Creatures of Charm and Hunger Read online

  “I wouldn’t want to impose,” said Miriam. “I know I’ll have to work hard; I wouldn’t want it to seem like you were playing favorites.”

  Jane resisted the urge to punctuate this remark with an ironic snort.

  “Everyone knows how hard you work,” said Nancy warmly. “You’re a brilliant apprentice, and you’ll be a brilliant Master. My colleagues are already discussing your potential.”

  “How would they even know of me?” Miriam looked downright panicked now.

  “Oh, I’ve often spoken of your abilities,” said Nancy.

  Jane experienced an uncomfortable mix of feelings as she listened to this exchange. She knew Miriam often felt like she was intruding, but this entire conversation was evidence that she was as much a part of the Blackwood family as if she’d been born into it—more, even, said a small mean voice in Jane’s head. So, while Jane was glad to see her friend relax upon hearing she’d always have a home in the little farmhouse outside Hawkshead, it upset her deeply to hear her mother come out so strongly in favor of Miriam’s abilities after expressing doubt over her own.

  That the doubt was apparently reasonable was the injury added to the insult.

  “I just don’t want to leave before I’ve learned everything I can,” said Miriam, almost stumbling over the words, “because that’s what I love. I love learning, and I need to be here to do it!”

  “No one could doubt it,” said Nancy.

  Jane “loved learning” too—she just wanted to do it while learning things other than those inside books. After all, apprentices in more cosmopolitan areas often socialized with one another as companions and associates; they weren’t judged as frivolous for doing so.

  Jane sat up a bit straighter. She had more to worry about than approval from her mother or her friend. If they didn’t recognize her dedication for what it was, telling them wouldn’t make them see.

  The kitchen had gone very quiet for a celebration. After an awkward moment, Edith rose to put her apple core in the compost bin, and Nancy went back to her pie, prodding at scraps of pastry with her fingertips.

  “I don’t know about you, but I couldn’t eat another bite,” said Edith, but her lighthearted joke felt leaden. “I’ll just clear away the tea things.”

  Jane looked up to find that Miriam was staring at her, her expression inscrutable. Jane, cross and disinclined to be generous, tossed her hair as she turned to her aunt.

  “I’m finished, thank you,” she said, meaning more than just the tea.

  Miriam winced and seemed to shrink into herself a little. Though she was usually not so good at reading people as she was her beloved books, she’d apparently managed to perfectly divine Jane’s meaning.

  5

  * * *

  HOURS PASSED WITH EACH WOMAN in whatever corner of the house best suited her. For Miriam, that was down in the Library, though it was not long before she gave up reading for idly scanning the shelves for any titles that happened to catch her eye. Eventually, the savory smell of the pie brought them all back to the kitchen in a better mood than they’d left it, and a bottle of Nancy’s homemade sparkling cider dispelled the remaining tensions. Miriam and Jane also had a goodly share of it, more than Nancy would ever pour them save perhaps on Christmas Eve.

  “It’s a celebration,” she said, but her tone was not exactly celebratory.

  The cider was good, sweet with a tart note from the tough-fleshed apples that grew at the northern edge of Nancy’s property. It was very strong; Miriam felt it sliding down her throat, intruding into her stomach, forcibly relaxing her muscles and her mind.

  It had been a long day of confusing emotions. When Edith announced her intention to examine them, Miriam hadn’t been afraid; she was confident in her abilities. But she had been unhappy to feel caught short at a time when she was most vulnerable—out-of-doors where anyone might see her.

  Then the Test had been far more bizarre than anything she could have predicted. She had quickly realized she’d been drugged, which had not done anything to further endear Edith to her. She had perceived there must be some reason for the experience, however.

  The presence of a demon inside her mind had confirmed that. There was no way Edith would have slipped them both real diabolic essence; they hadn’t yet made the Pact, hadn’t yet chosen a demon to petition. Realizing all this had helped her negotiate with the hallucination as the dream played out a scenario where she had to escape a house when enemies knocked at the door. She’d done so quickly and efficiently; there had been nothing to fear, not really, so it had actually been fun.

  A lot of fun. Dream-Miriam had been so much more able, more powerful, more capable than Miriam was in her everyday life. She’d evaded her pursuers with minimal effort. And having a demon with her, helping her, had felt right—like it was her right to be part of such a partnership, her birthright as her father might say. It was almost as if that shadow-place she sometimes imagined as existing within her had come to life to serve her differently.

  She’d felt pleased, deeply so, when Edith told her she’d passed, and Nancy’s praise was, as always, Miriam’s favorite reward. Miriam felt a bit guilty, actually, over just how much Nancy’s regard meant to her. She felt more of a connection to her surrogate mother-figure than she ever had to the mother she’d left behind.

  But there were also Jane’s feelings to be considered. Miriam didn’t want to supplant Jane in her mother’s heart, of course she didn’t. She wanted Nancy to regard them equally. That’s why Miriam’s pride had quickly turned to dread when Jane had lagged behind. She didn’t know what that meant, but Nancy and Edith started exchanging looks when ten minutes became twenty, then thirty . . . That’s when Nancy had gone down to the Library, only to come back with a strangely quiet Jane in tow. She’d passed but didn’t seem pleased.

  And as if that wasn’t enough to worry about, Nancy then announced her intention to cook a special dinner.

  Miriam’s mood had plummeted. Celebratory meals were the favored battleground of the Blackwood women; having one was a surefire way to guarantee the evening would be marred by an argument. Miriam had known something would happen, because something always happened—like the time Jane and Miriam had huddled together in Jane’s bed, listening to the Blackwood sisters’ raised voices after Edith had asked Jane if she would like to come to London for a few days, and Jane had accepted without asking permission. Or the time Nancy had alluded to some romantic feelings Edith held for someone, and Edith had been furious for some obviously very important reason that the girls never learned but had speculated upon endlessly.

  At least it was easy enough to plead exhaustion once they’d finished the cider and the dessert. After the long walk to Hawkshead and back and the ensuing excitement, it was natural for her and Jane to want to retire early. Miriam supposed it was also natural for them to retire separately; Jane didn’t speak a word as they went upstairs together and then said nothing but a pale yet sincere “Congratulations, Miriam” before slipping inside her room. Well, Miriam had made an ass of herself, getting upset over Jane’s disclosures—and as usual she found it too difficult to begin any of the conversations it would take to patch things up.

  Compared to Jane’s room, with its second wallpapering of movie star glamour shots and shelves thick with natural curiosities, Miriam’s was very plain. She’d arrived in England with little more than her clothes. Her mother had been so afraid that she’d demanded Miriam leave behind anything that might indicate her Jewish heritage—but her father had insisted she be allowed to go with something.

  Miriam had first thought to take the family’s mezuzah, but in the end she’d selected her father’s antique “devil-trap,” a clay bowl used by ancient Jews to capture spirits who might be a nuisance to the household. Her father had been amused by the irony of the object, given his profession, but Miriam had always loved the hypnotic lines of the spiral inscription as well as the warm feel of the ancient clay in her hands.

  It had soothed Miria
m to hold the bowl even before it became her only connection to her former life. But, like all childhood comforts, she’d largely set it aside as she’d gotten older. That night, however, she took it carefully in hand and sat with it on her bed.

  A knock at the door startled her. Miriam had been so lost in thought that she nearly dropped her bowl. She set it carefully aside before calling, “Come in!”

  She’d hoped it would be Jane. It was Edith.

  “Hullo there,” she said, and Miriam summoned a smile in an attempt to make her ersatz aunt feel welcome. She wasn’t exactly craving more of Edith’s company, but the woman had an air about her that made Miriam suspect she had something important to relate.

  “I’m here to apologize for introducing a contentious topic of conversation at the dinner table,” she said, standing in the center of Miriam’s room like a child instructed to atone for bad behavior. She had, for some reason, her handbag, and clutched it in front of her like Eve with her fig leaf. “I didn’t realize it would spoil the mood, but as you know, divining the right time for a discussion is not a talent of mine.”

  To say “yes” would be an insult, to say “no” would be a lie, so Miriam simply shrugged.

  “I’m also here to talk with you about something sensitive. And I’m not so good at delivering sensitive information, as I’m learning.”

  Edith’s expression revealed nothing as she perched on the edge of Miriam’s desk. Miriam felt the backs of her knees start to sweat where they were tucked under her. She wished Edith would just get on with whatever she had to say. There was only one topic that Miriam would have considered “sensitive”: the fate of her parents.

  For the first four or so years of Miriam’s stay in England, she had received letters from her mother, at first through the Basque Lens and then, later, through the mail, their postmarks and addresses forged diabolically. They’d never been long letters, nor regularly sent, but they’d come. Miriam had kept them all, of course, but the last of them she was especially careful with. It had clearly been written in haste and arrived very dirty. They’d given her their love and told her not to worry about them, but that had been impossible.

  “Your parents . . .” Edith hesitated again, maddeningly.

  “Are they dead?” asked Miriam, keeping her voice as emotionless as possible.

  Edith’s dark eyes went wide. “Oh, Miriam!”

  Miriam’s stomach dropped. “I wondered,” she said. “I haven’t had a letter in . . . I’m sure you know exactly how long.”

  “The truth is, we don’t know.” Edith looked very serious, indeed. “We do know they were taken.”

  “Taken where?”

  Miriam’s parents hadn’t told her anything about being spies; Edith had been the one to answer Miriam’s questions. She had always been good to Miriam in that way, believing as she did that Miriam was a young woman who had a right to know what was going on with her family.

  “I can’t tell you,” said Edith, and Miriam nodded. Of course Edith couldn’t say. “I can only tell you it’s happening, we’re aware of it, and we’re responding as we can.”

  Miriam thought for a moment. “Can you tell me if you, personally, are worried about them?”

  “I am.”

  Miriam trembled; this feeling was too big to hand off to her shadow-self. “But I will also tell you that I’m doing my best to make sure we find them, and that the truth is discovered.”

  “The truth?”

  “There are what I can only describe as troubling rumors about your parents, Miriam.”

  “Rumors of what?”

  Edith was not usually a fidgeter, but as she spoke, her long fingers toyed with her black scarf. “The Nazis have their own diabolists. That’s always been the case, but lately their efforts have gotten much more effective. It’s as if they had help from one of us.”

  Miriam’s confusion quickly turned to rage. “You think my parents—”

  “I don’t think your parents are traitors,” said Edith. “But the timing of their disappearance has some tongues wagging.”

  Miriam got control of herself, slowing her breathing deliberately, pushing her fury down, down, down until the shadow claimed it.

  “It’s not just them,” said Edith. “Every member of their cell is a suspect until we find out what happened. What they were up to . . . Miriam, it was hugely important to the war effort, and it seems like it’s all come to nothing at the worst possible time.”

  “I see,” said Miriam. She had been prepared to receive devastating news about her parents—or, at least, she had been prepared to accept that there was some. She had not thought to steel herself against the accusation of treachery. “Thank you for letting me know.”

  “You don’t have to . . .” Edith trailed off. “I don’t know what to say, honestly.”

  “You don’t have to say anything.” In reality, what could be said? Miriam was now not only a German expatriate and Jew in hiding, but the child of suspected traitors. Her shoulders were tired from carrying the pity of others; that soft sympathy weighed on her as much as any tangible burden. Maybe she wouldn’t be so opposed to being social if people saw her, and not some girl-shaped bag of tragedies.

  Edith talked a bit more, but Miriam wasn’t really listening. She had been so certain about the thrust of her Practical, but now it all seemed so unimportant. What really mattered was—

  “All right?”

  “Hmm?” Miriam realized she had completely lost the thread of their conversation.

  Edith peered at her. “The higher-ups at the Société didn’t want me to tell you. They were afraid you were at a delicate stage in your education, one where it was possible to make some serious mistakes out of anger. But I vouched for your temper and your character. You’ve always taken everything in stride.”

  “I know, I thank you,” said Miriam. “I owe you a great debt.”

  Edith sighed. “Does that mean you won’t do anything foolish?”

  “I won’t,” said Miriam. After all, foolish was in the eye of the beholder.

  “I’m very glad to hear it,” said Edith. “I know you’ve had a long day, and I’m sorry to have made it longer. I just didn’t think it was right to keep it from you.”

  “I appreciate it,” said Miriam.

  Edith still seemed uneasy, and Miriam wondered what she needed to do to get her aunt out of her room.

  She tried a smile. That seemed to work.

  “Thank you,” she said, with as much enthusiasm as she could muster. “It’s not what I wanted to hear, but it’s something.”

  This reply seemed to satisfy Edith.

  “I’m on your side, Miriam,” said Edith. “Just know that. I love you, and I love both your parents. I won’t be sitting idly by. Now, I know it doesn’t make up for all my bad news, but I did bring you something—a present of sorts. I know how private you are, so I saved it until now, when we were alone.”

  Miriam was startled by this courtesy—she hadn’t known Edith was capable of such sensitivity. She was doubly startled when Edith withdrew a small grease-stained paper box from her purse.

  “I saw them in a bakery,” said Edith, “and I thought perhaps they’d be a treat for you—a taste of home.”

  Miriam was completely mystified until she opened the lid to see two perfect hamantashen, the three-cornered pastry traditionally eaten by Jews at Purim. From the look of them, one was poppyseed-filled; the other, prune. The fragrance brought back memories of her childhood—but also a sense of shame. When, she wondered, was the last time she’d thought about Purim? Her family had never fully embraced the rhythms of a Jewish household, what with them being mixed-faith and diabolists, but they’d always given a passing nod to the holidays. Now, away from her community, her aunts and uncles and family friends who came by to remind her father, Egon, of his duty, she’d forgotten everything so entirely that she’d even forgotten to miss it . . . Miriam once again felt the terrifying absurdity of it all: her exile, the possible death of he
r parents, the actual death of no one knew how many more Jews, the war itself. She had relatively little relationship with the faith that had made her and her family a target for unspeakable violence. And she was only a Jew according to the Nazis! Miriam’s mother had not converted. But that didn’t matter.

  Not that proper Jews deserved what they had received. Of course they did not. No one did. It was simply the Nazi way to force the mind to have that conversation with itself about who was what—and what that “meant.” Their philosophy was death, and because of it, no matter who she was, here she was—and there her parents were. Forces more powerful than any diablerie had torn her family asunder, forever it seemed.

  “Do you like them?” asked Edith, and Miriam realized she’d been staring at the cookies for a long time without speaking.

  “So thoughtful,” she managed to say, and Edith smiled in relief. “Really, thank you so much.”

  “It was my pleasure,” said Edith.

  Then Edith gave Miriam an even better gift than the hamantashen by saying good night. After she’d gone, Miriam set the pastries aside without tasting them. She waited in her room for a bit, pacing, and then peeked out into the hallway. All was dark, except for lights under everyone’s bedroom doors, including Nancy’s.

  Miriam took extra care to make no sound as she tiptoed down the hallway. Edith was right; it had been a long day—and Miriam didn’t want to answer any questions about why, after everything, she’d be heading down into the Library at this hour.

  6

  * * *

  MIRIAM WISHED SHE WAS THE SORT of person to run off in the dead of night, secure passage across the Channel, and make her way through enemy lines to hunt down her parents, but she wasn’t. She could barely walk to the village without a mental rehearsal of the ways it wasn’t a dangerous thing to do.

  But lacking the courage of a soldier didn’t mean Miriam’s hands were tied. What she might lack in valor, Miriam felt she more than made up for in ambition.