EDITH HAD INDEED PAID A VISIT to Jane on the night of the Test—but she hadn’t merely stopped in to apologize, as Jane had told Miriam. Edith had had another, more shocking purpose for intruding upon Jane’s privacy.
“I think it’s time you learned something about your father, Jane.”
That wasn’t the first thing Edith had said. No, she’d asked for “permission to come aboard,” with a little salute that Jane didn’t acknowledge, made herself comfortable, and then sighed deeply.
“I see now why Nancy has always been so scrupulous about not playing favorites.”
Jane bit back her urge to say, “She has?” Her own wounds were known to her; Edith’s point was not.
Edith continued. “It seems that by declaring for you early on, I’ve alienated my sister and hurt Miriam. Not to mention made your own mother a little more suspicious of your dedication to the Art than she ought to be.”
“Do you blame yourself for that?” Jane didn’t offer even a token protest in defense of Nancy’s fairness. She just wanted to know why Edith felt the way she did.
Instead of answering, Edith said, “Nancy asked me to come with her, when she took this job.”
Jane was amazed. Edith always seemed to enjoy the novelty of country living during her visits, but it should have been obvious to anyone that she would not have thrived here, miles away from anything and anyone.
Edith, too, seemed to be contemplating the life she might have led. She was gazing into the flame of a candle Jane had burning on her desk, and for the thousandth time Jane was struck by her aunt’s sublime poise and grace. The dipping of her head was elegant, almost swanlike. How could Nancy have even asked Edith to bury herself here?
“I declined,” said Edith, “obviously. And I think we both came away feeling betrayed. She didn’t have to take this job; we had plenty of money from Mother and Father. We could have kept on traveling the world, going to parties, and doing fabulous works of diablerie—yes, even with an infant in tow! Especially you, given how you turned out.” Edith favored her with a smile.
Jane had heard all this from eavesdropping, but she played along anyway, sensing there was something yet to be revealed.
“People change. They end up wanting different things. For a long time, I felt Nancy had chosen these books over me. Now, I see how much she loves her work.” Edith shrugged. “Sadly, I don’t think Nancy’s ever been able to understand why I couldn’t give up the world for her . . . and for better or for worse, I think your mother looks at you and sees me.”
How Jane wished it were so! Or at least, that it were due in part to some physical resemblance, not just their shared bits of character. Edith’s beauty was shocking—the smooth darkness of her skin, her birdlike throat, her perfect posture. Jane would have sold her soul for a share of her aunt’s poise and grace.
“She also sees him.” Jane held very still, and after a moment, Edith said, “I think it’s time you learned something about your father, Jane. I know it’s a forbidden subject. Nancy would probably burst in here to strangle me if she knew what I was about.”
Nancy had never been willing to tell Jane even the smallest detail about the man who had sired her. She stuck firmly to the story she told everyone—that she was a widow who’d moved to the countryside. Little things here and there had made Jane wonder whether that was true, and after listening to that argument between her mother and aunt, she was sure there was more to the story.
“Your father is alive,” said Edith, and Jane went perfectly still. “His name is Patrice Durand. He lives in Paris, though before the war he used to spend half the year in Indonesia.”
A French father! This seemed unexpectedly glamorous to Jane, even if she suddenly felt rather less English.
But also exhilarating. She knew his name. With his name, she could learn more about him. She could send him a message through the Basque Lens in the Library. They might even meet one day!
Though it made her feel a bit silly, Jane asked the one thing she’d always most wanted to know:
“How did they meet?”
“The Société, naturally. Patrice also works directly for the organization, but his role is rather different. He’s currently the Société’s Evaluator . . . something in between an officer of the law and a judge. He investigates alleged violations of our codes and our laws and decides what should be done about them . . . anything from appointing investigative committees to dispensing justice.”
Jane didn’t have ask if “dispensing justice” meant what she thought it did; Edith offered the information freely.
“I was picking at your mother, earlier,” she admitted. “Neither of you girls would have been at risk of such dire repercussions, had you failed, but part of the Evaluator’s duties include deciding what’s to be done with those who don’t pass their Test.”
“How droll,” said Jane. Edith had recoiled from her waspish tone, but Jane didn’t care. It was awful in every way to finally—finally—learn who her father was, only to find out he would be the one to decide her fate if it were ever discovered she’d failed her Test. “That’s a perfectly ghastly thing to joke about, in my opinion.”
Edith looked surprised. “I—I suppose it is. Forgive me, Jane, I didn’t mean to upset you. I was just feeling so merry after you both passed . . .” Jane was not mollified by this. “I forget how isolated you’ve been here. In a city, apprentices often swap information and tales, so when the realities of the Art are revealed, it isn’t quite so shocking.” Edith looked really worried. “You’ve learned a lot tonight, and that after an ordeal. Perhaps I should have held off on telling you all this.”
“I’ve waited long enough to hear it, I think.” And be disappointed by it, she thought. Jane knew she was acting like a spoiled and tired child, but she was, frankly, appalled to realize the entire dreadful conversation she’d endured earlier at the kitchen table was due to Edith trying to needle Nancy—and it had been about her father.
Never in a million years would Jane have believed that she’d find out her father was alive and not wish to contact him! But how could she? He would be the one holding the knife to her throat.
“I can see I’ve made a misstep somewhere, so I’ll just say this information was meant for your ears only. In fact, I ask you to swear to me that you’ll not contact your father until you’re no longer living under Nancy’s roof.”
“Why?” Jane felt her interest in contacting her father increase as a result of this demand for a promise, rather than the reverse.
“It’s not my story to tell, but your mother’s affair with Patrice ended badly. He loved her so much; he wanted her to stay, wanted to raise you together. But he has a temper, and when Nancy said she would not, he declared he wanted nothing to do with either of you, and didn’t even say goodbye when she left for England. But, Jane,” said Edith, registering some of the very real hurt Jane was feeling, “as you can see, time changes all things.”
“Not my mother.”
Edith acknowledged Jane’s point. “No, not your mother.”
Jane had one more question. “Why did you tell me this now? Why not tell me later instead of asking me to wait?”
Edith hesitated. “That’s a fair question. I did it at the request of your father.” She had the air of someone choosing her words very carefully. “The losses in this war have been heavy and far-reaching. Patrice may not be on the front lines, but he has seen his share of sorrow. He is eager to make up for lost time.”
“Then—”
“Do not think this is a step that can be untaken,” said Edith, so sharply that Jane jumped. Her aunt had never spoken to her like that before; Edith, too, seemed surprised at herself, and when she spoke again, it was more gently. “There’s nothing I can think of that would do more to damage your relationship with your mother.”
But of course there were things Jane could learn about her father that didn’t require contacting him. She couldn’t see the harm in looking up certain information, and so she did: his address in Paris, his service record, his birthday, his parents’ names and their occupations (famous diabolists in their day, it turned out—he, and therefore she, had quite the pedigree). Jane read these tidbits as she could, when she could, even before Edith had departed, sneaking looks when her mother wasn’t in the Library and Miriam was lost in her studies.
Jane didn’t feel like she was violating her promise to her aunt, and yet she did feel vaguely guilty about her secret researches. But she wasn’t doing anything with the information—she was merely finding out the facts. And the facts were Patrice Durand was two years younger than her mother, he lived in a flat in the heart of Paris, and Jane could contact him if she wanted to.
But she didn’t want to. All that had changed was that the option was now at her fingertips.
It felt frivolous, thinking about her father at all, really. Jane had many more pressing concerns.
While Jane could accept that she’d failed her Test, she would not accept that she was done as a diabolist. Rationally speaking, she knew there was a slim chance that the Société would decide she warranted divvying up to those individuals who might enjoy the use of her liver or eyeballs, but neither would she bow and scrape before them, begging for whatever dreadful jobs they saved for the disappointments.
She needed a plan, and fear being the excellent motivator it was, she came up with one quickly. It was simple, at least relatively so: she would just have to be the very best diabolist the Société had ever seen. She would need to demonstrate her abilities beyond the shadow of a doubt so that no one would ever suspect she was not ideally suited for practicing the Art. Because of course she’d practice it; of course she’d summon a demon. She had to. There was no other choice, even if the thought of again sharing herself in that way made her shiver with revulsion.
Before that, however, she had to complete her Practical—no, she had to excel at it, impressing everyone with her results.
She had to figure out a way to make her broomstick fly.