror against finding him.

  For all that, he seemed to know things about her that she hadn’t told him. Her hand went to the key around her neck as she remembered the keen way he had gazed at her when speaking of men who command spirits. He knew. But how did he know? Was he spying on all of them in some magical way? Or could he sense the key in her possession? Maybe the demons she had used had told him. She knew so little, and yet she was knee-deep in such mysterious power.

  What would Amelia say? Do not be fearful. Be bold.

  She closed her eyes, but took a long time to sleep. Hard to be bold when surrounded by invisible creatures which she could not hope to understand.

  It seemed Anne could never be alone. All she wanted was a time and a place to call Lazodeus. Mary had her secret room, Deborah had her closet, but Anne only had the shared bedroom and an opportunity never arose for her. It wasn’t as though she could go crawling along the ledge to Mary’s secret room for privacy, not with her crooked hip. A week went by, and then another. On one occasion — with Mary out with the dog and Deborah downstairs — she had taken her chance. With a wildly beating heart she had closed the bedroom door and stood in the middle of the room. But before her tongue could even curl around the L of his beloved name Mary had burst in, suddenly bored with the idea of walking Max. Anne was fairly sure it was to prevent her calling the angel.

  Finally, she could stand it no longer. Perhaps the old Anne Milton — the one who could barely speak and was afraid of everything — would sigh resignedly and accept it. But she wasn’t that Anne Milton any more. She wanted to take the problem into her own hands and solve it. All she had to do was find a place and a time where she could be uninterrupted. On the second Saturday in July, she lay awake very late, until she was certain Mary was asleep. Then she waited a little longer — perhaps a half an hour — before creeping out of bed.

  It was too risky to dress properly. Mary would be certain to hear her. So Anne pulled a long cloak over her nightgown, and went barefoot down the stairs.

  Because of her limp, she had to be assiduous in her silence. Every step threatened to be a beacon of her waywardness. Carefully, so carefully, she arrived at the front door, opened it with a tiny creak, and set off into the night.

  The sunny warmth of the day was faded from the stony ground, but the night was balmy and the air heavy with London smells: faintly coppery, a slightly sick smell of old mud and distant sewage, overlaid thickly with the summery scent of rotting blooms. None of it unpleasant; in fact, vaguely reassuring. She knew where she was when she smelled those smells, they centred her. She hurried down the hill, her limping leg dragging behind her, to the park where they sometimes took Max to play. A thick copse of trees edged the park before it gave way once again to rows of houses. She headed for the trees, and sat beneath them, panting, heart racing, catching her breath. From where she sat she could see the dip of the park, the mist collecting in it. The grass was dewy, but not wet enough to discourage her lying back and looking up at the stars through the branches of the trees. She savoured the wait, the few gorgeous moments before she called his name.

  “Lazodeus,” she said. “Come to me.”

  A brief silence terrified her. He wouldn’t come. He was too busy looking after someone else, loving someone else. But before the terror could work its way down into her heart, he was there, a soft light in the darkness, kneeling next to her.

  “Anne, it is late and your sisters are both sleeping,” he said.

  “I don’t care,” she said. “I wanted to see you.”

  “And you had to come this far from your home to see me?”

  “I wanted to be alone with you,” she said boldly, then instantly regretted it. “I mean … there are things that I don’t want Mary and Deborah to know.”

  “Such as?”

  “You must tell me how severely you were punished for my sake, for giving me my voice.”

  Lazodeus smiled and shook his head. “It is all in the past now, Anne. It would not do you any good to know.”

  “Still, I should like to know.” She sat up and clasped her arms around her knees. “I should like to measure fully the extent of my debt to you.”

  “You owe me nothing, Anne. But if you are determined to know, I was imprisoned for a short time.”

  “Imprisoned? How long?”

  “Only two weeks.”

  “Oh, you poor thing. I can’t live with such guilt. Was it unpleasant?”

  “Not too unpleasant, but cold. We aren’t allowed our fires in prison.”

  “I’m so sorry. I should never have asked for such a favour.”

  “Anne, it is over with. It is not the first time I have been imprisoned. It is hard to behave appropriately around mortals, for we love them so much. Most fallen angels suffer such a punishment at one time or another in Pandemonium.”

  Anne felt the discomfort of guilt and wriggled against it. “I am so sorry. Can I repay you somehow?”

  “Say not another word about it. It
is my reward to see how comfortable you now find it to speak. You are a changed woman, Anne.”

  She felt the smile form on her lips in spite of herself. “In truth?”

  “You are so much more poised. Before you left London, you were still like an awkward girl. But now look at you.” He took each of her hands in his own and spread them apart. “You have grown beautiful.”

  She hung her head. “Please, I’m uncomfortable with such flattery.”

  “It is not flattery, it is truth.” He gently released her hands and she folded them once more over her knees.

  Her heart seemed to have developed an irregular flutter; it twitched about in her chest like a frog in a box. “I do not feel beautiful,” she said, darting a quick glance at him and then looking away. “I feel like the same clumsy, tottering Anne that I always was. Certainly, my mouth is more bold, and perhaps my mind, but I am still constrained by the weaknesses of my body.”

  “Does that make you sad?”

  A breeze fluttered in the leaves, tugging at her hair. “Sometimes. Sometimes I should like to run. Or to dance.”

  “You can dance with me.”

  The fantasy flashed briefly before her mind’s eye. Enclosed in his arms, moving rhythmically to some exquisite music. But then she dismissed it. In such a situation, he could only become far too aware of her feeble body, her crooked hip, which made her left leg straggle behind her, pushed out uncomfortably. Then, certainly, he could feel only repulsion for her. “I cannot dance, Lazodeus,” she said. “Least of all with an angel.”

  He stood and held out his hand to her. “Anne, you can only dance with an angel.”

  “What do you mean?” she said, eyeing his proffered hand warily.

  “Stand, you will see.”

  She grasped his hand and stood, and her hip was perfectly normal, her leg perfectly mobile. She took a few paces on her own, marvelling at the freedom she felt — like moving through silken water.

  “Oh,” she said. “Oh, it feels wonderful.”

  “It is only for tonight, I am sorry.”

  “I care not. I shall enjoy it for tonight.”

  He drew her close to him. “Come, Anne, dance with me.”

  “I know not how to dance. I’ve never danced.” A giddy tide of exhilaration washed through her.

  “You merely listen to the music and let your body move you.”

  “There is no music.”

  He gracefully rolled his right hand in the air. Instantly, music began to play.

  “Where is that coming from?” she said, giggling in excitement.

  “It is angel magic. Ask no more questions. Come. Dance with me.”

  She bit her lip in a last moment of concern, then decided that on such a mad night, with a warm breeze and angel music to accompany them, the only sane choice for a girl to make was to dance. She surrendered her body to the music, and began to move.

  His arms closed around her waist, he spun her around, he pressed against her and moved away. Violins and harpsichord rang out joyously on the air, and she expected the whole world to wake and wonder of the gorgeous song which had worked its way into her heart. She danced and she spun and she stretched and she twirled and she moved with an aching joy in her bones. Laughter poured from her lips and her eyes were moist with tears. The moon and all the stars laughed with her.

  I am in love.

  When her legs began to tire, when perspiration was trickling across her stomach underneath her nightgown, when the maddening touch of his angelic hands was too much to bear any longer without opening her heart and begging for his love, the music began to fade and he gently lowered her to the ground.

  She took deep breaths.

  “You glow, Anne,” he said.

  “Why did nobody wake? The music was so loud.”

  “Only we could hear it.”

  “’Twas divine, truly.”

  “You dance beautifully.”

  “I’ve never danced ere now. Oh, ’twas joy!” She gulped a few more breaths and then sat up straight. “I should go. Mary will miss me.”

  “No, don’t go. I have taken care of Mary. She is enjoying a deep dream from which she will not wake.” He touched her hair gently. “Put your head in my lap and talk to me. I love to talk with mortals.”

  “I …”

  “Come.” He stretched his legs out in front of him and pulled her down. “It is not inappropriate, Anne. Think of me as a loving uncle or father.”

  “I have had neither,” she laughed.

  “Let us be alone in the warm darkness a while, Anne. Trust me.”

  Her fear wasn’t that it was inappropriate to lay her head in his lap; her fear was that her heart would burst with such intimacy. She nestled against his thighs, staring up at the starry sky. His fingers twined in her hair. Aching, aching, she turned her timid eyes to meet his. It was too much. Her heart would explode.

  I am in love.

  “Has Mary called you?” she asked hesitantly.

  “Yes, Mary has called me a number of times.”

  She looked away again. Much safer to gaze at the stars. “Oh.”

  “I have not responded, however,” he said. His hand curled around the top of her head, resting there warmly.

  “No?”

  “If I tell you something will you promise to keep it between us?”

  “Of course, I will do anything … I mean … I will keep any promise.”

  “Mary always wants something. Sometimes she is exhausting to be with.”

  “Yes, yes, she is.”

  “So I often stay away.”

  Anne felt a surge of triumph. “I see.”

  “You must think me heartless. Cruel.”

  “No, no,” she said quickly. “Not at all.”

  “I much prefer to be with you. Though I suppose I should not reveal such a partiality.”

  “I shan’t take advantage of it. I shall not ask for too many things, as Mary does.”

  “I know. I know, Anne, that is why I trust you the most.”

  “You don’t trust Deborah?”

  He frowned for a moment, casting his eyes upwards. “I know little of Deborah. She is suspicious of me, I suppose,” he said.

  “’Tis most unfair for her to feel that way.”

  “Nevertheless, it is how she feels. I accept that.” His fingers were moving again, twining her hair and releasing it. “Tell me a little about Deborah.”

  “What would you like to know?”

  “Perhaps you can tell me what drives her? What is at her core?”

  Anne thought hard. It was important to answer his question as fully as she was able. “Deborah is excessively loyal to Father. She was always his favourite, and that has long been her weakness, I suppose. Though lately she grows impatient with him at times.”

  “Why do you think she is so loyal?”

  “She loves him.”

  “Why does she love him?”

  “Because he is her father.”

  “But he is your father, and you bear no love for him. Nor does Mary.”

  Anne considered this. “She wants to please him. She wants to remain his favourite. When she was tiny, if Father roared at her because she had been naughty, she would cry for days, saying ‘poor Father’ and so on. Then, she would carefully select a toy from among her favourites: a poppet or a treasured ball, and she would throw it on the fire to punish herself. She would stand there silently, gravely, watching as the flames consumed it, then march in to tell Father what she had done. ‘I have given up Molly for my sins,’ she would say, or ‘I have given up my purple hoop.’

  “I doubt that he even remembered what small thing had upset him, and he certainly didn’t understand the magnitude of her sacrifice. He would merely nod in a distracted way and go on with what he was doing.”

  “You say that her obedience to him is waning, though?”

  “Yes, most definitely. It is not the same as it used to be. She still pays him the same respect one should pay a parent, but s
he no longer defends his impatience, or rushes to be his helper.”

  “Anything else?”

  Anne reached for words, trying to articulate the essence of her sister. “She is committed to learning, mainly of physic and natural philosophy. She speaks of one day healing the sick. Again, I think this is to impress Father, but lately I am not so sure. She spent all her time at Chalfont reading under a tree.”

  Lazodeus nodded, as though considering what she had just told him. A pang of jealousy darted into her heart. “Why do you want to know?”

  “I am interested in all of you. I am still, in some ways, your guardian. Though not officially.”

  “Deborah has always managed to look after herself very well,” Anne said. “I believe she is the last person in the world who requires a guardian. Even if she did believe you were a good angel, she would not ask for help. She would probably ask you to teach her medicine.”

  “What is it your father does that he requires Deborah so much?”

  “He is writing a great poem. I have heard little of it, for I cannot write and I am no use to Father. Though I read well enough.”

  “Mary said it had to do with angels and with God.”

  “And devils withal, I believe. The story is not nearly so compelling as your tale.”

  “Hmm. I should like to see it.”

  “I am uncertain if I could steal it for you,” Anne said, suddenly worried that she could not perform the sole request he had so far asked of her. “Father won’t let me near his writings.”

  “No, Anne. Do not worry. It is not important.”

  They sat in silence for a long time, and Anne closed her eyes and let the sensation of his glorious touch sink into her skin. Perhaps she began to doze a little, but his deep voice roused her. “Anne, the dawn approaches, you should return to your bed.”

  “Yes,” she murmured, trying to open her eyes.

  “Ah, hush.” He said, gently touching her eyelids with his fingertips. “Dream on, beautiful Anne.”

  She heard the sounds of birds awakening, felt a slanted beam of sun on her face. Her eyes flew open and she sat up with a start and a gasp. She was in her own bed. Mary, sleepy-eyed, rolled over next to her and grumbled irritably. “What’s all that noise about?”