JANE HAD ALREADY DONE ENOUGH preliminary research on the subject of flight to know that every book that so much as touched on the matter seemed written to confuse rather than educate. Once she began to read in earnest, however, she came to truly hate the diabolists who had put quill to parchment only to waste a lot of both for no reason. For example, the one she’d selected one rainy afternoon had this to say on the subject of flying:
It might be that natural laws such as gravity may not be broken, being that they are both natural and law. Better and safer to manipulate changeable things, like the desires of man, or the weather of the world.
Jane was unimpressed by this eleventh-century Portuguese windbag, and she questioned his decision to title his treatise On Flying, given that it contained no information whatsoever about flying. Instead, he’d written about why it was “utterly impossible,” which felt to Jane like he’d tried until he was tired of failing, and then given up in a huff.
“What do you think, Smudge?” she whispered to the cat, who currently sat on her lap as she sprawled across the chaise lounge, perusing page after worthless page. “How would you do it?”
The cat declined to comment, but at the sound of his name, he did flick his tail from side to side. Jane went back to her book, but a moment later a volley of rain struck the farmhouse’s windows and drummed across the roof as the weather moved through the valley. Jane looked up, and so did her mother, who was knitting on a shawl the same color as the storm outside in a rare moment away from her desk of requests. Her hands did not pause as she surveyed the wet weather, and as her mother worked, Jane guiltily remembered her own neglected knitting project: a wine-colored hat she’d planned to give to Miriam for her birthday.
It had only been a week since Edith’s visit, but it felt more like a lifetime ago that Jane had had time to do such things as work with her hands to create something, rather than to have them be empty of much beyond books, pens, and paper.
Nancy chuckled. “I remember when a stormy afternoon filled me with dread—there never seemed to be enough to keep you girls occupied! These days you’re so deep in your researches, I can barely get a word out of either of you.”
Jane didn’t know what to say. She detected the sort of verbal trap that failing to navigate correctly would earn her a teasing remark for her troubles. If only it didn’t fall to her to reply . . . but of course Miriam was no help. She didn’t even lift her nose from her book.
“It behooves me to spend my time wisely now that I’ve passed my Test,” said Jane, appealing to responsibility—and the absolute legitimacy of her continued efforts. “My Practical won’t complete itself.”
“I see. Just remember, it’s easy to keep up with a good habit right after a success,” said Nancy. She sounded amused. “It gets harder as the days and weeks wear on.”
For the millionth time, Jane found herself wondering what in the world motivated her mother when she said things like that—those piercing remarks that were sharper than any knife, went deeper than any needle. This one was especially pointed, and still the question remained of why she would wish to hurt her daughter at all.
Some long-forgotten impulse claimed Jane then, and she looked to Miriam for support as she once would have done. In the past, Jane’s almost-sister and best friend would step in and do her best to distract Nancy from these sorts of situations. Today, however, Miriam remained silent—though her expression spoke volumes. She did not like this one bit. But that didn’t make her an ally.
Jane was on her own here.
“Of course you’re right, Mother,” said Jane, keeping her tone as bland as possible. Even so, it seemed as if her mother and her friend picked up on her skepticism just fine. Miriam even looked up from her book, which Jane chose to view as a triumph.
The mood in the room had indeed shifted. The fire in the wood burner no longer seemed as warm, and the rain made everything dreary, rather than cozy.
“Why, Jane!” exclaimed Nancy. “Don’t tell me you’re cross!”
Jane was all too pleased to respect her mother’s wishes. “Fine, I won’t,” she said, standing suddenly and sending Smudge leaping away with a reproachful mrowl and an indignant jingle of his collar bell. The cat stalked off with tail held high; Jane planned to quickly follow suit. “I needed a change of scene anyway!”
“Jane Blackwood! I’m surprised at you. The fact is, passing your Test is only one crucial step to achieving true Mastery. People fail at every stage of the process. I’m sorry if the truth annoys you, but I can’t pretend otherwise, even to spare my own daughter’s feelings.”
Jane went very red in the face as her cool slipped from her face like the mask it was. “If you think I’ll fail, Mother, then I’ll just have to prove you wrong.”
“I never said I thought you’d fail,” said Nancy, finally setting aside her knitting. “You mustn’t be so dramatic all the time.”
Miriam was almost squirming in her seat; she had turned back to her book, her eyes studiously on the page as Jane and her mother quarreled. On one hand, Jane understood the position Miriam was in; on the other, she could say something as Jane was forced to endure this assault.
Jane stuck her nose in the air, channeling her inner Katharine Hepburn. “Dramatic, is it?” she asked softly. “Is it dramatic to wish to be left alone while I’m working instead of being the subject of unfair and unprovoked attacks?”
“Unfair attacks! Is that what you consider a bit of mild teasing to be?” Nancy shook her head. “You mustn’t be so sensitive, Jane. The world won’t pet you for doing the right thing.”
“Don’t worry,” said Jane. “You’ve taught me that lesson very well.”
Nancy’s expression was priceless, but Jane knew the cost of seeing it would be very high.
“Please excuse me,” said Miriam, shutting her book and getting to her feet in one motion. “I need to get something from my room.” And then she dashed out the door.
Jane took advantage of the distraction, turning on her heel and following Miriam out into the hall.
She was furious. It wasn’t fair—none of it. She should have passed her Test—she was smart enough, capable enough to be a diabolist. She deserved it, after all her hard work—and what’s more, she wanted it. Shouldn’t her conscious will, her self-knowledge, matter more than some induced hallucination?
And it also wasn’t fair, the way her mother picked at her scabs and then faulted her for bleeding. Not for the first time did Jane wonder how different life would be had her father been a part of it. Would he have intervened? Would he have noticed his daughter’s discomfort and spoken to her mother about it, in private, during those brief precious hours parents had to speak to one another without their children present?
Jane’s gaze was suddenly, unconsciously upon the stairs to the Library. There, the answer to her questions awaited her. She just had to decide if she was going to take it.
“She was being unkind,” said Miriam.
Jane shrieked. She hadn’t seen Miriam standing a few steps up the big staircase, and she felt a mix of annoyance—over being startled—and guilt, as if Miriam might know she’d been thinking wicked thoughts.
“Sorry,” said Miriam, stepping awkwardly down and closer.
Jane recovered enough to pat her hair back into place with some dignity. “No need to apologize. I just didn’t see you.”
“Jane,” said Miriam, “back there, I wanted to say something. But I’m afraid.”
“Afraid of what? ” Jane wasn’t interested in any apologies from Miriam. “You’d have to fall a long way before you’d be even with me in my mother’s opinion.”
Miriam looked hurt, which made Jane savage.
“I can’t wait to leave,” she said loftily.
“I don’t blame you.”
Jane was surprised. “I wish I understood what she wants! Before, she’d scold me for not sufficiently applying myself. Now I’m applying myself, and she’s cutting me down for trying.”
“You’ve been working very hard,” said Miriam.
So Miriam had noticed. Jane felt a bit better to have her diligence observed, and thawed enough to crack a joke. “Maybe she just knows how little progress I’ve made.”
“It’s been tough going for me too,” said Miriam, with a rueful smile. Hearing that was like a warm sunbeam hitting Jane’s shoulders on a cloudy afternoon. It wasn’t just her who was struggling! Jane smiled back, but the moment passed too quickly. “I just had a breakthrough though—at least, I think did. I might have solved something that’s been troubling me; at least, I hope I have. I just need to . . .” Miriam trailed off uneasily.
Miriam was always one step ahead of Jane, and always, it seemed, eager to remind Jane of that.
But Jane’s annoyance quickly turned to fear. Maybe that was because Miriam really was better at all this than she was.
Maybe she didn’t deserve to be a diabolist.
No—she couldn’t think like that. Not now that she knew the consequences of failure. She would be neither harvested by her greedy colleagues nor told she should smile while sweeping up after them.
“Please don’t let me keep you from your pursuits,” said Jane. “My own Practical puts many demands on my attention, of course.”
And with that, she headed for the stairs down to the Library.
She, too, had had a breakthrough. But it wasn’t about her project—it was about her situation.
There was no way she was going to be able to impress the Société enough to convince them she absolutely, unequivocally belonged there. Not on her own merits. Not without a leg up. Not without an edge.
It was time to contact her father.