JANE SNUCK DOWN TO THE LIBRARY just before the clock struck one in the morning. Smudge trotted along behind her, the cat intrigued by her late-night jaunt.
Nancy had been pregnant when she’d accepted the position of Librarian, which meant that Jane had never before beheld the face of her father, even as a wide-eyed infant. Her mother had denied her this, as she had denied Jane so many things that ought to be hers, like a proper social life, or the agency to select her own clothes, or even the words Jane would choose to use to describe her style of diablerie.
Jane’s candle threw off a golden glow as she descended the steps. When she was halfway down, Smudge bounded ahead of her all of a sudden, as was his pleasure. His fluffy tail threw weird shadows everywhere as he raced to the bottom to wait, impatiently pacing, for Jane to join him.
Jane knew that given her precarious situation, it was a substantial risk to contact her father at all, but she had to. She was getting nowhere with her research. It hadn’t been that long, she knew that—no one expected results so soon. But Jane also knew that if she wanted to create the appearance of being exceptional, she would need to outpace Miriam. Fair or not, they’d be judged against one another as well as on their own merits. This meant that to be complete, the illusion needed to contain Jane beating Miriam to the finish line.
JANE KNEW SHE COULDN’T ASK her father about making her broomstick fly, not specifically. If she was truly unable to succeed, she didn’t want him—or anyone—to know.
Charming as he seemed to be, Patrice Durand had not yet fully earned Jane’s trust. How could he? While it was true that the man who wrote Jane back seemed intelligent, avuncular rather than paternal, and deeply pleased that Jane had sought him out, he was still the Société’s Evaluator—and Jane could not let herself forget that.
That said, her father was right. Jane was smart. Maybe she wasn’t a genius at languages or the fastest reader, but she knew how the world worked—in spite of the best efforts of her mother. It gave her a bit of savage pleasure to think how the films and popular novels she enjoyed (and her mother so disdained) had given her the sort of context she needed to keep herself from being manipulated.
She was the one doing the manipulating here. Not for sinister purposes, but out of a desire to keep her life together. Or perhaps to keep her life, period.
All she was doing was showing her father how respectful and charming she was, how mature, and how eager she was to make up for all the years they’d lost. She wasn’t lying about any of that; she was just also making sure that if ever a question arose about her legitimacy within the ranks of the Société, her father would have to consider not only the rules, but also his feelings for his daughter.
Usually, Jane wanted to turn on every available light in the Library when she was down there, especially at night, but tonight she did not. She needed to be able to conceal herself and what she was doing in an instant should she be discovered.
It still seemed odd to her that Modern Mirror Methods should be gone from the Library’s shelf the moment she received a letter suggesting she read it, but it had reappeared so quickly that Jane assumed her mother had pulled it at someone’s request. It was just that her mother was meticulous about always following her own rules for checking out Library books . . .
Miriam was, too, which was what made it even odder.
That sliver of doubt kept Jane peering into the darkness as she scurried along the main corridor of the Library, the muted yellow light spilling over the mosaic tiles of the floor and flashing against the wooden ends of the bookshelves. Smudge padded along beside her; Jane kept an eye on him—not out of fear of bad behavior, but to take advantage of his superior senses; whenever he stopped and sniffed, she’d flash the candle around to see if he had detected anyone in the shadows.
The desk upon which the Library’s Basque Lens lay looked oddly imposing with the candlelight making the hollows in the carvings and scrolls so much darker. Jane approached slowly and was pleased to see no new messages atop the mirror, like little telegrams atop a salver.
She was worried a message would come in while she and her father spoke—the book hadn’t said what would happen in that case—but it was a risk she had to take. In one decisive movement, she pulled a small flat jar from her pocket and with a rag began to apply the waxy contents to the surface with circular movements. The glass went milk-white wherever she spread the wax, until the whole surface was covered. It glowed gently in the darkness, like a little moon.
The last thing Jane had to do was set her father’s simulacra on the mirror. The Library had one on file for every member of the Société, in order to receive requests and send out research materials. Individual diabolists might share them, too, as a way to stay connected—they were most commonly small glass phials with a bit of skin or blood or fingernail clippings inside, something to mark it as their own for the purposes of direct communication. Thankfully, Patrice Durand’s was nothing more troubling than a bit of gray hair in a tube sealed with the brightest purple wax Jane had ever seen. It was beautiful, flecked with gold, and stamped with a seal that looked like some sort of elaborate tropical beetle.
“Patrice Durand,” said Jane, and the white glow began to swirl. Eventually it resolved and she saw an ornate plaster ceiling.
Her father’s ceiling!
Only in that moment did Jane appreciate the enormity of what she’d done. She’d violated her mother’s trust, disregarded her promises to her aunt, and voluntarily solicited the attention of the man who would be in charge of meting out justice if she was ever found out.
She’d better make it worth it.
“Jane?” The voice was French, but Jane could tell immediately from the way he said her name that he spoke fluent English. A bald head poked over the edge of the mirror into view, then came a wrinkled forehead, and then two large, black-fringed eyes with large dark gray brows, and below those an enormous nose. So that’s where she got it, she thought ruefully. Her father’s mouth was also large, as were the teeth within it. She saw them when he smiled.
“Jane!” This time it was no question, he clearly saw himself in her features. Jane smiled too, with her own large teeth.
“Wait,” she said, and pulled up a chair. By kneeling on it, she could lean over the mirror and see much better. She was too afraid to pick it up, lest it break.
“Ah, yes, yes!” Jane’s father gazed at her admiringly. “That is much better!”
His Basque Lens was a hand mirror, and he was holding it out fairly far; he was sitting in a wingback chair in a lavishly appointed room that looked exactly like Jane had imagined a chic Parisian diabolist’s workroom might look, though she knew the blackout curtains were not for privacy. She was thrilled, not just because she was seeing how her father lived after being told for so long that he did not live at all—but because it was evidence that she came honestly by her love of fashionable things.
And that a love of fashionable things was not actually a sign that she was frivolous, inattentive to her studies, or even unusual. Her father, as she’d learned, was a respected diabolist—an elected official within the Société!—and yet he did not seem to feel there was any conflict in working hard and excelling while being surrounded by beauty.
He had noticed her looking on in wonder and was smiling at her as she stared. Jane blushed and filled the awkward silence with the first thing that came to mind: a question about a curious item just behind him.
“Is that an astrolabe?” she asked.
“Ah! Similar—but no. It is infinitely more fabulous!” He stood, and Jane grinned as the mirror showed her his trousers—neatly pressed—and his Turkish carpet as he walked over to the desk. “I beg your pardon,” he said, righting the mirror again. He moved it closer so Jane could see all the intricacies of the splendid brass object, with its layers of working parts. Her father moved a small lever with his thumb, and it began to spin, slowly. To her delight, some areas lit up as the object moved within itself and others disappeared; some areas rose, and some fell more delightfully than any carousel. “This device is somewhat like an astrolabe but also like a globe—based on An Atlas of the Diabolic Continents, by Usman Khan; it is a representation of our best understanding of the . . . geography—that word will just have to do—of the diabolic realm. But, of course, the diabolic realm is much different than our own.”
The diabolic realm! Jane was intrigued; she wanted to pepper him with about a thousand questions, but she kept her focus. She wanted to show her father her best self—calm, collected. Brilliant, perhaps. Why, she’d even styled her hair and put on a bit of makeup. First impressions and all that.
“What is its function?” she asked.
“Sometimes it can be useful for a diabolist to know where a demon resides when it’s at home,” said her father. “Demon-summoning—all diablerie, really—is trial and error; it’s seeing what works and hoping that at some later date you can duplicate your results. If there’s one thing that’s consistent, however, it’s that the more information you have, the better.” Jane’s father shrugged at her visible dismay. “If you want specific results, the more knowledge you have, the better. So, if you know the demon you seek lives here within the Cloud Kingdom”—he touched something, and the device whirled to reveal clouds the same impossible coral color of a summer sunrise—“or the Breathing Sea”—he turned it and, somehow, tiny blades of grass sprouted, grew, and then withered—“or the Vale of Tears”—he turned it and revealed a crevasse that glowed with a color Jane could not name—“then you have a better chance of success.”
Jane considered this as she rubbed at her watering eyes. “A summoning can go badly?”
“The risk is very low,” said her father, but they both knew that was not a no. “The Book of Known Demons helps us, and the one you have at the Library is the most up-to-date of all of them, naturally. And you will have ample help when you are ready to pursue your summoning.”
This was it. This was her opportunity.
“I’m eager for that,” said Jane. “The sooner the better, as far as I’m concerned.”
“Oh, Jane. Many apprentices feel so.” Patrice veered into the paternal with his tone. “Just remember: it’s not a race. You have the rest of your life to be a Master, with all its attendant demands and difficulties. No young person ever understands when the old speak wistfully of childhood, but you will one day, my dear.”
Jane might love wit and charm and cunning, but artifice was never her delight—not until recently, at least. But the time had come.
“You’re right,” said Jane. “It is not that I wish to be done with my apprenticeship—not necessarily. The Library is endlessly fascinating, but I’ve spent sixteen years here. I’m ready to go to new places, meet new people. I just want to be done with my Practical so I can see what the world is like!”
“Ah, Jane!” said Patrice. “What a fool I was not to insist on my father’s rights. Travel is highly restricted these days, but before the war I could have shown you Paris, Jakarta . . .”
This story didn’t quite match up with Edith’s account of Patrice’s paternal sentiments toward his daughter, but now was not the time to interrogate further.
“Mother doesn’t understand,” said Jane, knowing very well that Nancy understood perfectly—she just disapproved. “She’s happy here, and she feels I should be too.”
“Much of Nancy’s character was shaped by her youth spent traipsing about the globe—she ought to see that yours, too, will be formed at least in part by your isolation.”
“Exactly!” No duplicity tinged Jane’s passionate reply, but she recalled herself after and spoke more calmly. “I know for a fact that Mother won’t let me out of her sight until I’ve completed my Practical, so I’m working as hard and as quickly as possible. But I’m just stuck.”
Patrice nodded. “It is something we all encounter. Be patient, my Jane. It’s been but a handful of weeks since your Test—some apprentices take years to complete their Practical. Oh, I know that’s not for you, but it’s perfectly fine for any apprentice to take things at the pace that suits them.”
Not any apprentice—not Jane. “I’m not averse to hard work, I just wish I could speed things along. Find what I needed sooner. Even with the indices and catalogues, I’m still spending so much time looking at books that just don’t have anything helpful in them. It’s agonizing sometimes!”
Patrice’s thoughtful expression gave Jane a bit of hope. “It is a pity you’re so isolated. Other apprentices have the advantage of gossiping with one another. They hear of tricks and tips that may be, ah, technically against the rules, if one applies the strictest of standards, and yet are unlikely to be noticed by anyone—for example, how could anyone know if an apprentice employed a skimmer or a strike chain in pursuit of their aims?”
Jane had never heard of a skimmer, a strike chain, or any other sort of research aid. That such things might exist was itself a surprise, though she felt silly for not assuming that someone, somewhere, might have felt the same frustrations she felt and looked for a shortcut.
“I suppose that’s true,” said Jane, making a mental note to look these things up as soon as possible. After all, that’s likely what her father was giving her permission, if not urging her, to do.
“Even I used a skimmer in my day,” said Patrice, with a casual air that was clearly not at all casual. “Everyone did. And I still use it—their use is not forbidden to Masters, of course. It is for that reason that I, as well as many other members—not your mother—feel it’s a bit silly to deny apprentices little tricks of the trade like that. I certainly don’t see the need to be so medieval about things in a world where we’re dropping bombs onto one another out of airplanes.”
Jane shrugged. “That’s for the Masters to decide,” she said. It was the most neutral reply she could think of before redirecting the conversation toward something she could profit from. “Please don’t think I’m lazy for wishing I could proceed at a more rapid rate. I’m just frustrated as I’m researching a lot of new material while being forced to invent new theory.”
This was true. Jane’s research had provided her with several ideas and avenues of thinking—just before coming down to the Library, she had been contemplating how two unrelated and seemingly oppositional remarks about diabolic buoyancy might actually provide a crucial insight when considered together.
“New theory?” Patrice seemed thrilled. “My brilliant daughter!”
Unused to compliments, Jane was suspicious of everything that seemed like flattery. She punted. “Thank you for saying so . . . you know, I don’t know how to address you. Patrice? Monsieur Durand? Father?”
“Father has a nice ring, I think?” He looked nervous as he said this. “If you’re comfortable calling me that?”
Jane nodded. “Thank you, Father.”
The title seemed to please him, as she’d hoped it would. “Ah, Jane! I wish to help you. Is there nothing I can do?”
Jane could think of many things, but she didn’t like to ask. He’d already done so much; asking for more might give her the appearance of a greedy child . . .
“Knowing I have your support and your confidence is enormous,” said Jane. “It seems to me that the burden of an apprentice is to perform as proficiently as a Master under artificially arduous circumstances. I cannot use research aids; I am constrained by the resources allotted to me. But if the Société has worked this way for so long, and works well, there must be a reason for it. It also falls to an apprentice to submit to the wisdom of the Masters.”
“The resources allotted to you . . .” Her father’s expression became calculating.
“Mother is generous,” Jane said quickly.
“Of course she is—I’m certain she’s as generous as she can be! I know it is technically against the rules, and enforcing the rules is technically my responsibility within the Société”—Jane leaned in, intrigued—“but it’s not so uncommon for students at your stage to get a bit of help here and there. All I am saying is that if you ever need, say, an extra source of diabolic essence—oh, hello!”
With a mighty mrow, Smudge had jumped up onto the desk where Jane was still perched, rudely walking across the glass on his silent paws to bonk Jane’s chin with his forehead. Jane shooed the cat off the Basque Lens and adjusted her position so that she could gather Smudge into her arms and hold him still.
“Ah, and this must be Smudge—your familiar!” Her father chuckled at Jane’s look of surprise, but she was astonished that he would joke about such a thing as a diabolic familiar. Familiars were no joking matter.
As a girl, Jane had often daydreamed about having her very own witch’s familiar. Nancy had put a stop to it, forbidding Jane to even play at having one. It’s not appropriate, she’d said—and when Jane had asked why, her mother had told her in no uncertain terms that summoning a demon into an animal was one of the only things absolutely, explicitly, and completely forbidden by the Société.
She’d explained that while summoning demons into plants was the foundation of modern diablerie, summoning demons into animals was too absurdly risky to be allowed. While it was true that pollen or seeds could spread, greenhouses and indoor cultivation substantially reduced the risk. Not having legs or a conscious will that could be taken over by an enterprising and curious demon, plants had limited ability to wreak havoc.
An animal, however, could never be completely controlled. These days, only an untrained, uninformed, wild diabolist would be so brazen as to attempt it.
“I see Nancy has instilled in you her dislike of magical notions and terms,” said Patrice.
“She’s attempted to,” replied Jane, her tone dry as old leaves.
“My Jane! How delightful you are! I expected you to be thoughtful and intelligent, but I did not think you would end up with style, hidden away from the world like Rapunzel.”
Patrice’s smile was so admiring that Jane felt her control slipping. Thankfully, Smudge saved her by leaping away over the mirror and scooting into the darkness.
“What a cat!” said her father. “I didn’t mean to shock you by calling him a familiar—Edith calls him that, is all. She says you’re almost inseparable. And given her description of your style, Jane—it seemed fitting.”
“Do you really think I have style?” It slipped out before Jane recalled she was supposed to be cool and calm.
Patrice looked astonished. “But of course! Just look at you! The cut of your blouse might be plain, but the way you wear it—the way you do your hair, your poise. And really, how could you not, being my daughter?”
Jane glanced up—not because she heard something, but because she had too much on her mind to concentrate on impressing her father any longer. “I think I should go,” she said quietly.
Patrice looked concerned. “Is all well?”
“Yes, just being cautious,” said Jane. “Father . . .”
“Yes?”
“Thank you for talking with me.”
Patrice looked very moved, and his voice was a bit thick as they said their good-nights. Jane tidied up quickly but carefully and then chased down Smudge so that she could get out of the Library and into bed. As Jane carried her beloved cat up the stairs, her fingers toying thoughtfully with his fluff, she thought over her night. Patrice Durand had given her quite a lot to think about.
Jane frowned in the quiet darkness of the old farmhouse, taking comfort in Smudge’s bulk and warmth. If only she’d passed her Test! She felt terrible for deceiving her father, but it was nothing compared to the guilt she felt over what she was going to do with the information he’d knowingly—and also unknowingly—just given her.
THE SKIMMER HER FATHER HAD spoken of ended up being a clever bit of diablerie that employed a diabolically altered jeweler’s loupe that allowed the eye to more quickly assess written passages. It was indeed just the sort of thing a cosmopolitan apprentice might hear about, and easily obtain, but Jane was not a cosmopolitan apprentice.
Creating a strike chain presented different problems, though they were more easily surmounted, at least for Jane. A strike chain was just a pendant a diabolist could hold over a text to determine whether it contained something useful to the diabolist’s will. Easy enough, save that the pendant itself had to be created from a part of the diabolist. And not only that, but a part sturdy enough to stand up to several applications of some pretty nasty pastes and solutions.
The book claimed the easiest to sacrifice was a tooth; Jane wasn’t so sure about that, though in the end that was her choice too. A bit of gauze soaked in diabolically infused clove oil packed the wound and healed it quickly enough that all she had to do was pretend to have a sore belly to cover her unwillingness to chew and swallow for a day, but there was no way around taking a pair of pliers and yanking it out to begin with.
There are no shortcuts to becoming a diabolist—only sacrifices. Her mother had said that to her many, many times over the years.
Now Jane knew, in reality, there were both.
It was worth it though. It was always worth it. All diablerie, from the simplest armamentarium to her new strike chain, gave Jane a sense of boundless, unceasing delight. It was the act of creating a miracle, and she never tired of it.
While the skimmer might have let Jane assess individual passages more rapidly, the strike chain let her know if her reading at any pace would be worthwhile. All she had to do was focus her will while holding the strike chain over a text; a clockwise spin of the tooth meant yes, counterclockwise no. Watching it start to shudder for the first time didn’t lessen the dull ache in Jane’s jaw, but it did make her feel as though all the pain and blood had been worth it.
In half an hour, Jane had a stack of books comprised of new titles, some she hadn’t seen yet, some that she’d already perused. But at least she knew they deserved her time, and she guessed—correctly, as it turned out—that once she got her thoughts more organized regarding what she wanted to achieve, she could use the strike chain to narrow her reading even further; even within a text.
The strike chain couldn’t invent new theory for her, nor could it assure her that what she wanted was possible for an apprentice to achieve. Regardless, for the first time since even before her disastrous Test, Jane was going to bed at night knowing she was finally making some real progress.