“I NEED TO USE THE LAB TODAY,” Jane said over breakfast the next morning, as Miriam picked at her toast and Nancy ate nothing at all. Her mother’s presence at the table was becoming largely a formality.
“Of course,” said Nancy, without looking up. “Have fun, dear.”
Have fun, dear was such an odd thing for her to say that even Miriam looked up from her toast, brow furrowed. It wasn’t just the platitude that seemed unlike her—it was the comfort with Jane’s nonspecificity. Normally, Nancy would ask for clarification—when and for how long—even if she had no need of the lab. She typically just liked to know.
“I’ll start right after breakfast. I’m not sure how long I’ll take,” Jane volunteered, hoping to provoke a more normal response.
Nancy smiled. “Anything’s fine, unless Miriam needs to use it, of course. You must share.”
“I don’t need the lab today,” said Miriam. She looked as concerned as Jane felt.
“Perfect.” Nancy stood. “Have a good day, girls.”
“Mother,” said Jane, “don’t you want any of your breakfast?”
“Oh.” Nancy looked in surprise at her untouched plate. Jane didn’t think the cooled eggs looked particularly enticing, but surely her mother should eat something. Nancy was the one who had drilled into them how important it was not to waste food—ever, and certainly not with rationing.
“Are you feeling all right?” asked Jane.
“Of course,” said Nancy, standing up a bit straighter. “Why do you ask?”
Jane didn’t know what to say, but for once, Miriam stepped up.
“You love breakfast,” she said. This was true. “You once said I had to learn to eat more in the mornings if I was going to live in England.”
“My mind was on my work, it’s true.” Jane was relieved to see her mother snap out of her reverie a bit. “And look, I’ve let these nice eggs get cold. I’m sorry, Jane—how rude of me. Perhaps Smudge would like them? The eggs I mean, I’m not sure if he ought to have bacon.”
“He can have the eggs if he wants them,” said Jane. “The bacon we’ll save for lunch. But what will you have now?”
Nancy set down her book and buttered her toast before wrapping it in a napkin. “I’ll take this with me,” she said. “And I’ll eat it, I promise.” She smiled at them both. “How lucky I am to have two girls who look after me. What would I do without you?”
She had obviously meant it kindly, but it struck Jane as ominous. Miriam did too, from her expression. But when Nancy took her leave of them, napkin in one hand and book under her arm, Miriam only said, “I’ll get the dishes,” and nothing more. Unsure what to think about that, Jane thanked her for her help and then went down to the lab.
Jane had rendered diabolic materials down for their essences so many times, she barely had to check her notes about the details—though of course she did, just to be sure.
She also wanted to draw it out a bit. She was enjoying the sensations she was experiencing. She felt good standing in front of the mix of scientific glass and carven wooden boxes before her on the table; the sense of contentment grew when she filled braziers with coals and incense and lit her Bunsen burner. She even caught herself humming as she set two pillowcases stuffed full to bursting with cat hair and a jar packed with nail clippings on the counter.
Smudge leaped up beside them. Jane moved to shoo him only to recall that Smudge would not be twining himself around her equipment or knocking her ingredients to the ground anymore. Indeed, he simply settled himself in a low crouch, elbows and hips poking up above his back, and watched.
Something behind him caught Jane’s eye, but it had been such a tiny flutter of motion that it might have been a trick of the light. It had seemed like Smudge’s ears had flickered differently on the wall than they had on his head, but that was of course impossible . . .
“All right, Smudge?” she said, and the tip of the cat’s tail twitched in response, with an answering, identical twitch from the one cast on the wall. Jane went back to work with a lighter heart.
She wasn’t just figuring out how to fly. She was proving there was more than one way to be a diabolist. She lived in a library, but she didn’t have to do things by the book.
The fizzing and dripping and crackling and finally the hissing of rendering diabolic essence was music to Jane’s ears. She had a little warming pad beneath the metal bowl into which the distillate dropped, and as it evaporated, it left behind the residue she needed for the liniment.
It produced a lot of residue—the potency of the hair was absurd. When Jane noticed, she glanced at the cat. He’d settled into a kind of loaf, his feet tucked up under his body, his eyes mere slits. Was it her imagination how pleased he looked with himself, as she used a soft brush to sweep every last bit of rendered essence into an old jam jar? Somehow, Jane didn’t think so.
Jane reached out to scratch the cat under his ears and beneath his chin, as Smudge had always liked. The animal accepted the tribute of affection, seeming even more content than usual, nuzzling himself into her hand and prompting her with low yowls of pleasure. Probably the influence of the Connoisseur . . .
Jane wondered about the age of the being inside this cat—how much it had seen, what it had experienced, here, in this world, and in its own. And yet here it was, hedonistically enjoying a chin rub. She felt a chill, thinking about it—but when she withdrew her hand, the cat demanded more attention, and what could she do but oblige?
We’re not witches, Jane.
And yet, here Jane was, petting her familiar.
Jane turned back to her operation, feeling as smug as Smudge looked at how much diabolic essence she’d accumulated. At this point, she’d soon have sufficient quantity to begin compounding the liniment that would, hopefully, be the method by which she would achieve her cherished dream of soaring through the night sky astride her broom.