Angel of Ruin (14 page)

She scuffed along through the snow next to him, wondering what she wouldn’t give not to be so very low in his eyes.

F
our months had passed since Mary had last seen Lazodeus, and still he remained uppermost in her thoughts. As the snow melted and she sat in her velvet room alone, she thought of her angel. As the first buds began to sprout on the trees in the park while she played with Max, she thought of her angel. As she bickered with Betty, as she berated Liza for spying on her, as she sat down to take dictation from Father while Deborah rested, as she made polite conversation with Betty’s cousin Anthony, who had come to stay and didn’t look like going any time soon, she thought about nothing but her angel. How dull, how very dull life had become.

And now, as she let Sir Wallace lift her skirts and bury his bone in her, she remembered Lazodeus’s promises regarding the pleasures of the flesh. She looked around her. They stood together in an alley behind Sir Wallace’s home. It was very dark and the wall behind her was rough. A long way off she could see daylight, and people passing on the street. Wallace grunted loudly in her ear.

“Oh, Mary. Mary, you are so beautiful.” She smiled to herself. His jewellery rattled as he bumped against her, and the large red feather in his hat
tickled her cheek. Wallace had eight servants. Eight! What kind of power would it be to command eight people.

Then Mary cringed as she remembered she and her sisters had once commanded an angel. And it was all her fault they no longer did. Not that she had mentioned this to either Deborah or Anne. Deborah had refused to summon Lazodeus until she knew for certain he meant them no harm, and Anne had meekly gone along with her. Neither of them were aware yet that Lazodeus had taken leave of them.

She had tried to call him, of course she had. But he had not come. Tears and rages hadn’t helped, nor had reasoning, nor had pleading. He was gone, and his absence had caused her to lapse into a profound state of melancholy, which was something she had never suffered from before. Usually it was for Deborah to be introspective, or for Anne to be gloomy. A great well of feeling swelled inside her, a feeling which could only be dispelled in one long, unknowable syllable. Until she could learn what that syllable was, she just repeated over and over,
Lazodeus, Lazodeus, my angel.

Wallace was almost achieving his peak. Mary brought her mind back to the business at hand, but contemplation of Lazodeus had caused her to realise how old and how ugly Wallace was. Rather than her usual rush of excitement as his face reddened and his calls became more bestial, she experienced a disgusted recoil. As he pulled himself out of her to soil her thighs, she shrank against the wall.

“Oh, oh, oh!” he cried. Then sagged against the wall with a great sigh. “Oh, Mary. Mary, Mary.”

She patted his arm, smoothing over her skirts.

“Oh, Mary, you are so beautiful,” he said, relacing his breeches. “Come to me next Thursday. My wife is going away. Come inside the house, and I shall love you
amongst the riches of my bedroom. You can choose yourself a ring or a bracelet from my wife’s jewellery box. My Mary deserves better than a dark alley.”

Here was the offer she had long waited for: taken inside, laid down among satin and velvet, adorned with jewels …

“I am uncertain.”

“What?” He stood back, surprised.

“I shall see what I have to do. My father keeps me very busy.”

“Your father? That shabby antique?”

“Nevertheless, I …” She could not finish her sentence.

“’Tis the best offer a girl like you can hope for,” Wallace said.

“Then maybe I shall come.”

Wallace shrugged. “Suit yourself. I must go.”

He rearranged his clothes, smoothed the feather on his hat, and turned away from her. She stood where she was for a moment, watching him slip through the back gate into his walled garden. At length, she started down the alley for the street. Summer had come early; a hot wind blew down Little Woodstreet, making her eyes dry and sore. She passed a man vomiting, deftly stepped around him, wrinkling her nose against the sour smell of his stomach. A family of street cats scattered as she approached. Thunder rumbled in the distance.

Why hadn’t Wallace’s promise of rings and bracelets thrilled her? She felt a sudden barb of anger against Lazodeus. Before he had come along, her life had been far less complicated. She had certainly never felt such an emptiness, such a chaos of yearning and listlessness.

Thunder sounded again. She eyed the horizon and saw heavy black clouds advancing. She hurried her step. Max hated storms. She couldn’t bear the thought that he would be frightened and think she had abandoned him.

To feel abandoned was the worst kind of misery.

Anne could not remember ever despising anyone so much as she despised Anthony.

It wasn’t simply his odious personality, a rival for his cousin Betty’s. It wasn’t simply his revolting appearance: he had a body like two pillows tied together, a drooping, overly moist bottom lip, and eyes sunk back into shadows. No, by far his most detestable characteristic was the way he had installed himself as joint master of the house. And Father, clearly starved for educated male company, allowed him to do whatever he wanted.

“Anne! Come here at once, girl,” he bellowed from Father’s study. She limped in as fast as she could. Father sat in his usual position by the fireplace, Anthony opposite him in a comfortable chair he had taken from the withdrawing room.

“Can’t you move any quicker?” he asked.

She attempted to answer but found her mouth wouldn’t even produce the start of a word.

“Never mind, stupid cripple,” he said dismissively. Then, articulating loudly and clearly, as though she were a child, “Can you fetch me a cushion. Not one of those small ones from the withdrawing room. Fetch me a pillow. The one from your bed will suffice.”

“B-but —”

“Fetch me a pillow!” he roared.

Father sat unmoving and unmoved, his unseeing eyes turned towards the tiny window.

Anne nodded and backed out. She hurried up the stairs and stopped at the curtain which sealed off Betty’s room. She peeked around the curtain, saw the room was empty, and quickly grabbed a pillow. If anyone should have Anthony’s arse imprinted on her pillow, it should be Betty. She had invited him, she cooed and fussed over him, bragged about his recent
education in Italy, and gloated every time he shouted one of the girls down about something.

It would all have been bearable had Lazodeus answered her calls; but it had been months now since she had last seen him. She supposed it was her ugliness and lameness that had driven him away. As she advanced down the stairs, she could hear Anthony complaining loudly.

“What is taking the girl so long? She would have been better off drowned at birth than to live and prove such a vexation to her family.”

Anne heard Father’s voice, softer, and paused outside the door to listen. Was Father defending her? Her heart rose a little in her chest.

Anthony’s laughed pierced through the wall. “That’s right, that’s right,” he said, in response to Father.

“We didn’t realise there was anything wrong with her until she was two years old, and by then it would have been murder. Besides, her mother was fond of her.”

“Women are so weak.”

“But I didn’t expect the child to live. When her mother died, I did consider sending her off to another family. One that perhaps could see to it that she met an accident.”

Again, Anthony roared with laughter. Anne suddenly had trouble breathing. She knew Father bore no special love to her, but to hear that he had considered killing her … She slunk into the room and held the pillow out.

“And about time,” Anthony said. “Now I want you to … wait, where are you going?”

“I c-c-can’t —” she started to say, as Anthony grasped her around the wrist.

“You c-c-can’t wh-wh-what?” Anthony said, enjoying the game.

“Let me g-g—”

“What, Anne? What? Let you giggle? Let you graze? Let you gasp? What are you trying to say?”

“F-Father, t-tell him to l-l—” Her tears fell freely now.

“Anthony, let her go. A woman’s tears put me at the end of my patience. Go, Anne. Stop wailing, you fool.” At least he had the decency to turn his face away guiltily; perhaps he realised she had heard him.

As Anthony’s fingers left her wrist she hurried out of the room, knowing that her uneven gait did not allow her a dignified withdrawal. His laughter followed her. “Is that the best you can run? Lucky there is not a bear chasing you!”

“Leave her be now, Anthony,” she heard Father say as she headed for the stairs. But it was too late, for now the pain and humiliation were shuddering up through her body and she heard the guttural sound of repressed sobs echoing around the staircase. She lumbered up to the bedroom, relieved that Deborah and Mary were not around to see her in such a state, and buried her face in the bed. She sobbed and sobbed until it felt she might shatter to pieces. Why had God suffered her stupid, broken body to live? Was He not merciful? Surely it were mercy to have destroyed her before she could breathe and see the stars and know the feel of sun on her skin. Surely it were mercy for her not to have known such a glimmering of love for an angel; an angel who was so revolted by her that he had broken his promise to be commanded, and beat a hasty retreat.

“Why, why, why?” she found herself saying, over and over. She could feel a trail of drool from her mouth to the rough covers, and wiped her lips with a shaking, damp palm. She sat up and shook her hair out of her eyes. Her face was hot. She caught sight of herself in the glass and began to cry anew. Ugly, so ugly. Not beautiful and clever and honey-haired like
Deborah; not round and bow-lipped and alluring like Mary. She pressed her face into her palms and wept like a child.

Something brushed against her hand and she looked up, startled.

“Lazodeus.” Her heart suddenly doubled its rhythm.

“Anne, I cannot bear to see you cry.”

“Wh-what … Where have you b-b-b —”

“Sh, sh. Wait.” He placed a finger over her lips, and for a brief, perfect moment she could taste his skin, sweet and hot.

“Now, speak,” he said.

“Where have you been?” And the words came freely tumbling off her lips.

“I have been away.”

“I thought you were supposed to protect us. I thought we were your commanders. But you haven’t come when I have called and I have been so desperate.”

“I wanted to come, I really did, Anne.”

“Then why?”

“Mary has made a terrible mistake.”

“Mary? You have spoken with Mary?” The barb of jealousy was swift and sharp.

“A long time ago now. It was she who dismissed me from my duties.”

Anne looked at him bewildered. “How? How is that possible?”

“She commanded me to be your friend rather than your servant. I had to grant her command and so it was.”

Anne shook her head. “’Tis not possible that she should be so foolish.”

“And yet she was. But be not angry with her. She did not understand what she asked. She is not as wise and thoughtful as you.”

She felt a smile come to her lips in spite of herself. “Oh. Well …” She paused, attempted to regain her composure. “So you are no longer our servant?”

He knelt down in front of her. “I am, I am. But not by command, not by decree. I am your servant for the love I bear you, but as I am not assigned to you through an enchantment any more, it is not possible for me to come whenever you call. I have other duties. But I shall try. Anne, I do not wish to see you cry. I shall try harder to come when you need me.”

When she needed him. But she had needed him so often and so desperately in the past few months, and he had ignored her pleas. She turned her eyes down, felt another small shudder of a sob ready to shake her chest.

“Anne, what is it?”

“You have not come. So often I have called —”

“I explained —”

“But how can I trust you? How can I trust you to watch over me when you have been so far from me for so long?” She tilted her face up to him again. Every perfect feature was somehow more exquisite than she had remembered it.

His eyes narrowed slightly. “You question my trustworthiness?”

It hurt to see him offended. “No, I just —”

He put his finger to her lips to silence her again. The touch was all too brief, seemed to leave a burning imprint on her skin. “Very well, Anne Milton. I shall show you why you should trust me. Though it will cost me dearly, though the powers above me in Pandemonium may punish me severely —”

“No! I don’t want you to be hurt. I will trust you.”

“Anne, I can make it so that you can always speak without hindrance.”

She held her breath. “I … How?”

“Through angel magic. But we are not supposed to alter so vastly the state of mortals without due permission.”

“I don’t want you to be punished for my sake,” she said, infusing her voice with as much sincerity as she could manage. You must not —”

Suddenly he grabbed her by the upper arms and pulled her against his chest. Before she had a chance to savour the moment, he had pressed his lips hard against her own. Sweet, blissful touch. He parted her lips with his tongue, and her body seemed to break its own bounds, to float outwards into the universe. Then a second later it was over.

“It is done,” he said, pulling away from her.

A moment passed before she could speak. “What will happen to you?”

“I know not. But it will go better for me if I return immediately and tell what I have done.”

“Then go. Go quickly, for I will suffer with guilt until I see you returned to us, safe and whole.”

He smiled. “Feel no guilt, Anne. It was all my pleasure.” His attention was suddenly drawn downwards as though he may have heard a supernatural voice calling him from below the earth, and Anne felt a moment’s chill apprehension.

“Goodbye,” he said. “I promise to return as soon as I may.”

“Goodbye,” she said, but he had already disappeared.

She slumped back on her bed and closed her eyes. Licked her lips to see if she could still taste him. It wasn’t a kiss, it was only magic, and she shouldn’t read anything more than his concern as her guardian into it. But the way he had spoken of his pleasure …