Angel of Ruin (26 page)

“I have had neither,” she laughed.

“Let us be alone in the warm darkness a while, Anne. Trust me.”

Her fear wasn’t that it was inappropriate to lay her head in his lap; her fear was that her heart would burst
with such intimacy. She nestled against his thighs, staring up at the starry sky. His fingers twined in her hair. Aching, aching, she turned her timid eyes to meet his. It was too much. Her heart would explode.

I am in love.

“Has Mary called you?” she asked hesitantly.

“Yes, Mary has called me a number of times.”

She looked away again. Much safer to gaze at the stars. “Oh.”

“I have not responded, however,” he said. His hand curled around the top of her head, resting there warmly.

“No?”

“If I tell you something will you promise to keep it between us?”

“Of course, I will do anything … I mean … I will keep any promise.”

“Mary always wants something. Sometimes she is exhausting to be with.”

“Yes, yes, she is.”

“So I often stay away.”

Anne felt a surge of triumph. “I see.”

“You must think me heartless. Cruel.”

“No, no,” she said quickly. “Not at all.”

“I much prefer to be with you. Though I suppose I should not reveal such a partiality.”

“I shan’t take advantage of it. I shall not ask for too many things, as Mary does.”

“I know. I know, Anne, that is why I trust you the most.”

“You don’t trust Deborah?”

He frowned for a moment, casting his eyes upwards. “I know little of Deborah. She is suspicious of me, I suppose,” he said.

“’Tis most unfair for her to feel that way.”

“Nevertheless, it is how she feels. I accept that.” His
fingers were moving again, twining her hair and releasing it. “Tell me a little about Deborah.”

“What would you like to know?”

“Perhaps you can tell me what drives her? What is at her core?”

Anne thought hard. It was important to answer his question as fully as she was able. “Deborah is excessively loyal to Father. She was always his favourite, and that has long been her weakness, I suppose. Though lately she grows impatient with him at times.”

“Why do you think she is so loyal?”

“She loves him.”

“Why does she love him?”

“Because he is her father.”

“But he is your father, and you bear no love for him. Nor does Mary.”

Anne considered this. “She wants to please him. She wants to remain his favourite. When she was tiny, if Father roared at her because she had been naughty, she would cry for days, saying ‘poor Father’ and so on. Then, she would carefully select a toy from among her favourites: a poppet or a treasured ball, and she would throw it on the fire to punish herself. She would stand there silently, gravely, watching as the flames consumed it, then march in to tell Father what she had done. ‘I have given up Molly for my sins,’ she would say, or ‘I have given up my purple hoop.’

“I doubt that he even remembered what small thing had upset him, and he certainly didn’t understand the magnitude of her sacrifice. He would merely nod in a distracted way and go on with what he was doing.”

“You say that her obedience to him is waning, though?”

“Yes, most definitely. It is not the same as it used to be. She still pays him the same respect one should pay
a parent, but she no longer defends his impatience, or rushes to be his helper.”

“Anything else?”

Anne reached for words, trying to articulate the essence of her sister. “She is committed to learning, mainly of physic and natural philosophy. She speaks of one day healing the sick. Again, I think this is to impress Father, but lately I am not so sure. She spent all her time at Chalfont reading under a tree.”

Lazodeus nodded, as though considering what she had just told him. A pang of jealousy darted into her heart. “Why do you want to know?”

“I am interested in all of you. I am still, in some ways, your guardian. Though not officially.”

“Deborah has always managed to look after herself very well,” Anne said. “I believe she is the last person in the world who requires a guardian. Even if she did believe you were a good angel, she would not ask for help. She would probably ask you to teach her medicine.”

“What is it your father does that he requires Deborah so much?”

“He is writing a great poem. I have heard little of it, for I cannot write and I am no use to Father. Though I read well enough.”

“Mary said it had to do with angels and with God.”

“And devils withal, I believe. The story is not nearly so compelling as your tale.”

“Hmm. I should like to see it.”

“I am uncertain if I could steal it for you,” Anne said, suddenly worried that she could not perform the sole request he had so far asked of her. “Father won’t let me near his writings.”

“No, Anne. Do not worry. It is not important.”

They sat in silence for a long time, and Anne closed her eyes and let the sensation of his glorious touch sink
into her skin. Perhaps she began to doze a little, but his deep voice roused her. “Anne, the dawn approaches, you should return to your bed.”

“Yes,” she murmured, trying to open her eyes.

“Ah, hush.” He said, gently touching her eyelids with his fingertips. “Dream on, beautiful Anne.”

She heard the sounds of birds awakening, felt a slanted beam of sun on her face. Her eyes flew open and she sat up with a start and a gasp. She was in her own bed. Mary, sleepy-eyed, rolled over next to her and grumbled irritably. “What’s all that noise about?”

“Nothing,” Anne said. “A dream. Go back to sleep.”

But not a dream. She had been with him, and somehow he had returned her to her own bed. She lay back and closed her eyes, began to drift off again, dancing in her imagination, spinning and turning with his warm arms around her.

Mary stood on the ledge, her back to the wall, and breathed deeply. Sometimes she took a few moments up here, on her way home from her secret room, to enjoy the fresh air and relive the glorious moments she had just spent with the angel. Her skin shivered as she remembered the hot wax he had drizzled over her, the silk scarves he had used to tie her hands and wrists, and the bold places into which he had slid the warm candle. The aftershocks of passion still ached between her legs.

She looked down. Sometimes she imagined jumping — not because she wanted to die, but because she wanted to feel the sensation of falling. That’s how it felt with Lazodeus: falling and falling, abandoned to pleasure. She sighed and leaned her head back. Almost every day since the three of them had summoned him, she had spent precious moments
in his company. Almost every day. Some days he told her he wouldn’t come; he told her the intensity of her sensation would be doubled on the following day because of his absence. And maybe that was true, but it wasn’t the intensity of sensation that she was addicted to any more. It was him she was addicted to, and not to see him was to suffer. She would do almost anything to be near him. And that meant tomorrow she had to smuggle Father’s manuscript to the secret room for the angel to read. Though why he wanted to waste their precious time together in such a dull pursuit was a mystery to her.

Gathering her wits, she slipped in the bedroom window. Anne was nowhere to be seen, but she could hear sounds from Deborah’s closet. Max came running up to her, tail wagging, and yelped a quick hello.

“Hello, darling,” she said, scratching his ears. She glanced up to see Liza emerging from Deborah’s closet, staring at her astonished. They spoke at the same time.

“What are you doing here?”

“Where did you come from?”

Mary glanced towards the door and noticed that the dresser had been pushed in front of it to prevent entry.

“Why have you barred our door?” Mary asked standing. “And what do you have in your hands?”

“Nothing,” Liza said stupidly. It was plain that she held some of their possessions.

“You are stealing!” Mary strode over and snatched the items from her. An old bronze mirror which Uncle William had once given her in an attempt to seduce her. Two of Deborah’s books: a Hebrew grammar and a book of anatomy.

“No, I am not stealing,” Liza protested, her skinny arms clutching anxiously around her own waist.

“Then explain why you have these things. This mirror was deep in my drawer. You have meddled with my
private belongings. And these books of Deborah’s, what do you want with them if not to sell them for money?”

“Where did you come from?” Liza asked again, and Mary finally deduced that Liza was frightened about her appearing from nowhere. She didn’t know about the ledge and the secret room.

“Never you mind,” Mary said, playing on her fear. “Explain yourself at once, or I’ll give you a beating and tell Father to put you out on the street. And nobody will hire you for I shall tell all of London that you are a thief.”

“Mrs Milton told me to!” she blurted, giving Mary pause.

“What? Betty put you up to this?”

Liza nodded.

“What did she tell you to do?”

“To look for a magic mirror or a magic book.”

Mary looked down at the objects in her hands and could barely contain her laughter. “Magic mirror? Magic book? You clodpoll. This is an old mirror bought cheap at Forest Hill. And these …” She held up the books. “If you could read you would see that one is a guide to Hebrew and one is a text on anatomy. These aren’t magical symbols, fool.”

“I didn’t know!” Liza cried, now more concerned about being thought a fool than being caught stealing.

“Why did Betty want to know if we had magic books?” This was new. Betty had been impatient with them about many things, but never magic. Did she suspect? And if so, why?

Liza shrugged, and wouldn’t answer.

“You are a dunderhead,” Mary said, reaching out to clip her around the ears. “Take these objects to Betty then, and tell her they are proof of our dealings with necromancy. She will probably give you a beating for your stupidity.” She held out the books, but Liza
wouldn’t touch them. She kept glancing towards the door.

“I suppose you will tell Betty that I appeared from nowhere as proof of my magic?” Mary said.

Liza remained silent. Mary shoved her violently. “Idiot. Tell her whatever you want. But remember, if we
are
magic, then we may put a spell on you.”

The servant’s face blanched. Mary marched to the door and moved the dresser. “Go,” she said. “Go tell Betty that it may be dangerous to spy on us.”

Liza scurried out. Mary felt her heart beating rapidly, and the heat of rage burning under her skin. How dare she! Betty had gone too far this time, and she desperately wanted to punish her. Mary closed the door and paced the room. She longed to push her stepmother down the stairs, or break a clay jug over her head, or kick her in the stomach until she spat blood. But she could do none of those things, for laws and magistrates and prisons and gallows existed as deterrents. Besides, attacking Betty with fists and feet was beneath her. Far, far beneath her. For she had an angel who could perhaps vex Betty in undreamed-of ways.

Deborah reluctantly took up the pen and ink as Father waited, a stern frown pulling at his lips. She had been nearly out the door to attend her weekly meeting with Amelia when he had ordered her to return for dictation.

“Can’t Mary do it?” she had protested.

“Mary has been luckier than you in escaping the house this morning,” Father said. “Liza can’t find her anywhere.”

Damn Mary and her secret room.

“So, Father, where are we to begin today?” Deborah said. She could feel the twitch of each moment pulling
on her attention. By now, Amelia would be wondering where she was.

“Find the lines where Raphael speaks to Adam … he says, ‘How shall I relate to human sense …’”

“Yes, yes, ‘th’ invisible exploits of warring spirits.’ Would you like me to keep reading?”

“No. No, destroy it all, destroy that entire section.”

Deborah was amazed. “Destroy, Father?”

“Yes, yes, throw it on the fire, it is all wrong.”

“Are you certain you would not like me to read it to you first?”

“No, destroy it. It is wrong.”

Deborah carefully scored through each of the pages he referred to, and put them aside. “I have cancelled them through, Father, and will feed them to the flames later.”

“Good, good. Now, we shall begin this section again.” He leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “I have had the most incredible dream, Deborah, while dozing in my chair just this morning.”

“Of what did you dream?”

“Of all the faults in my poem, of scenes heretofore unwritten, of the true majesty of my villain.”

“Satan?”

“Yes, for I have represented him as weak and vain. But he was an angel, Deborah. An angel first, and therefore I must restore to him his pride and dignity.”

Deborah felt an uneasy sensation of dread swirling into her stomach. “Father, Satan is our adversary.”

Father straightened his back. “I need no lesson in theology from you, Deborah. Yes, he is our adversary, but can he not be a worthy one?”

Deborah dipped her pen. “Go on,” she said.

Over the next hours, Amelia forgotten, Deborah scribbled as quickly as she could, as Father related to
her perfectly Lazodeus’s story of the war in Heaven. Father’s version was of course more persuasive and compelling than the angel’s, wrought as it was in beautiful language and meter. But it was Lazodeus’s story with barely a deviation. When he had finished, he sat back with a satisfied grin on his face.

“What do you think, Deborah? Are they not some of the grandest lines I have ever composed?”

“Why, yes, Father,” Deborah said, glancing over what she had written with an uncomfortable sense of helplessness. What was she to do? Did it matter that Father had repeated Lazodeus’s story with all its biased loyalties? How dare Lazodeus invade her father’s dreams?

“You sound unsure. What is the problem?”

“I … Father, it reads as though you are aligned with the fallen angels, rather than the ones who remained true to God.”

“Does it?” A moment’s concern crossed his face. “But I wrote it as I dreamed it. Why would I dream such allegiances?”