EDITH’S CITROëN JOLTED ALONG THE muddy road into Hawkshead, but Edith was not behind the wheel. Her feet no longer reached the pedals.
“I hate the way you drive,” she said to Patrice Durand, who downshifted exactly when Edith would not have.
“Well, I hate your car. The French can do anything except make a decent automobile. You should replace this hunk of junk with a Jaguar or an Alfa Romeo.”
Edith frowned as Mercurialis betrayed her with a chuckle.
Oh, it’s not so bad, is it? it said. At least we still have each other . . .
It was such an oddly sentimental thing for a demon to say that Edith spent the rest of the ride and much of their time in the mule cart thinking about it. From the first moments of her apprenticeship she’d been taught never to trust a demon when it spoke of friendship or love. Not for the first time did she wonder if perhaps there were possibilities beyond the proscriptions of the Société.
Maybe, said Mercurialis.
So much had changed for Edith since that ill-fated attack on Braune’s castle, but the old farmhouse was still exactly the same. Rain-wet, unfashionable, isolated . . . comfortable, and familiar.
Then Edith hopped out of the cart and approached the front door. It looked like it would to a child—enormous, imposing, and built for the convenience of people much larger than she.
A light rain was misting down upon them, but Edith couldn’t make herself ring the bell.
“Can’t you reach?” asked Patrice.
It had been Patrice’s way to tease her when she was in a funk over the changes she’d gone through. But this time, Edith ignored the sally.
“Odd, isn’t it?” she said. “Them not coming to meet us, I mean. They always did before.”
“They don’t know you’re here,” said Patrice. “And their reply telegram said something about flu . . .”
“That’s right, flu,” said Edith. She had forgotten the excuse, for then as now that had seemed like a lie.
Patrice put an avuncular hand on Edith’s half-sized shoulder. “It will be all right,” he said. “No one will laugh, no one will—”
Edith rang the doorbell.
After a few moments, Nancy answered. She looked strange.
Maybe she really had come down with the flu . . .
“Hello, Patrice,” she said stiffly. Then she noticed who stood beside him. “Aunt—ah, Edith!”
Aunt Edith.
Mercurialis rumbled in her mind, but Edith didn’t betray any surprise. She sensed there was much here that she would learn in time, if she were patient.
“I wanted you to see I was all right,” said Edith.
“Come in,” said the woman who looked like Nancy. “Warm up with a spot of tea, and I’ve baked too. Currant scones.”
“Thank you,” said Patrice. He was staring at Nancy like she was an angel who had stepped down off of a cloud. Edith was a bit embarrassed. Soppiness didn’t become him.
They shed their coats in the quiet entryway, and then Nancy ushered them into the kitchen. It smelled of warm baking in there, and Nancy bustled to make some tea. Edith stood awkwardly. She was a bit surprised at Nancy—for some reason, Edith was having a hard time thinking of this woman as her sister. She didn’t need to be fussed over, but at the same time, she’d been shrunk by half and Nancy hadn’t said even a word about it.
“So. Where’s Jane?” asked Patrice, sitting awkwardly at the rustic kitchen table. He kept sneaking glances at Nancy. It would have been sweet except for the obvious awkwardness.
“She’s out,” said Nancy.
“And Miriam?” asked Edith.
Nancy set the tea upon the table. “Patrice, would you excuse us for a moment? I’d like to speak to my sister in private.”
“But of course,” said Patrice, rising as the two women made their exit. “I’ll keep an eye on the tea, and it will be ready when you’re back.”
“Help yourself to it and the scones in the meantime,” said Nancy.
She fairly dragged Edith away from the kitchen, leading her up the stairs with a child’s urgency. They stopped in front of Miriam’s room.
“What’s gotten into you, Nance?” asked Edith, playing along for now.
“You’d be surprised,” said Nancy. “What I’m about to show you will shock you, but it can’t be helped. I need you, Edith. Please say you’ll help me?”
“Help you with what?” asked Edith.
Then Nancy pushed open Miriam’s bedroom door, and Edith understood.
Miriam lay upon the bed—Edith was certain it was Miriam, even if the girl looked like an immeasurably ancient woman with her white hair spilling over her pillow and the deep lines marring her face. She was still breathing, but barely.
“What happened?” asked Edith.
“I don’t even know where to begin,” said Nancy.
“Then just pick somewhere and start!” Edith was getting a bit frustrated. It wasn’t like Nancy to keep her in suspense. “Tell me the most surprising thing first, then work backwards if you have to.”
“That’s not a bad idea,” said Nancy. She took a deep breath. “I’m not your sister anymore. My name is Cornelia, and I am the spiritual amalgamation of your sister Nancy and Miriam Cantor. Miriam’s body is dying; she overspent herself trying to find out what happened to her parents. And meanwhile, Jane has absconded with the diabolic familiar she summoned into her pet cat, in spite of my best efforts to get her to banish it. And all this is happening while the Société’s Evaluator is sitting in my parlor.”
Edith was too shocked to say anything, but Mercurialis wasn’t.
This trip is going to be much more interesting than I anticipated, it said.