3


NANCY BLACKWOOD’S VICTORIA SANDWICH had won a prize three years in a row at the Hawkshead village fête—and it might have won more if Nancy hadn’t stopped entering for the sake of the other bakers. War rationing meant Nancy baked less often these days, much to everyone’s regret, so a slice was always a treat. Today, however, the perfectly delicate sponge was like ashes in Jane’s mouth and the jam a cloying paste too sweet on her tongue. She could barely manage three bites.

Edith was having no such troubles; she had already polished off a second helping and was just washing it down with the last of her tea.

“If I can fit into any of my dresses by the end of this visit, it’ll be a miracle,” she said.

“Nobody’s forcing you to have so much,” said Nancy.

You are,” said Edith, pressing the pad of her manicured forefinger into the crumbs. “There’s no cake like this in London—no cake like this in Paris, even. I think it has to be baked in the country to taste this good.”

“Flatterer.” Nancy shooed her sister’s hand away from her plate. “Stop that and take these girls down to the Library. They both look like they’ll shed their skins if we put this off a moment longer.”

Jane looked at Miriam, but there was nothing she could think to say. It was time.

“Bring your tea,” said Edith.

Jane’s had long ago gone cold. She shook her head; she’d had enough—but to her surprise, her mother poured her a fresh cup, and Miriam too.

“Bring your tea,” said Nancy, and there was a bit of sternness to her tone.

Jane took her cup and saucer. Miriam did too, similarly mystified.

“Now, let’s get comfortable and talk about this Test,” said Edith, as she led them down the stairs to the Library. “No need to keep you in suspense any longer.”

“Why keep us in suspense at all?” asked Jane.

Edith’s sympathetic expression did little to mollify her when the reason was, of course: “Tradition, Jane. If anything important having to do with the Société ever seems byzantine or unnecessary or even just plain silly, just think to yourself, This is probably a tradition.

“I know! But—”

“Questions later. For now, sit.”

They stopped at a little reading area with comfortable chairs that surrounded a low table. Edith flung herself into a wingback and produced an eyedropper from somewhere upon her person. When Jane and Miriam set down their tea, she put a few drops in both cups.

“Drink up,” she said. “Mandatory, sorry. It’s part of the Test.”

“What is it?” asked Miriam, before Jane could even open her mouth.

“Truth serum,” said Edith smoothly.

“So we can’t cheat?” asked Miriam.

“So that you cannot cheat yourself.” Edith’s response was irritatingly cryptic. Jane took the cup and drank it all in one swallow.

Edith gave her an approving smile as Miriam rushed to catch up.

“Now,” said Edith, “the Test is nothing like what you may have experienced in school. It’s not going to be me testing your knowledge of the Art. Instead, it will be a test you give yourself; or rather, you will be tested on your own willingness to become a diabolist.”

“How?” asked Miriam.

Edith didn’t reply. After a moment, Jane felt her stomach lurch—Edith wasn’t being coy, she wasn’t moving at all. She’d frozen in place, her darkly rouged lips parted to reveal straight teeth as she leaned against the left arm of the leather wingback chair. She didn’t blink, and when Jane stood to investigate, she didn’t appear to be breathing.

“Miriam,” said Jane, but Miriam didn’t answer.

Miriam wasn’t there. She was gone as if she’d never been, and when Jane put her hand on the seat of the chair, it was cold.

“Miriam?”

She isn’t here.

The answer came from somewhere inside Jane. It wasn’t a voice—she felt it, rather than hearing it; the words weren’t articulated so much as conveyed.

She screamed.

It’s all right. Please don’t worry.

Jane’s wildly beating heart did not slow at this request. She felt faint as the tea sloshed gently in her heaving stomach and she fell to her knees. It wasn’t just the shocking sudden presence of whatever it was that now occupied her mind; it was how much of her mind it felt free to occupy. It was not only speaking to her with an expectation of a response—it was looking her over, pawing through her memories, her feelings, invading everything that made her Jane Blackwood. It was the most intimate thing she’d ever experienced, and she hated it so much. She felt she would rather die than endure it a moment longer.

“Stop!” she cried. It was embarrassing, to be so exposed before someone, or rather some thing, she hadn’t given permission to look at her. How could her beloved aunt have betrayed her so utterly?

Stop? But you invited me.

“I didn’t!”

You did. You summoned me; we made the Pact. Forever shall I be a part of you, Jane Blackwood, and you, me. Be not afraid! We shall work wondrous acts of diablerie together.

Jane looked up, hoping her aunt might have come back to herself, but Edith was now gone, as was the chair she’d been sitting in. Jane was amazed to find herself in, of all places, a flat. A flat in a city Jane could not immediately identify from the bright skyline beyond her windows. She looked down and saw she was in a black dress that pulled across her breasts and her hips in a way that somehow gave her the illusion of curves. She was standing before a table with a black cloth softening its edges. Beakers and phials and bowls of powders had been set out—whoever was missing from this scene had been in the midst of some sort of diablerie.

Shall we finish up?

Jane’s opinion of the presence in her mind did not improve as it persisted.

“Finish?” asked Jane.

You said you wanted to finish up before you went to the Admiral’s party. And if we don’t get started, we’ll be more than fashionably late.

“But—”

They’ll find you irresistible, said the voice. The perfume will befuddle their senses, bewitch their minds, hold their attention!

“Why?” asked Jane.

Because that is your will. Your desire. Jane didn’t think that sounded like her at all, and she began to suspect something odd was going on with this entire experience. You want them to notice you, to see you, admire you. You want to be at the center of their lives, don’t you?

Jane felt greasy and unsettled. “I do want that,” said Jane—why lie; it could read her thoughts!—“but I want to win that on my own, not through a perfume . . .”

You are a diabolist, Jane! It sounded almost annoyed, as if she were betraying some sort of previous agreement between them. Jane!

“But—”

“Jane,” someone said. “Jane!”

It was her mother. Jane startled up in her chair as Nancy squeezed her hand with a deep and reassuring pressure. This rare motherly gesture brought Jane back to herself.

Better still, the presence in her mind was completely, totally gone.

“There you are.” Nancy’s smile was tense and worried.

“What’s wrong?” she asked. “Is it Miriam?”

“No, no. Miriam’s been awake for a while—she’s upstairs, with Edith.”

“She disappeared . . .”

Jane’s mother squeezed her hand again. “She was here the whole time. So was Edith. It’s the nature of the serum; it takes you into your own mind, but sometimes in surprising ways.”

Jane’s head began to clear. “I didn’t really speak with a demon today, did I?”

“No,” said her mother. “You didn’t. It was a diabolic hallucination. It was meant to show you your own mind about how you’d act if you had made the Pact.”

Jane felt an enormous sense of relief. “I passed, then. I said I didn’t want to control anyone or make them bend to my will or something.”

“That’s good to know!” Nancy looked extremely, almost disproportionally relieved. Then she said: “But your reaction to the actual experience of sharing yourself so fully with a demon was what was being tested.”

“My reaction?”

“It can be . . . unnerving, sharing one’s self so closely with another,” said Nancy. “A lover could never be so intimate. And it doesn’t tend to get less intense. There’s no privacy to be had after you summon a demon. They know everything; they’re a part of you forever.”

She peered at Jane. “I only mention this because, usually, the longer the Test takes, the less successful the encounter.”

“Is that so?” Jane made sure to convey only the mildest of interest in this as she yawned and stretched, but in reality she was starting to feel very uncomfortable.

She couldn’t have failed the Test. That was impossible! She’d always been destined for Mastery. It was the only thing she’d ever wanted.

“The truth is”—Nancy still seemed anxious, as if Jane hadn’t said the right word or phrase that would end this nightmare for them both—“the Société has found that those who do not enjoy their experience during the Test rarely go on to enjoy having a demon companion. We’d rather just not have them among our ranks—for their sake. The Test allows us to weed them out early, before it’s too late.”

“Of course.” Jane would not let herself be weeded out. She deserved to be here as much as anyone.

She forced herself to smile. Nancy visibly relaxed. “Why would they want to continue anyway?” she asked, a decoy inquiry.

“You’d be surprised.” Nancy still had that aura of anxiousness. “Sometimes the idea of being a diabolist is so appealing that people ignore their reason and dive in when they’re not suited for it. It rarely works out for them,” she said with a sad smile.

Jane knew she had to distract her mother, and quickly. She decided to try a new tack. “I was dressed so fabulously in my dream, or whatever it was,” she said. “I hope that also bodes well!”

That was what Nancy had wanted to hear, apparently. “That’s my Jane,” she said, visibly relieved. “A black dress, I assume?”

“Oh, yes!”

“Come along upstairs, then,” said Nancy, standing and helping Jane to her unsteady feet. “Let’s go see Edith and Miriam. We have to celebrate!”

“Miriam passed too, I take it?”

“Oh, of course she did,” said Nancy. Jane cringed inwardly at this; of course Miriam had passed, but her mother had been clearly quite worried about her own daughter.

And the worst part was she was right to be so.

“Oh, Jane!” said Nancy. “I’m so proud of you.” And with that she embraced her daughter, a rare though coveted occurrence—and in this case, an entirely undeserved reward.