THE DAGGERS OF SUNSHINE THAT stabbed through the pine boughs of the forest beyond the walls of the Nazi facility did nothing to warm up the sight of Miriam’s father’s corpse. His half-decomposed body remained a grim sight, the bones yellow in the winter daylight. Miriam could see a bit more of her father’s clothing now, too. The rough-spun, threadbare garment had clearly been issued to him, rather than self-selected. There was a tattered, faded patch with the same insignia she’d seen on the gates—the stylized, angular blossom within a halo of some sort, in Nazi black and red.
The bird to which Miriam had cleaved was the perching and twittering kind. To her surprise, it had been much more difficult to control than the fox or even the owl. All this bird wanted to do was to tell the world that spring was on its way and that it was ready for a mate—not go inspect a dead body or fly to a place full of men. But after a longer-than-expected struggle, Miriam won out over the bird’s will, and so off they went.
Miriam had decided her goal with this journey was reconnaissance. She flew hither and yon, trying to learn anything of interest. The few prisoners she saw knew nothing, and she could not bear to look upon their gaunt faces or listen to their ragged steps for long; it had been the well-fed, well-groomed officers, loathsome in their smart uniforms, who had yielded all the worthwhile information Miriam gleaned. From them she learned the location of the kitchens, the barracks, and the medical and scientific facility, which was the main focus of the operation. But it wasn’t until she caught sight of an unhappy-looking officer with a file folder under his arm that bore the same insignia from her father’s uniform that she really started to get somewhere.
Miriam flitted after him. A nurse sat at a desk just inside the door, and Miriam had a moment of panic—how would she get inside without being noticed? But her target unwittingly provided the answer by barking a question at the woman, distracting her enough that she did not notice the bird swooping in silently after him.
The man had asked for a Dr. Karl Querner—at least, Miriam thought that was the name. The officer was from Alsace, and his accent was thick.
“Ah, yes, Rottenführer,” the nurse said. “We have been expecting you. The Dark Lab is that way,” she said, pointing the officer toward an unmarked staircase going down, “but Dr. Querner is in the middle of an experiment; he doesn’t wish to be disturbed!”
The officer brightened momentarily to have his rank called out, but that didn’t stop his shoulders from slumping as he said, “I have my orders,” in a grim manner before marching off in the direction of the stairs.
Miriam had no idea what the Dark Lab was, but in spite of her curiosity, she didn’t follow the officer. She’d be too easily spotted in her current form. But while exploring the facility, she had seen a nest of paper wasps in an attic, for next time. That would be much better camouflage for her, though it would be an inconvenience to only be able to see and not hear.
Not wanting to abandon her songbird indoors, Miriam waited to see if the door would open again, allowing her to make her escape. As she perched on her beam, Miriam watched as a second nurse stopped by the desk. She asked after an officer.
“I’m sorry,” said the first. “We thought he had a chance when the fall didn’t kill him, but infection in his skull took hold. The claws of whatever attacked him must have been very dirty.”
Miriam lost control of the bird and felt herself returning to her body. Surely they must be speaking of the guard she herself had attacked when she’d been inside the owl . . .
She had, apparently, killed a man. Murdered him—and yet she felt nothing.
No remorse.
No joy.
Miriam’s shadow-self, that dark being deep within her that gladly claimed her anger and rage, agreed with her.
What was done was done.
The next morning, Miriam was ravenous. Jane had prepared a hearty fruit- and nut-laced oatmeal that was just what she needed. Miriam scraped her bowl clean—and even better, she and Jane managed to cajole Nancy into eating most of the portion she’d been served, which cheered both girls.
Once her stomach was full, Miriam mulled over the mysteries she’d left behind—the Dark Lab, Dr. Karl Querner, and more. She decided she would risk another attempt that afternoon. Though it had only been a short sleep since her last trip, she was feeling fairly lively. And while it was true that Badgerskin had cautioned her against doing exactly what she was thinking of doing, Miriam did not want to let the trail go cold. So, after breakfast, Miriam sidled down to the Library to raid the storeroom once again for liquid diabolic essence.
There wasn’t a lot left. She hadn’t been the only one raiding the supply closet. Jane’s project must need quite a lot . . .
She helped herself to a few bottles. If she was going to make any progress, she’d need to be bold.
Bold enough to cut deeper into her spirit, slice more of it away so that she could better control her hosts. Bold enough to venture down those shadowed stairs to see the Dark Lab of Dr. Querner. Bold enough to endure learning what happened to her father.
She would be bold. As to whether fortune would favor her, that she could not predict.
THE PAPER WASPS WERE AWAKE.
Miriam had been afraid they would be hibernating. The real challenge, however, proved to be figuring out how to jump out of the bird she had guided to the attic where they dwelt and not get immediately eaten the moment she left its body behind. That had been a serious miscalculation—Miriam had only considered the bird’s greater wingspan when she’d selected it, not its diet, and the first wasp she jumped into almost instantly ended up in her former host’s beak.
She had to make a quick second leap to escape death—both the wasp’s and her own.
Badgerskin had been quite clear about what would happen if a host creature died while the diabolist was inside of it. So she zipped to the door and crawled under it, away from the bird, and then down, down, down, keeping clear of anyone who might try to swat her.
Grateful the wasp did not resist her much, Miriam crawled on the ceiling past the nurses to draw as little attention as possible, then descended the yawning stairwell where the officer had gone.
At the bottom of the stairs, she encountered a steel door shut tight against intruders. There was no gap under it, as in the room above—but there was a keyhole, and it was just wide enough for her to wriggle through.
When Miriam emerged, she beheld a square, windowless room lit by oddly bright, very white electric bulbs that made everything look strange and sickly. In the center of the room was a metal desk that had a stark and cold look to it. It was covered in loose papers as well as folders and packets of more papers. At this desk sat a fair, lean, unwholesome-looking man with circular gold-framed spectacles. He was reading what looked like some kind of report or dossier. He seemed haunted, desperate as his bright blue eyes scanned the paper before him.
His wrinkled shirt also told a story—the fine cut of it coupled with the excellent quality of the jacket he’d slung over the back of his chair showed he was not usually so rumpled and harried.
It was not a Nazi uniform jacket. It was a suit jacket, such as a professional might wear, but around one sleeve was the telltale armband that made Miriam buzz her wings in anger.
In addition to the door she’d come through, there were three others, one on either side of the man’s desk and one on the far wall. Also on the far wall were cages with a veritable menagerie inside of them—a rabbit; some mice and rats; and a lithe, long creature with a sleek pelt, either an otter or a marten. All seemed dejected and defeated; the fight had long since gone out of them.
Miriam felt the door move beneath all six of her legs; she buzzed away to a dark corner as a robust sandy-haired woman in a starched nurse’s uniform appeared.
She was wearing a cattle prod at her waist.
The man—perhaps the aforementioned Dr. Querner—looked up but didn’t smile. He rubbed at his temple and said something. Miriam felt the vibration but could not interpret the sensation as words through her antennae.
Miriam was frustrated by the limitations of the wasp. These two seemed on intimate terms, from their posture and manner as they spoke to one another. The wasp body had gotten her down here, but it was failing her now that she needed information.
Miriam selected a mouse from the cages on the wall. It was so downtrodden, it didn’t flinch as the wasp came near it. Once she’d cleaved to the mouse, the small creature’s acute hearing served her well and she began to listen in.
“—wasn’t reckless,” said the man. “I knew Wolfram Braune personally; he’s the last person in the world I’d accuse of recklessness, and yet they’re saying this was entirely his fault.”
“How could it be his fault?”
“Ach, who knows?” Dr. Querner gave the woman a rueful smile. “These days, everyone is looking for someone to blame, are they not?”
“That is sadly true,” said the nurse. “I met Dr. Braune once, long ago. I was sorry to hear of his death.”
“And all his test subjects! It is terrible, Franzi. And it couldn’t come at a worse time.” The doctor rubbed his fair temples. “I had hoped that together Wolfram and I could make a difference.” He sighed. “I am glad they thought to send me his notes. It seems he recently gained some insights that may help with my next experiment on the Hunter sisters.”
Nurse Franzi’s plain face contorted into a sneer. “Even if you are unable to extract any specific diabolic essence from those little whores tomorrow, I am still grateful they are imprisoned here where they can do no further harm.”
“I fear ultimately for the worst, no matter what happens,” said Dr. Querner.
Miriam burned to know what on earth they were discussing. Extracting general diabolic essence from an animal subject was one thing, but specific essence? That was supposed to be impossible.
“It is not yet too late,” said Franzi. “There is always something that can be done.”
“Your faith is touching. I, too, hope so. At least we are doing all we can. And really, even if we lose, we have helped cleanse the world of many of its stains. That must be a comfort to us.”
“Have faith in yourself,” said the nurse. “You are the finest diabolist I have ever known. The Fatherland could be in no better hands. But of course I don’t mean to put it all on your shoulders, Dr. Querner—only to express my confidence in your ability.”
“I hope it is not misplaced,” he replied. “I would have said the same of Wolfram, once, and look what happened to him.”
The nurse turned to go, but Miriam was not ready for their conversation to end. Whatever Querner was up to, he thought there was still a possibility of success, however remote.
She had to know more. She had no time to hesitate, no time to think it through. This is why she’d screwed up her courage, using the veil knife to slice away her spiritual body’s entire left ear. If she was brave enough to do that, she was brave enough to be like Jane and act.
And so Miriam—in spite of what she’d read in Badgerskin—left her mouse body behind and cleaved to the nurse’s.
As she struggled to take possession of the nurse as she had the mouse, and the wasp, and the rest, Miriam felt a horror at herself that she never had before. With the animals, she had been able to deny what she was doing. With Nurse Franzi, there was no escaping the reality of her act. She had become a dybbuk, a possessing spirit sticking to someone else’s body.
She knew she didn’t have much time. She’d been away from her own body too long. But she could not squander this opportunity. Only by accident had she found this place at all, much less returned when Querner himself was present and talking.
Franzi turned back to the doctor, as was Miriam’s will.
“Have you been able to find out any more about what happened to Dr. Braune?” she asked.
“What’s that?” it was almost as if Dr. Querner had forgotten the nurse’s presence the moment she’d turned away from him. “Oh, of course. You wouldn’t have heard. Or, wait—didn’t you tell me that you’d heard the disaster was due to a kind of rescue attempt?”
Miriam thought fast. “I might have told you they suspected it, but I didn’t know it had been confirmed.”
Querner looked puzzled, then shook his head. “In any case, they—members of the Société des Éclairées, those degenerates—knew the location of Braune’s lab. That’s what he gets for setting up in a castle, I suppose. What a nightmare, and embarrassing—it seems the party was led by an African savage who had apparently divined a way to apply cosmetics that would change her appearance more dramatically than rouge and lipstick ordinarily can. She died, along with the rest, under the lamps.”
If there was anything that ought to be described as “savage,” it was Dr. Querner’s dispassionate tone as he recounted these horrors. Miriam stared at him in absolute terror, torn between grief—for who else could it be but her poor aunt Edith to whom Querner referred—and a fear-fueled curiosity that made her ask, “Lamps?”
Querner nodded. “Yes, a special lamp designed by Braune himself. We have them too,” he pointed at the very bright bulbs. “They combust diabolic matter when they come into contact with an otherwise harmless gas. Both laboratories were equipped with them just in case things went very wrong.”
“What a tragic loss of life,” said Miriam, and decided to take a risk. “But of course we have also had our setbacks. Egon Cantor . . .”
Dr. Querner nodded. “Ah, yes. I regret my haste with that one; he was a valuable test subject. I should have waited until I’d heard from Braune about the effectiveness of the crystal. I say, Franzi, are you feeling quite well?”
Miriam nodded to buy herself time. She had to set aside any feelings until she was done with the nurse. “I heard he was married to a German woman.”
“Oh, yes. Quite shocking, don’t you think?”
“Disgusting,” said Miriam. “Was she also a diabolist?”
“Yes, she was one of Braune’s test subjects. She died months before the rescue attempt.” Querner took off his glasses to stare at her keenly. “Why do you ask?”
Miriam panicked, her mind whirling in two directions. Her mother—also dead!
“Franzi?”
“What if they attack us, too?” she said. “The Société, I mean.”
“Ah,” said Dr. Querner. “I see. Rest easy, my dear. I sincerely doubt the Société has enough resources for another strike like that—and, anyway, if my experiment on the Hunter sisters tomorrow does not yield results, we won’t have to worry! The war will be over soon enough, and we’ll all be dead or on trial for our crimes. Just keep that in mind—I do. I find it helps me relax.”
“Thank you, doctor,” said Miriam, and then happily left, shutting the door behind her at Querner’s bidding. After it was shut, she waited for a moment, then ran all the way to the first landing of the stairs before realizing she could flee much farther, and more quickly, if she simply returned to her own body.
Leaving behind the nurse felt like inhaling after holding her breath for too long. It was such a relief to be back in her own skin that at first Miriam didn’t realize how depleted she felt.
Too soon it hit her. She’d had influenza once—this was far, far worse. Then, her skin had ached; now, it was as if every scrap of clothing she wore was flaying her when she made even the slightest movement. Yet she had to move—because sitting upon her chair was too painful to endure for more than a few moments. She felt the bite of the wood into her flesh. At least her stomach seemed to be all right—she’d been careful after that first attempt to never eat while spiritually abroad.
Her arm shook as she set down the mirror, flat, so the bowl could safely materialize at its leisure. Inside her skin, she felt her aching muscles; she was even aware of her bones and joints. In that moment, Miriam understood what it meant to be frail.
She had to keep her hand on the wall to steady herself, but eventually she managed to reach her bed and collapsed onto it. Shedding her clothes, or even her shoes or her cardigan, was beyond her power, as was getting under the covers. She fell asleep immediately.
By the time she woke, it was evening. She still felt bone-tired, but she could sit up without her eyes sliding out of focus. She was also extremely hungry.
Jane would likely be cooking at this hour, but Miriam wondered if she might be able to snag a bite of something before everything was ready. To that end, she straightened her clothes as best she could and ran her fingers through her hair. She still felt a bit groggy, however, so she went to the bathroom to splash some water on her face.
When she peered into the looking glass after drying her face with a towel, Miriam gasped. Someone else had been in the mirror looking out at her. But that was impossible . . . Heart pounding, Miriam looked again—and found it difficult to breathe at all.
While it was true that the mirror in the upstairs bathroom was more functional than flattering, there was very obviously something wrong with Miriam beyond the smeary nature of her reflection. She did not look like herself—or, rather, she appeared as if she’d been in bed for far longer than an afternoon, and stricken with a very serious ailment. Her eyes looked unhealthy, clouded, and beneath them were gray hollows that held shadows and secrets. Her lips were thinner, and likewise her skin had a waxy appearance to it—and when she leaned in closer, she spied several white hairs sprouting from the crown of her head.
Badgerskin had warned her. The body did not like to be separated from its soul. As Miriam looked at herself, she finally understood. Before, it had all seemed a bit vague, just hints of what might happen. A little accelerated aging didn’t seem so bad when it was all words on the page. Now, however, the stakes were laid bare—and it was time to make a choice.
Her parents were dead. It troubled Miriam that they had died as prisoners—victims. Neither heroes nor traitors. Not that it mattered. They were dead just the same.
She had the answers she’d set out to get. The choice was whether or not she would go back for other reasons.
She still wasn’t sure what Dr. Querner was trying to do, but he was trying to do something. Something big. It would be unconscionable to do nothing; she had to act, and quickly. Delaying long enough even to tell the Société might mean ruin.
She had to go back. As Miriam looked at herself in the mirror, she knew she wouldn’t be able to forgive herself if her weakness resulted in catastrophe—but she also knew she did not possess the power at the moment to control so much as an ant. She could barely find enough will to haul herself downstairs for dinner.
But she had to eat. Her body was screaming with hunger. After wrapping a scarf around her head to obscure her newly graying hair, she headed downstairs. She would claim to have a cold, so neither Jane nor Nancy would look at her too keenly.
Miriam padded into the kitchen, drawn by a savory smell. Nancy was staring off into space; she barely said hello. When Jane turned around, her expression went from neutral to outright alarmed. Miriam’s heart sank. She would not escape this meal unquestioned.
“There you are at last,” Jane said brightly. “Dinner’s almost ready!”
Miriam went over to the pot of stew and sniffed with genuine enthusiasm.
“Smells great,” she said.
Miriam tucked in as soon as her bowl was cool enough. She’d never tasted anything so exquisite, not even the first supper she’d eaten on English soil after crossing the channel. Jane’s stew had a succulence to it that Miriam suspected might have been lost on her had she been less hungry. She didn’t care; indeed, she got herself a second helping before Jane had finished her first and before Nancy had even picked out a few morsels of mutton.
The questioning came after Nancy toddled off. Miriam set to work washing the dishes, even if she wished she could save them until tomorrow.
Jane hung around, tidying things that were not hers to tidy. Miriam let her, coming up with a few replies to such questions that she thought Jane might ask: just a cold, didn’t sleep well last night and napped too long; no, nothing’s wrong. But when Jane finally worked up the nerve to sidle up to the counter and speak, she didn’t say at all what Miriam expected her to.
“So . . .” Jane seemed uncomfortable. “How are you, Miriam?”
“I’m a bit tired,” said Miriam, telling the truth. “A long day of research.”
“Research.” Jane didn’t sound impressed. “Is that all?”
Miriam turned to Jane, resigned to discussing her appearance. She’d been a fool to think she could hide something like this. “Say what you have to say.”
Jane hesitated before once again saying something Miriam did not anticipate: “I went into town today when you were in your room. I ran into Sam.”
Miriam said nothing for a moment as she collected her scattered thoughts. She had put Sam out of her mind entirely after that afternoon. He was irrelevant, an indistinct background figure in the larger picture of her life. His rudeness to her was unfortunate, but people were dying—and more would perish if she didn’t concentrate on thwarting Querner.
“I’m so sorry. I thought he was better than that,” said Jane, when the silence stretched into an awkward length.
“Better than what?” asked Miriam.
“That he wouldn’t see you as . . .” Jane looked nervous. “For shuttering his heart against you just because you—you’re . . .”
“I’m what?” said Miriam. She knew none of this was Jane’s fault, but at the same time none of it was Jane’s business, either. Miriam was tired, and she was cranky, and she was rapidly becoming angry. She’d heard enough about who was who and what was what today.
Jane was blushing mightily.
The strain got to Miriam a bit in that moment. “Say it,” she demanded, raising her voice a little. “Don’t be a coward, Jane. Say what you’re thinking.”
“Miriam . . .”
“Say it!”
“Because you’re Jewish,” whispered Jane.
“Only because you and everyone else have decided that!”
Miriam hadn’t meant to snarl this truth that was also a lie, but snarl she did. All the frustration she’d felt for years—all the rage that had been simmering, it suddenly boiled over as she spat this at her best friend.
She was angry that Jane couldn’t understand, that none of them could understand what it meant to be caught in the strange middle space of not being Jewish at all in the eyes of other Jews, but still Jewish enough to be sent to a camp and gassed with the rest. They could not perceive the strain of living with that nagging sense of having nowhere in the world she truly belonged, no people who would claim her. Jane, Sam, everyone else—they thought it was easy to put her in a box, whereas Miriam constantly felt like she had been chopped to pieces and packed away into a million crates.
“You girls have a good night.”
Nancy stood in the doorway of the kitchen, serene and beatific. If she hadn’t yet gone downstairs to read and ponder, she must have heard Miriam, loud as she had been. Yet here she was, smiling as if nothing had happened.
“Don’t stay up too late,” she said, like any other mother might.
The thing was, Nancy was not every other mother.
“We won’t,” said the girls, in unison.
Satisfied, Nancy headed for the Library, leaving them with yet another long and painful silence that neither Miriam nor Jane knew how to fill.