AFTER HER LATE NIGHT OF trying out her new broom for the first time, Jane was glad that Miriam elected to spend her day quietly in her own room, locked away doing whatever she was doing behind her closed door. She, too, was in need of rest and quiet. It wasn’t just the exhaustion of being up too late, either—her arms and shoulders were surprisingly sore, and her bottom ached where the wood of the broom had chafed her. She also was horrified to find a bit of windburn on her cheeks. Jane hadn’t thought about that; she’d have to prepare accordingly for future flights.
And there would be future flights. Sore arms and bottom be damned—the pain only added to her pleasure, every ache a fond memory of the euphoric sensations she had experienced the night before.
Jane would never give up her broom, not now. Given her familiar’s role in the matter, that meant never giving up Smudge, either. But Jane felt increasingly more comfortable with that idea.
Yes, she missed Smudge or, rather, the way Smudge used to be—she’d adored that cat, nuisance though he had surely been. But Smudge as he was now was undeniably more useful. And friendly. And he also let her sleep all the way through the night without waking her up for no reason beyond that he was bored.
Being tired always made Jane snappish and fumble-brained, so she had decided to walk into the village rather than attempt any of the more intellectual work she had waiting. And it was a thoroughly decent day, for early March at least, and they needed some items from the grocer’s.
Smudge came along with Jane, surprising her. While he had always enjoyed patrolling the grounds around the farmhouse, to her knowledge he’d never expressed any interest in the world beyond the tumbledown fence that encircled their property. Today, however, he ran out the gate in front of her, tail held triumphantly high. Jane had a momentary impulse to grab him by the scruff and hurl him back inside their property, but then she remembered he wasn’t really a cat anymore. She didn’t need to protect him.
“I bet you have talents you haven’t yet revealed to me,” Jane said, as they trudged across the muddy countryside.
“Meow,” agreed Smudge.
This response reminded Jane that she was headed into a populated area. At first, Jane walked on, grinning as she contemplated how annoyed her mother would be by the idea of her waltzing into Hawkshead with her familiar in tow. We’re not witches, indeed!
But then Jane started to think on just how truly bizarre it would appear to the residents of the village to see her accompanied by a cat that obeyed her every command. Jane wanted to stand out; she didn’t wish to be a spectacle.
“Smudge,” she said, as they padded ever onward, “you must stay out of sight while I’m in town.”
“Meow,” he said, in an agreeable tone. But Jane wanted more.
“I mean it,” she said as they rambled onward. “I told you my mother would be extremely upset to learn of you and your existence. That goes double—no, triple—for the people of our little village. I can’t say it strongly enough. No one must know—or even suspect—that you exist.”
“Meow,” said Smudge, in a tone that said I know as clearly as if he had articulated it.
“All right,” said Jane. “I like having you here with me . . . I just worry.”
“Meow,” said Smudge, and that was the end of it.
The cat was as good as his word, keeping out of sight as Jane visited the grocer’s and then the milliner’s. He was there—every minute she spent shopping, every moment she talked to each acquaintance. But she would have known that, even if she hadn’t seen the tip of his gray tail as he scooted across a windowsill, or recognized him as he sat nonchalantly in the doorway of the Queen’s Head. She’d always been aware of her cat, but now she felt his presence in a way she never had before.
Smudge was lurking just out of sight beyond a low stone wall when Jane ran into Sam Nibley as he stepped out of the forge to get some air. She hadn’t meant to be anywhere near him, but Hawkshead was a small village.
She blushed, annoyed by his disloyalty to Miriam and her own behavior the day he’d delivered the mirror; for his part, he flinched and looked the other way when he noticed her.
No, that would not do. Jane walked over to him, with the intention to apologize.
And, if possible, to instigate a conversation where she could fish for information about what business Sam had been conducting so late at night, in the woods, with someone other than Miriam.
“Sam,” said Jane, “I’d like to apologize. The last time I saw you, I wasn’t myself. Do forgive me.”
Sam turned around. “Oh,” he said, seeming surprised, “it’s all right.”
“Thank you,” she said, and then made her gamble: “I ought to be getting back. My mother and Miriam will be expecting me.”
Sam blushed a little at the mention of Miriam’s name; Jane raised her eyebrows at him.
“So, you two . . .” she said, affecting as warm of a conspiratorial tone.
“Us two?” Sam suddenly looked annoyed rather than sheepish. “What us two is this?”
“Oh,” said Jane, surprised. “I just assumed . . .”
“She’s not interested in me!” Jane was shocked by this statement. Of course Miriam was interested in Sam! She couldn’t imagine what might have happened between them to give him such a strangely inaccurate impression. “Or at least what I can offer her.”
Offer her?
Had Sam proposed marriage? Had Miriam rejected him?
Jane wasn’t sure how to proceed. On one hand, it might seem odd to Sam that Jane was unaware of whatever was happening, but perhaps she could also use that to her advantage.
“I’m astonished,” she said. “Miriam said nothing about a quarrel between you two!”
“She didn’t?” Sam, too, was surprised, but there was something else there, some other emotion Jane could not interpret.
“Maybe she is hopeful you two will reconcile?”
“I’d be surprised,” said Sam wryly. “I’m not sure what could possibly change, after all. If she can’t understand that I can’t give her the life she’s dreaming of, what else is there to say?”
The life she’s dreaming of . . . Jane was running out of ways to describe her feelings of bewilderment. It sounded to her like this was over money! But that didn’t seem like Miriam. What could she need so badly that she would dismiss Sam from her life for not being able to provide it? It was beyond Jane’s ability to imagine.
“I’m very sorry to hear it,” said Jane.
“So was I,” said Sam. “But she is who she is, and I am who I am, and we just have to accept that, I suppose.”
“I suppose,” said Jane.
“Why do you ask, though?” asked Sam.
“Excuse me?”
“Why are you asking me about Miriam?”
Sam took a step closer. It wasn’t the most familiar thing he could have done, but it alarmed her just the same. Something about his body language, the way he closed a little of the distance between them—it implied there was something conspiratorial between them, or that he would like there to be.
Jane shrugged. “Sometimes it’s hard to accept that I am who I am, and she is who she is,” she said, echoing Sam’s earlier remark.
“You have no idea how much I wish things were different. You of all people must understand that,” said Sam, stepping even closer. “You live with her. There’s just something different about her—about them.”
“Them?” Jane had thought they were speaking of Miriam’s personality—the things that made her unique, and at times uniquely frustrating. Now she realized they were having a very different conversation than she had assumed, and she felt horrified to have participated in it for even a moment.
“You know what I mean. They’re different from us.”
“They still rise with the sun and go to sleep beneath the moon. They still eat meals together at the beginning, middle, and end of the day. They still are born, grow up, get married, have children, and—”
“Jane, they want to be different. They hold themselves apart. I’m not saying the Boche are right to be doing what they’re doing. I’m all for leaving them in peace. Within reason. They shouldn’t be allowed to cheat and swindle anyone, but neither should anyone else of course. It’s just that they—”
“I’ve heard enough,” said Jane giving him an absolutely disgusted look. “You should be ashamed of yourself, Sam Nibley—talking like this. They”—she drew the word out to shame him—“are no different. Any lines that might exist get blurred all the time,” she said, thinking of Miriam’s parents; her anxieties over her Jewishness. “You’re just a bigot, and I think I can perceive what you really meant when you said you can’t give her a life.”
“I was honest with her,” said Sam sourly.
Jane looked down her nose at him and said, “I’m sure you were.”
And with that she took her leave of Sam, beginning her journey home not along the road, but the long way, through the gates of the sheep fields beyond the town. She needed to be alone with her thoughts.
SHE WAS NOT ALONE for long. Smudge rejoined Jane as she shut the second gate behind her, leaping onto the wooden beam of the fence as she passed it by. Jane shrieked, and then scolded the cat as he sat there looking pleased with himself.
In the heat of the moment, Jane had forgotten Smudge—but Smudge did not forget, of course. He couldn’t; he had to stick close to her. She’d put that in the summoning, though she wondered now what a demon’s definition of “close” might be. She should have defined that better . . .
That’s when she noticed Smudge’s paws weren’t muddy.
Her own boots were in a shocking state, for the road to Hawkshead had been wet and unpleasant. Now, heading home the long way round, she would really have her work cut out for her when she sat down to clean them.
Where had Smudge been, she wondered, that his paws had stayed so tidy?
These thoughts unsettled her, drawing her mind away from what had happened with Sam. She began to rethink Smudge’s summoning as she hauled her groceries up and over the hills, thinking over any other instances of nonspecific language. Of course, time had worn smooth the edges of her memory; without the transcript in front of her, she couldn’t quite be certain she’d done everything else correctly. But neither could she stop worrying about it, and whether it had anything to do with the pristine state of Smudge’s paws, all the way home.
The house was just as quiet as when she’d left it, so Jane dropped off her groceries and hustled upstairs to look over her notes from when she’d bound the Ceaseless Connoisseur to her cat. Other than the possible imprecision of “close” as a descriptor, the language still seemed fairly iron-clad to her.
Smudge was sworn to come when she called and remain “close” to her at all times. Surely even a demon could not find any sort of sinister loophole in that. And in any case, Smudge wasn’t malicious. He’d proven himself to be loyal and helpful more than once.
“All right, Smudge?” she asked. The cat was once again right by her feet.
“Meow,” he answered.
If only conversations with Miriam could be so predictable.
While chopping, Jane mulled over whether she ought to tell her friend she’d talked to Sam. It was a delicate situation. It was true that Miriam had asked her to be a listening ear the other evening, but it hadn’t been regarding her thoughts about Sam; no, it had been about Nancy’s strange behavior.
When the potatoes turned golden in the butter and the carrots had sufficiently softened, Jane tossed them into the stew pot with the browned beef. She was proud of how her cooking had improved, and didn’t mind doing it as much as she’d thought she might. After all, when she was on her own one day, a cosmopolitan young woman living abroad, she would need to cook for herself occasionally—or for a guest. Several films she’d seen at the theatre in Ambleside had given her that impression anyway.
The sound of Miriam’s tread on the step brought Jane out of these thoughts, and she turned without knowing what she’d end up saying about Sam. That’s when she caught sight of Miriam, and only her study of the uncanny poise of the great actresses she so idolized saved her from gasping.
Jane had never been so frightened in her life, looking at Miriam. Her arms and the back of her neck prickled as the hairs rose, and her limbs seemed to freeze where they were. She fought for control and when she got it, she smiled and turned back to stir the stew as if nothing had happened.
“There you are at last!” she managed to say. “Dinner’s almost ready.”
Whatever her friend had been doing up in her room that day, it had changed her physically; but looking at Miriam, Jane got the sense she had likely been altered in other, less perceivable ways. She was obviously the same person, but she did not look at all like herself.
Jane sneaked another glance. It wasn’t necessarily that Miriam appeared older, though some gray hairs peeked out of a sort of head wrap Miriam had attempted in order to conceal the shocking change. It was more as if Miriam had withered. The petals of the freshest bloom would fall if left without water, and that’s what Miriam looked like.
It had to have been something diabolic—some experiment gone wrong. But what could Miriam have done that would result in such terrible consequences? She was little more than an apprentice!
Jane’s eyes slid to Smudge. Being “little more than an apprentice” didn’t mean so very much, it seemed.
“Smells great,” said Miriam, sliding into her chair.
“Thank you, I’m glad,” said Jane automatically.
It was obvious from her scarf that Miriam did not wish to have her appearance remarked upon, and that was just fine by Jane. She could scarcely look at her friend without feeling a shuddering sense of horror, much less talk to her, and given that Nancy was in the room, there was no question of bringing it up.
But later, after her mother had departed and Miriam was wiping the plates, Jane forced herself to conquer her fear and broach the subject. But she found even just approaching the topic taxed her considerably.
“So . . .” she said. “How are you, Miriam?”
“A bit tired” was Miriam’s answer, as if that explained her appearance—but even her voice sounded wrong; there was a rattle in her chest, as if every word came from deep within her.
Looking at Miriam was like staring at a terrible wound, or a dying person. The sensation her visage evoked in Jane was fear, plain and simple—the deepest and most profound fear of them all: the sight of a yawning grave.
Jane tried to make a little small talk, but she could not bring herself to ask what Miriam had done that had caused this to happen to her. She wanted desperately to know, but she also was too afraid to ask. What if Miriam had been doing something even more forbidden than summoning a familiar?
The Société also forbade many other acts, including one that outsiders might call necromancy; the dead were the dead, and no good ever came of trying to bring them back. If Miriam was trifling with something like that . . .
Jane’s mouth had been making sounds that were something like conversation, but Miriam had clearly noticed her fumbling. Jane panicked, knowing she had to come up with some reason to have begun the conversation in the first place.
“Say what you have to say,” said Miriam.
“I went into town today when you were in your room. I ran into Sam.” She blurted it out inelegantly. Miriam’s expression shifted from suspicious to annoyed as Jane went on. “I’m so sorry. I thought he was better than that.”
She trailed off when it became obvious that Miriam wasn’t upset, she was angry. Furious. While she might appear weak and sickly, there was still fire burning deep inside her, fire that came out and burned Jane as they quarreled.
Only when Jane’s mother toddled into the kitchen to woozily wish them a good night was Jane given a moment to recover her wits. Truly, the conversation could not have gone worse; she had had the best of intentions going in, but now everything was ruined. Whatever impulse had sent Miriam upstairs to knock on Jane’s door and seek her confidence the other night would not manifest again.
“It wasn’t your place to talk to Sam,” said Miriam. “About me,” she added when Jane opened her mouth to protest. “Who I am is my business, and your opinions about it—your and Sam’s opinions—don’t matter. They don’t matter at all! So talk to him about whatever you like—just leave me out of it!”
“I don’t want to talk to him ever again,” said Jane. “Sam and I are not friends, Miriam. If he hadn’t come out of the forge when I was standing in the lane, I doubt he would have spoken to me at all. And I know I wouldn’t have stopped him in the street for love or money.”
“You needn’t give him the cut direct on my account,” said Miriam, in such a lofty, superior manner that Jane had to give her credit; she filed away Miriam’s posture, tone, and turn of phrase to use at some later date. “Things could never work out between us, and we both know it.”
“But it’s unfair,” argued Jane.
“How?” Miriam scoffed at her a little, and for the first time Jane understood how Miriam must feel when Jane was channeling her inner Joan Crawford. “Men and women reject lovers all the time, and for any number of reasons, personal or otherwise. We did not suit one another, that’s all.”
“But the reason for it . . .” Jane didn’t understand why Miriam wasn’t more annoyed about Sam’s obvious and despicable bigotry. “That’s something a little different, don’t you think?”
“Not really,” said Miriam. She almost growled this, and Jane took a step back. “It’s just like anything else—say, taste in music, or ideas about politics.”
“I disagree,” said Jane, “especially if . . . I mean if you don’t think you’re . . . why should he care?”
“It’s not a dirty word!”
“I know it’s not.” Jane was pleading with her friend now. She was so worried about Miriam—how could anyone not be!—and she was completely and utterly destroying any chance she might have of helping her. “Miriam—please. I know I’ve misunderstood things before, with your faith—upbringing—whatever you want to call it . . . but what you’ve told me—”
“My upbringing was to be a diabolist, same as you,” said Miriam coldly. “That’s what we were, first and foremost. The Art was our everything. I was taught the Seven Elements rhyme and the mnemonic device for the Diabolic Bases and Diabolic Acids along with the Kiddush and the Lord’s Prayer.”
“Exactly,” said Jane. “That’s my point! I don’t know what Sam said to you, and I certainly didn’t mean to rub it in, if I did. I just hated to hear he was so rude and unkind. And before you say a word, there’s no polite, kind way to voice sentiments such as the ones he holds.”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Miriam. “Honestly, Jane. It’s the least important thing in the entire world right now.”
“What’s the most important thing, then?” Jane didn’t clarify her remarks—Miriam knew exactly what she meant. “What’s so important that you’d—” Miriam finally looked up, and Jane had to stop herself from shrinking back.
“Don’t ask me that.” Miriam was slouching into herself even more now. “Don’t ask me because if you do, I’ll tell you, and if I tell you, you’ll try to make me stop, and I can’t. Not yet. I can stop soon, but not before I do something, or at least try to do it.”
What could Jane say except “Okay.” So she did, but then she asked, “Will you be all right?”
“Eventually.” Miriam didn’t sound too sure of what she said. “I think. Look, either it’ll be fine, or it’ll be worth it not being fine. Does that make sense?”
Jane took Miriam’s hand in hers and squeezed it. “This—what you’re doing—it isn’t for your Practical, is it?”
Miriam shook her head no, and Jane suddenly felt about five years old. She was used to feeling like the mature, sophisticated one, but as it turned out, as she’d been obsessing over what amounted to doing well in school, Miriam had been off doing something that seemed awfully important.
“I know I look ghastly,” said Miriam.
“I’m worried for your health.”
“I know,” said Miriam. “But I think I know what I’m doing. The thing is . . . I’m not exactly following the directions as written on the package,” she said, with a quick grin that did much to make her look like she had mere hours before.
“I see,” said Jane. “Oh, Miriam, I hate that we’ve been quarreling for ages. Can’t we make up? I’ll start—I’m sorry I hurt you. I never wanted to. I just can’t help but be who I am.”
Jane bit her lip. This was likely neither the time nor the place for a sisterly reconciliation, but Miriam didn’t seem annoyed.
“I know,” she whispered. “But neither can I.”
“I wouldn’t want you to be anyone other than who you are!”
“Nor I you. But that doesn’t mean I can’t have feelings or opinions. I don’t want you to leave, Jane—but that doesn’t mean I want you to stay!”
Jane finally understood. “I’m sorry,” she said. “And as for what you’re doing . . . I’ll only say good luck.”
“Thank you,” said Miriam. “I appreciate you not prying.”
“Of course,” said Jane.
Something had changed between them for the better; Jane felt it as surely as she felt the wind on her cheeks when, later that night, she got on her broom to spy on Miriam through her window after they’d both allegedly gone to bed. She had agreed not to pry, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t try to figure out what Miriam was up to.
But all Miriam was up to was sleeping. She was already in bed when Jane peered in through the sheer curtain. A candle burned low by her bedside, and Miriam was still wearing her cardigan and skirt. Jane watched on until the candle burned itself out, just to be safe, and then went to bed herself.
THE NEXT MORNING, MIRIAM ASKED JANE to make sure she wouldn’t be disturbed. Jane was thrilled to agree, not just because Miriam was confiding in her. It was easier to spy when she knew she ought to be spying.
It was a bright, cold day outside. Jane watched the skies off and on for an hour, hoping for some clouds or even a drizzle, but it was hopeless. She would have to risk riding her broom in full daylight, when anyone could come up the path and see her. She didn’t have any other options for discreet spying; they didn’t even have a ladder tall enough to reach Miriam’s window.
At least Miriam’s room was at the back of the house, and they had no close neighbors. Jane thought of it as a calculated risk when she mounted her broom and floated up to Miriam’s window.
It occurred to Jane that she wasn’t worried about Nancy discovering her—only strangers. She knew her mother would be down in the Library, doing whatever she did.
Jane wasn’t sure what she’d expected to see, but it certainly wasn’t Miriam just sitting at her desk staring into a mirror. But as Jane continued to watch, she noticed Miriam wasn’t moving, not at all. She sat frozen, back straight, feet planted firmly on the floor. Her other hand, dangling by her side, held an unadorned knife that glinted dully as a ray of the cold sunshine filtered through the gap in her sheer curtains.
“What on earth,” murmured Jane as she looked on for a few moments more.
Smudge had been nestled in what lap Jane had while sitting on her broom. As Jane watched, he stood, though Jane hissed at him to be still.
For once, her familiar did not obey. He pulled a complicated maneuver while maintaining physical contact with her, rearranging himself to face her. Then he nuzzled her chin with his cheek.
Jane couldn’t rub at her nose to get the fur off it, which was maddening. “Smudge,” she whispered. “Stop that!”
“Meow,” said Smudge, still standing. And it was Smudge—Smudge as he had been. These days, he was so helpful, so well behaved, that if not for the fact that she was still hovering on her broom outside a second-story window, Jane would have suspected the demon had departed without her blessing.
“What are you doing!” she hissed at him, craning her neck to try to see past the bulk of his not-insubstantial rear and curling, fluffy tail. “I’m trying to . . . oh!”
As for that tail, it was curled in the shape of a shepherd’s crook, or perhaps a magnifying glass. And when Jane looked through it, she saw something even stranger—a ghostly double of Miriam hovering just above her body.
This apparition also stared at the mirror, but it was not posed the same way—no, it was sitting cross-legged in the air, and while a spectral copy of the knife still depended from its hand, in the other, it didn’t hold the mirror. Jane didn’t think it could hold anything, even something insubstantial. The arm was missing much of what passed for its flesh. Jagged swaths of skin and muscle were missing; exposed bone peeked through. Jane was briefly confused to see that apparently ghosts had bones, but quickly the horror set in—that was Miriam’s arm, and those were Miriam’s bones, and while that flesh might not be her actual flesh, it still didn’t seem wise to carve it away.
For the life of her, Jane had no idea what Miriam could possibly be up to—but whatever it was, it didn’t seem to be particularly safe. Nor did it seem to be ending; unfortunate for Jane and her plans to spy. But it was simply too risky to watch for long, what with her looking through the window sitting on a broomstick, her familiar helping her see beyond what she could see with just her eyes. So Jane descended and retired to her room. She kept the door open so she’d hear Miriam when she came back.
She would just have to wait.
SHE HAD TO WAIT a long time.