Creatures of Charm and Hunger Read online

  “Goodness no!” Jane put her hand on the top of Miriam’s head and physically turned it back to face the looking glass. “I just admire his ability to speak in complete sentences.”

  “I see,” said Miriam.

  The truth was, Jane had never fancied anyone, ever, and she didn’t think she ever would. In spite of what her mother might think, she felt nothing for Clark Gable or any other star of the silver screen. Jane’s interest in the cinema was academic, not romantic. Where else in Cumbria would she learn to act like a lady? The romance plots of films, for Jane, were always just a distraction from the tensions of a drawing room or the currents of a party sequence.

  “But if you did fancy him . . .” said Miriam.

  “Why, Miriam!” Jane pantomimed surprise. “Do you fancy Sam Nibley?”

  Miriam blushed. “No!”

  Jane leaned in, a shark’s smile on her lips.

  “Are you sure? ” she drawled.

  “Yes!” Miriam was now pale as a sheet. Jane genuinely couldn’t tell if her friend was feeling upset at being found out, or was mortified to be accused of something she did not feel. Either was possible, so Jane let the matter drop and turned her attention to the last few pins Miriam’s hair needed to stay in place.

  When she was done, she stepped back and looked Miriam over with an exaggerated critical gaze, hand on her chin.

  “I think you look marvelous,” Jane declared, “but how do you like it?”

  Miriam finally looked up from her twisting hands. “Oh! I barely recognize myself. It’s far too glamorous!”

  “Oh, stop. You look lovely.” The hairstyle wasn’t “glamorous” at all—it just showed off Miriam’s face rather than hiding it. “Now budge up and let me put myself together.”

  Jane spent an enjoyable half hour making herself ready anew. A very fidgety Miriam hung about as she did so. She was anxious and doing a poor job of pretending not to be.

  “All right,” said Jane, with a satisfied pat of her hair. “I think that’s all I can do.”

  “Let’s go down to the Library, then!”

  Miriam truly loved the Library—she would live down there if she could, Jane suspected. In fact, Jane was amazed Miriam had made small talk with her that afternoon instead of leaving her for the more solitary pleasures of its shelves and aisles.

  Jane, on the other hand, couldn’t bear the darkness or the quiet for very long. In summer, she wanted to be under a tree, a tatty blanket under her bottom and a picnic basket by her side; in winter, feeding the wood burner in the kitchen with a kettle singing in the background. That wasn’t to say she didn’t love the Library—she did. She’d been nursed within its walls, taken her first steps across its floor, and said her first words to the sigils and guardians that were some of the cavern’s oldest protections.

  Not for the first time, Jane wondered what the other residents of Hawkshead would think about this place. Most of them would simply be amazed to know a cave like this existed near them; nature enthusiasts would be a bit more unsettled to note that the curiously squared-off walls had been carved from no local slate or granite, but rather some decidedly imported tufa. The carvings were all authentic Etruscan, but it was a mystery whether its presence here, in Cumbria, was due to the efforts of ancient diabolists or more modern ones. They had records of its existence dating back to the fifteenth century but no further; no one knew how it had gotten there, but there it was, and the climate within always perfect for the preservation of the written word whether it be recorded upon paper, skin, or materials stranger yet. Not only that, but all attempts to move the Library had failed, and those few who had sought to destroy it had met with terrible fates—indeed, that had been the end of the diabolists’ organization previous to the Société.

  The Library also seemed to expand to accommodate new works, though interestingly its measurements remained the same whenever anyone tried to calculate its size. It was an astonishing work of diablerie, and Jane never failed to be moved by it. She just knew that there were other astonishing wonders out there in the world, and she wanted to see them, too.

  “Ah, girls!” Jane’s mother was in the process of receiving an ancient scroll through the Library’s Basque Lens, a tool used by every diabolist in the Société to send written messages over distances. The Basque Lens lay flat upon Nancy’s large oaken desk, and while it would indeed reflect the viewer’s face, it did so much more than that. Its surface had been infused with various diabolic essences and coated with layers of specific armamentaria, and once a Master made theirs, they could send written requests for chapters of books, or even entire volumes—from the Library, or from their fellow Masters. Merely press a scrap of paper bearing a message to a Basque Lens’s surface, and a perfect copy would appear upon the addressee’s.

  It was Nancy’s duty to keep up with fulfilling what requests came to the Library. It wasn’t as onerous a task as one might think, given most diabolists’ penchant for owning their own collection of rare volumes, but it still occupied the majority of her working hours.

  Miriam raced up to take a look at the pile of Library materials Nancy had been sending along to their recipients. Jane chose instead to wait patiently, though in truth she was just as full of nervous energy and longed to be already walking toward the village.

  Her patience was tested as everyone fumbled their way into their coats and their hats and mittens and scarves. No one was dawdling—not even Miriam, who tended to delay leaving the house as long as possible. Regardless, Jane was in agonies by the time they left, and barely able to keep herself from skipping ahead when the white cottages and the spire of the village church came into sight.

  “Here we are at last,” said Nancy, as they walked up to the low wooden doorway of the Queen’s Head, “and now you can relax, Jane! Next time, just put on a collar and bark at us the whole way if you’re going to herd us so ruthlessly!”

  Jane blushed. “I just thought we should be here when Edith arrives, not out of breath from rushing up at the last minute.”

  “We’re certainly not late,” remarked Nancy.

  “We could always pop over to the Lion and have a cup of tea,” said Miriam, her eyes angled longingly to the neighboring coaching inn.

  Nancy peered at Miriam. “They have tea at the Queen’s Head, and that is where we are to meet Edith. Does their tea not suit you?”

  Miriam shook her head. “No! I just thought it looked . . . a bit warmer, is all.”

  Jane managed to pretend her snort was just a cough. The village forge was behind the Red Lion, and that, of course, was where Sam worked. Miriam’s attempts to hide her interest in him were so clumsy, poor thing. Jane was just about to try to help her out by coming up with some reason, any reason, to amble past the forge, when Sam did them the favor by just appearing from the alley. He was carrying what looked to be, judging from the way his muscles were straining against the sleeves of his jumper, a very heavy box.

  Miriam startled like a colt when she saw him. Poor Miriam!

  “All right, ladies?” he said, with a smile that showed off his good teeth. “Are you in need of assistance?”

  “Hello, Sam,” said Nancy. “I can see why you would think we might be, what with us just standing in the street like three fools. I believe we were discussing whether the Lion would be warmer than the Queen’s Head. Have you an opinion on the matter?”

  Miriam could not look more miserable and humiliated as she stared at the tips of her muddy boots—which was why it was Jane who noticed that Sam’s eyes slid toward Miriam as he spoke.

  “The Lion is always a bit warmer,” he answered, confirming Jane’s suspicions; he said it to Miriam, not any of the rest of them. “At least, so it seems to me.”

  He trailed off as Nancy shrugged elaborately; Miriam still said nothing. Jane was just mulling over how to help out her friend when the rattle of her aunt’s stylish but finicky Citroën reached her ears.

  “There’s Edith!” she cried. A distraction would be the
best possible thing for all of them at that point.

  “I must be off,” said Sam, excusing himself as he walked on with his box, much to Miriam’s obvious relief.

  Edith hallooed at them, waving wildly with one hand as she steered with the other, much to the dismay of several villagers who were out and about on their various errands. Jane sighed to herself in envy; how she would love to be so noticed as she went through the world!

  “Why on earth are you all standing in the street!” cried Edith as she killed the engine and leaped out of the automobile. A very confused stable boy wandered out to accept her gloves when she handed them off to him.

  “I wish I knew,” said Nancy, embracing her sister. “Were we strange children? I can’t remember.”

  “The strangest!” declared Edith. “And you know it!”

  Edith stood out in any crowd, but today she looked the part of the glamorous Continental even more than usual. Her dark skin was set off beautifully by a black suit that looked very much like something a stylish recent widow might wear, complete with black hat and black lace veil. Jane almost moaned, looking at the jet beadwork.

  It was likely true what Nancy said—that given their rural location, it was a bad idea for any of them to “look like a witch.” Diabolists might not use magic, but they could be prosecuted for it, given the unusual and unchristian nature of the Art. But that was just another reason Jane had for wanting to leave the village. No one in a city would bat an eye to see a smartly dressed young woman attending a party all in black. At least, so it seemed from Edith’s accounts—and the movies Jane loved so much.

  “You girls can’t stop growing up, can you?” said Edith. Jane’s heart soared when Edith caught her eye and gave her a private, approving nod.

  “They won’t slow down even though I beg them,” said Nancy.

  There was no road to the old farmhouse, just a path, so Edith supervised the loading of her luggage into the mule cart and passed the driver a pound coin. He looked pleased and promised prompt delivery.

  “Brr, it’s cold,” she complained, as they began to walk. It was two miles from the village to their farm in the lonely countryside, over muddy paths dotted with frozen puddles. “How do you manage?”

  “It’s not so bad,” said Miriam, the picture of loyalty. “The house is very snug.”

  “It’s the Library I’m more worried about,” said Edith, shivering inside a long black greatcoat she’d pulled from somewhere; its dramatic collar and cinched waist gave her a silhouette that would not be out of place in an Erté. “It’s not exactly warm down there even if it’s dry. I’ll have to borrow some slippers so my toes don’t freeze during your Test!”

  “Test?” asked Miriam. She sounded as shocked as Jane felt. “Whose Test?”

  Edith pulled a bag of what looked like fancy sweets from her purse and popped one into her mouth. They were her method of keeping in touch with her demon Mercurialis, but to any non-diabolist it looked like nothing more than a woman indulging in a bit of candy.

  “Yours,” said Edith, matter-of-factly. “It’s time, according to Nance—but she couldn’t test you herself. She’d be too easy on you.” Edith’s dark eyes flashed wickedly as she took Jane’s hand and beckoned for Miriam to come along. “That’s why I’m here at this dreadful time of year. Don’t look so surprised, my dears, or at least don’t act so surprised. It slows you down, and I’m perishing for want of a hot cup of tea.”

  “Oh, of course we’ll have tea before you begin,” said Jane’s mother. “I even made a Victoria sandwich yesterday.”

  “I can’t imagine having enough eggs for cake!” Edith sighed happily, but as she looked from Jane to Miriam, she sobered somewhat. “Such long faces! And with cake awaiting us! Don’t worry, girls. You’ll do just fine! You’re ready!”

  “Ready for what, though?” asked Miriam.

  Jane had a different question, directed at both her mother and her aunt. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

  “Tradition,” said her mother.

  Jane scowled. Tradition was her least favorite reason for anything.

  “Think about it this way—we’ve saved you the trouble of worrying about it!” said Edith.

  Jane wasn’t so sure about all that. They still had the entire walk home before them, after all.

  And tea.

  3

  * * *

  NANCY BLACKWOOD’S VICTORIA SANDWICH had won a prize three years in a row at the Hawkshead village fête—and it might have won more if Nancy hadn’t stopped entering for the sake of the other bakers. War rationing meant Nancy baked less often these days, much to everyone’s regret, so a slice was always a treat. Today, however, the perfectly delicate sponge was like ashes in Jane’s mouth and the jam a cloying paste too sweet on her tongue. She could barely manage three bites.

  Edith was having no such troubles; she had already polished off a second helping and was just washing it down with the last of her tea.

  “If I can fit into any of my dresses by the end of this visit, it’ll be a miracle,” she said.

  “Nobody’s forcing you to have so much,” said Nancy.

  “You are,” said Edith, pressing the pad of her manicured forefinger into the crumbs. “There’s no cake like this in London—no cake like this in Paris, even. I think it has to be baked in the country to taste this good.”

  “Flatterer.” Nancy shooed her sister’s hand away from her plate. “Stop that and take these girls down to the Library. They both look like they’ll shed their skins if we put this off a moment longer.”

  Jane looked at Miriam, but there was nothing she could think to say. It was time.

  “Bring your tea,” said Edith.

  Jane’s had long ago gone cold. She shook her head; she’d had enough—but to her surprise, her mother poured her a fresh cup, and Miriam too.

  “Bring your tea,” said Nancy, and there was a bit of sternness to her tone.

  Jane took her cup and saucer. Miriam did too, similarly mystified.

  “Now, let’s get comfortable and talk about this Test,” said Edith, as she led them down the stairs to the Library. “No need to keep you in suspense any longer.”

  “Why keep us in suspense at all?” asked Jane.

  Edith’s sympathetic expression did little to mollify her when the reason was, of course: “Tradition, Jane. If anything important having to do with the Société ever seems byzantine or unnecessary or even just plain silly, just think to yourself, This is probably a tradition.”

  “I know! But—”

  “Questions later. For now, sit.”

  They stopped at a little reading area with comfortable chairs that surrounded a low table. Edith flung herself into a wingback and produced an eyedropper from somewhere upon her person. When Jane and Miriam set down their tea, she put a few drops in both cups.

  “Drink up,” she said. “Mandatory, sorry. It’s part of the Test.”

  “What is it?” asked Miriam, before Jane could even open her mouth.

  “Truth serum,” said Edith smoothly.

  “So we can’t cheat?” asked Miriam.

  “So that you cannot cheat yourself.” Edith’s response was irritatingly cryptic. Jane took the cup and drank it all in one swallow.

  Edith gave her an approving smile as Miriam rushed to catch up.

  “Now,” said Edith, “the Test is nothing like what you may have experienced in school. It’s not going to be me testing your knowledge of the Art. Instead, it will be a test you give yourself; or rather, you will be tested on your own willingness to become a diabolist.”

  “How?” asked Miriam.

  Edith didn’t reply. After a moment, Jane felt her stomach lurch—Edith wasn’t being coy, she wasn’t moving at all. She’d frozen in place, her darkly rouged lips parted to reveal straight teeth as she leaned against the left arm of the leather wingback chair. She didn’t blink, and when Jane stood to investigate, she didn’t appear to be breathing.

  “Miriam,” said Jane
, but Miriam didn’t answer.

  Miriam wasn’t there. She was gone as if she’d never been, and when Jane put her hand on the seat of the chair, it was cold.

  “Miriam?”

  She isn’t here.

  The answer came from somewhere inside Jane. It wasn’t a voice—she felt it, rather than hearing it; the words weren’t articulated so much as conveyed.

  She screamed.

  It’s all right. Please don’t worry.

  Jane’s wildly beating heart did not slow at this request. She felt faint as the tea sloshed gently in her heaving stomach and she fell to her knees. It wasn’t just the shocking sudden presence of whatever it was that now occupied her mind; it was how much of her mind it felt free to occupy. It was not only speaking to her with an expectation of a response—it was looking her over, pawing through her memories, her feelings, invading everything that made her Jane Blackwood. It was the most intimate thing she’d ever experienced, and she hated it so much. She felt she would rather die than endure it a moment longer.

  “Stop!” she cried. It was embarrassing, to be so exposed before someone, or rather some thing, she hadn’t given permission to look at her. How could her beloved aunt have betrayed her so utterly?

  Stop? But you invited me.

  “I didn’t!”

  You did. You summoned me; we made the Pact. Forever shall I be a part of you, Jane Blackwood, and you, me. Be not afraid! We shall work wondrous acts of diablerie together.

  Jane looked up, hoping her aunt might have come back to herself, but Edith was now gone, as was the chair she’d been sitting in. Jane was amazed to find herself in, of all places, a flat. A flat in a city Jane could not immediately identify from the bright skyline beyond her windows. She looked down and saw she was in a black dress that pulled across her breasts and her hips in a way that somehow gave her the illusion of curves. She was standing before a table with a black cloth softening its edges. Beakers and phials and bowls of powders had been set out—whoever was missing from this scene had been in the midst of some sort of diablerie.