EDITH HAD PLANNED TO SPEND an extra night or two in London doing a little shopping and calling on Société acquaintances, but Jane’s ungrateful farewell had put her nose so very out of joint that she stepped off the slate circle in the foyer of her Paris apartment not twenty minutes after parking her Citroën at the Société garage in London.
Mercurialis was thrilled by this; Edith, less so, but her mood improved as she took a deep breath. The air of her foyer smelled like home; it had a crispness she found wonderful after the wretched soggy chill of northern England.
See?
Edith laughed at what felt almost like childishness from Mercurialis. “You were right,” she said. “Coming home was the right choice.”
It was true, Edith could not have spent another moment in England. What a brat Jane was! Edith kicked off her shoes and stomped her way angrily into her flat. A continent was not enough distance. Maybe there had been more merit to Nancy’s complaints about Jane’s moody ways than Edith had previously assumed.
Would you be so angry if you didn’t think of your niece as an ally in the war you’re still waging against your sister?
Edith often appreciated her demon’s insights, but not this time. “Oh, what do you know about it?” she snapped.
Mercurialis said, Much, to her annoyance.
Jane had inherited a bit of her mother’s cool haughtiness, but she was, in general, a pleasant and even-tempered girl eager to make herself distinct from her peers. Edith had therefore expected Jane to swan about the house, making bold statements about passing her Test. Instead, Jane had spent the proper amount of time with her aunt and everyone else, no more, no less, being almost suspiciously modest and amiable.
Jane had put up a wall, emotionally speaking—even after Edith told her what she’d always longed to know about her father! It was absurd, and it was a little bit annoying too. What more could she have done? Why, she had even left a dress for Jane.
Edith knew her niece well enough to know exactly what dress Jane would want as a present for passing her Test, so Edith had had it made for her in Paris, and by her own dressmaker no less. It was similar to the one that Jane had practically drooled over when Edith had arrived in Hawkshead—similar enough that when it was discovered in the armoire of the guest room, she hoped Nancy would assume she’d simply forgotten it there in the haste of packing. Jane, of course, would try it on, and find the note pinned into the inner lining.
It was an arcane method of gifting, but Edith had learned caution after the time she’d given Jane that stylish black cloche and Nancy had been so cross because of some silly “no black clothing” rule. But if she was going to give Jane a dress, it would be one her niece would actually want.
Contemplating these matters did little to enhance Edith’s mood. She didn’t wish to be alone. The house was too quiet. She needed company after being sequestered in the country for too long.
It was later in Paris than in London, and the sun had already set, but that was all right. For a diabolist, the nighttime streets of Paris were substantially less dangerous, though not without their perils. There were others out there with agendas—and abilities. She would be taking precautions.
One did not need a demon to effect a disguise, but Mercurialis gave Edith’s illusions an unparalleled verisimilitude. At night, she usually chose to appear as a young university student with light brown hair, tall and lean as he slouched through the streets in his too-large coat. He was not handsome enough to attract attention from women or from men, not wealthy-looking enough to attract thieves or bawds, not poor enough to make the police wish to hassle him. Edith didn’t use her cosmetics to create him, she had a mask she’d altered diabolically. It disappeared on her face when she applied it with a glue she made from the diabolically altered roses she grew in pots in her atrium. The other illusions—her height, her distinctive and yet wholly generic gait—were the combination of her use of her body and Mercurialis’s gifts.
That night, her destination was the Société headquarters. While it might not be Paris’s most fashionable venue, it was always open to any diabolist, at any hour of the day or night. There were rooms for socializing, a library, a kitchen, and even a few bedrooms for those who needed them, as well as offices and official meeting spaces. Furthermore, only there would she find people who understood.
The Société was located in what appeared to be one of those always-closed restaurants that are part of the Parisian landscape. She let herself in through the alley door with her key.
“Ah, Mademoiselle Blackwood,” said François, as she walked in the door, even before she’d shed her mask. Shrugging out of her coat, Edith approached the manicured man standing behind the desk. No one knew whether it was through diablerie or just phenomenal organization that François managed the Société’s front and back of house while also greeting everyone at the door, but he did.
No one knew his surname, either.
“Bon soir, François. Who’s about tonight?”
“Of your set?”
At one time, François would have meant the Young Talarians. Now, sadly, he meant only those who still believed in the innocence of Egon and Sofia Cantor—Miriam’s missing parents. While their debated innocence or guilt hadn’t exactly caused a schism in the ranks, there was understandably less friendly socializing these days between those of differing opinions.
Edith signed her name in the register with a quill dipped in diabolic ink that always formed the user’s real signature.
“Yes, of my set,” she said, finishing up the signature with her typical flourish.
“You’ll find Mademoiselle Znidarcic, Monsieur Yellowhorse, and Madame Lizman in the Red Room, playing cards.”
A faint blush came to Edith’s cheeks at the mention of Graham Yellowhorse. François did not comment if he noticed. but Mercurialis, for its part, teased her in a voice that sounded of crickets chirping and the first drops of summer rain on hot cobblestones.
Some diabolists—likely those without such chatty companions as Edith—deluded themselves into thinking they and their demon were of one mind. Edith knew that was not the case, no matter how delightful the fantasy might sound. Smart diabolists knew demons always had their own ideas, their own agendas. Demons honored the Pact because they had to; that was the very most one could say about their motivations with any certainty. The truth of the matter was they were not of the same world as humans, and it was foolishness to assume they could be comprehended, instead of bribed, cajoled, or commanded.
Mercurialis agreed with her thoughts, the sensation of their mingled awareness as familiar as a lover’s touch, and as alien, too.
François coughed, distracting Edith from these thoughts. “And if you don’t mind my saying . . .”
“Hm? Yes, François?”
“I thought you might like to know that Monsieur Durand is still here. If you had any news for him, I mean.”
Had Patrice told everyone about Jane’s Test? Edith looked at François in exasperation.
“He is in his office, mademoiselle,” said François, his eyes twinkling.
“Thank you,” she said, and handed him her coat for safekeeping.
She kept her mask. It rolled up and fit into her purse.
The exterior of the Société was shabby for necessity’s sake, but inside it was quite grand. The marble of the floors was rose mottled with ivory, warm in the light from the gold sconces. The wallpaper was a pale pink damask, there was framed artwork on the walls and beautiful furniture set about in nooks, and everything smelled wonderful.
This was what Edith needed, after the claustrophobia of the old farmhouse and life in Hawkshead in general. She needed to remember that she was a diabolist. Not that she ever forgot it, with Mercurialis intruding upon her thoughts every moment of the day, but it was more than that. She was a link in a rare and precious chain stretching back thousands of years. To be a diabolist was to know the truth of the universe. She was more than just a wounded sister or a beleaguered aunt. She was exceptional in every way.
Edith, like Jane, enjoyed being distinct from her peers.
Patrice Durand was still at his desk, his bald pate hanging low over stacks of papers like a small moon. His jacket was off, tossed carelessly over a chair. He did not look like he was finishing out his evening.
“Bon soir, Patrice,” said Edith, and she smiled as he looked up in surprise. “Long night ahead of you?”
“Edith!” He was up in a moment and rushing toward her to kiss her hand. “Don’t keep me in suspense!”
“Jane did fine,” she said, summoning a smile as she had once summoned a demon—through determination, know-how, and force of will. “Miriam, too. But did you have to tell everyone in the Société?”
“Oh, well!” he said, embracing her warmly before ushering her to an empty chair. “I knew she would excel. My Jane! Passed her Test! How could she fail, given her pedigree?”
“Everyone knew that but her, of course.”
Edith knew Patrice was expecting other news, too. “I talked to her,” she said. “She was, I think, pleased to learn that you exist, and that you have a name, and live somewhere, and so on and so forth.”
“Will she be in touch?”
Edith glared at him. “I told her she must wait until she’s out of the house, as I told you I would.”
Patrice looked disappointed. “I’ve already missed so much,” he muttered. “It’s wrong for Nancy to deny me this!”
“You both made choices that led to this situation.” Willing as she was to help introduce Patrice to his daughter, it was because she knew Jane longed to know something of him. In other matters Edith stalwartly refused to take sides. “It’s just a bit longer. Jane is yearning to leave home. I assure you she will apply herself to her Practical and be out on her own as soon as she can. Then the two of you can decide what relationship you wish to have.”
“It is not fair,” said Patrice. “Jane is sixteen—she should be able to speak to her father if she wishes.”
Edith felt herself start to become annoyed. Of course it would not occur to Patrice that pushing ahead to forge a new relationship with his daughter might do much to endanger the other, more established ones in Jane’s life.
Mercurialis reminded Edith that she had known Patrice for more than two decades, and thus she had known he was self-centered and obtuse before she agreed to tell Jane about him. Edith agreed—but just the same, the stakes were higher now.
“Life isn’t fair,” said Edith, rising from her chair. Patrice looked surprised, but Edith did not relent; she had other matters that demanded her attention. “Think of Miriam and her relationship with her parents.” Patrice had the decency to look abashed, but Edith did not relent. “You know you invoked them while begging me to carry your water, and you also know my price was that you do nothing to contact Jane until she has left home.”
“I remember,” said Patrice sourly.
Edith was unimpressed by Patrice’s adult pouting. Apparently Jane’s apple hadn’t fallen far from this particular tree.
“Good. See that you continue to remember,” she said. “Au revoir.” She’d said her piece, and anyhow he’d turned back to his work. Gone was the gallant Frenchman who’d kissed her hand. Only Patrice was left.
Edith wasn’t surprised—not really. While Nancy’s decision to sequester herself in the country was as puzzling to her today as it had been sixteen years ago, she’d always known why Patrice and her sister had never been able to really, truly work it out. Nancy was as proud as they came, but Patrice somehow was prouder. No matter what Edith might say to Nancy in the heat of an argument, she understood her decision to separate their lives. Maybe not so dramatically as the distance between Hawkshead and Paris, but some amount, absolutely.
Edith entered the Red Room, called such due to the common theme of the furniture’s upholstery. Her heart skipped a beat at the sight of Graham Yellowhorse—but she was glad to see all of her friends still pretending to play at French tarot. The cards lay upon the table, untouched; being that no one else was in the room, they had abandoned the pretense and were whispering to one another in hushed tones. As Edith approached, she felt the grumbling tingle of Mercurialis alerting her that she’d just triggered a diabolic ward. Edith was glad they were using them, as was right and proper, and anyway it was only to let them know when someone approached, which is what, indeed, she was doing.
“Edith!” Maja Znidarcic rose from her chair and rushed over with surprising agility for someone so short and so stout. Edith embraced her warmly. “We didn’t want to bother you while you were away, but . . .”
“Tell me everything,” said Edith. “I’m back early and eager for news. And yes,” she said, exasperated by the eager looks of her colleagues, “they both did fine.”
“The news isn’t good,” said Graham. He was an American diabolist who had come over to fight on the front lines, as it were.
“What? What is it?” Edith perched on the arm of Zelda Lizman’s chair, hoping genuine dismay covered the excessive sensations she experienced when she heard the deep and dulcet tones of his voice. His demon, Zlovid, granted him exceptional insight, and she was wary of its roving eye. If Graham ever found out how she felt, she wanted it to be from her lips, not from his demon’s. “What’s happened?”
“We intercepted a transmission,” said Zelda. “It might be a trap—and we know that—but it seems like something we need to take seriously. Some of the things they’re saying sound like they might be about Egon and Sofia.”
“It was sent from Dr. Braune to Dr. Querner,” said Graham. “And for the first time, it wasn’t sent over diabolic channels. They used a homing pigeon. It took a while, but Saul Zeitz cracked the code.”
It was concerning, suspicious news. Edith thought back to her conversation with Miriam, hoping she would not need to deliver yet more bad news to the poor girl.
Miriam’s parents had disappeared while investigating the small, dilapidated castle that Dr. Wolfram Braune had repurposed as a diabolic research facility. It was known that he and Dr. Karl Querner of the notorious Dark Lab were attempting to develop a powerful diabolic weapon; what was unknown was how close they might be to success.
“What did the message say?”
“There had been another failed extraction attempt by Braune on a prisoner—we’re not sure what that means,” said Graham, “and the request for a copy of a prisoner’s file. Their roundabout description sounded a lot like Egon.”
“I don’t like it,” said Graham.
“Intuition?” asked Zelda, peering keenly at him.
“No,” said Graham. “Not exactly. I just mean . . . they’re losing. Everybody knows it. So why do they need notes? What are they doing? I don’t need a demon to suggest to me that this is very probably a trap.”
“Or they’re close enough to success that it’s still worth trying,” said Maja.
Graham conceded the point by holding up his broad, scarred hands. Oh, how Edith adored him . . . but he’d never given her any indication that he returned her feelings. Ordinarily, Edith would forge ahead and make her case, especially these days, when every mission might be her last. But the Young Talarians who’d remained loyal to the Cantors needed to stick together—and a romance would disrupt their operation as surely as a rejection.
“I say we make a run on Braune’s château,” said Zelda. Edith looked at her in surprise; Zelda was the most martially inclined of any of them, but an all-out assault on a highly protected Nazi laboratory staffed by diabolists and housed in a castle was a bit much—even for one who had summoned the demon known as the General. Edith had seen Zelda punch through brick, leap over walls, dislocate her joints to fit through small crevasses, lift enormous objects—but that still would not be enough. “I’m perfectly serious. Why else have we gathered all this intelligence?”
Maja considered this, to Edith’s surprise. “You may be right. But something so direct . . . we might lose much to gain little, with the war ending, too.”
“If they develop this weapon . . .” Zelda shrugged in a philosophical manner. “We can’t know the future. They do say the war will end any day now, but what if it doesn’t? What if it takes longer? What if something changes?”
“The reports from several locations are appalling,” said Edith. As much as she liked Graham, Zelda had won her over. “Losing has only increased the Nazis’ savagery.”
Graham frowned—not at her, just thoughtfully—and looked down at his hands. Edith didn’t need demonic insight to tell that he was mightily unhappy. Edith understood his reservations, but she agreed it was time to act. Zelda and Maja immediately began to discuss the trip to the south of Germany, where the castle squatted on some ghastly sounding plain, but Edith held up her hand for silence. There was something she needed to know.
“Before we start to consider what we ought to do, we need to ascertain who will be with us,” she said, trying not to look at Graham. “Our numbers will determine our strategy.”
“Oh, I’m with you.” Graham, on the other hand, did have demonic insight. He knew to whom she spoke. “I just can’t help but think this won’t end well for us.”
Edith shrugged. “The more important thing,” she said, “is making sure it doesn’t end well for them.”