Angel of Ruin (35 page)

“Why do you look guilty?” Mary asked.

“Guilty? I believe you are imagining it,” Deborah replied. “I’m just looking out the window.”

“Well, I have been laundering since dawn and I am tired.” She crossed the room towards the dresser.

This was an exaggeration. Mary had been laundering for less than two hours. “I am going to my closet to read.”

“I care not what you do, you pious little twerp,” Mary said as she pulled out a dry shift. “I’m going to
change into something dry and go sit in my secret room.”

Deborah considered her sister a moment, wondering where all the last traces of her patience and tenderness had gone. “Where is Max?” she asked.

“In the garden with Liza, making a mess of the washing. Why?” Mary’s eyes narrowed.

“You spend so little time with him lately.”

“He is frightened of going out on the ledge. I dare not take him with me next door.”

“And it does not hurt you to spend so many hours without him? I remember a time when —”

“Oh, stop it. You cannot make me feel guilty. I care not for your opinion. Max is safe and well and …” She seemed at a loss for words and Deborah knew she had touched a tender space inside her.

“I shall be in my closet should you need me,” Deborah said lightly over her shoulder. “Enjoy your velvet cushions.”

Deborah settled on her bed with her writing tray and Father’s manuscript all around her. She had begun to copy the book dealing with the war in Heaven, and it made her heart heavy to see Lazodeus’s story so uncritically repeated. She dipped her pen and moved to write the first line, then stopped herself.

Father was blind. If she changed it a little, he may never know.

At least, she would be reading him the fair copy, she would be reading him the printer’s proof. The first Father would know about her changes — little changes, subtle changes — would be years from now when she was gone and he had some other assistant to act as his eyes. And she would be far enough from him to avoid his wrath.

Her heart sped a little and she licked her lips. Strange that conjuring a demon and commanding it
should not unnerve her so much as the prospect of changing Father’s work. He was a great poet, she was just a girl.

But she had spent so much time with him while he dictated, so much time copying out this manuscript, that she practically thought in blank verse some evenings. And they would not be big alterations. Just a line here or there, pointing the readers’ sympathies away from the fallen angels a little. Oh, Lucifer could keep his savage pride and noble bearing, but it was important that readers did not side with him wholly.

She took a deep breath and started copying, adding or deleting phrases here and there, keeping the rhythm consistent and, she hoped, the quality of the work congruous. Abdiel, once a cretinous traitor, now became the sole voice for God’s loyalty. The archangels, once cruel and jealous brats, were now restored to their rightful noble cast. She found herself enjoying it, and though she made a few mistakes and had to put aside the pages, she soon slipped into the rhythm, deftly altering Father’s manuscript in subtle, sophisticated ways to her own purpose.

Which would be his own purpose too, of course, if he knew that the stories were coming to him from a hellish angel rather than a heavenly muse.

D
eborah passed many hours in each day working on Father’s poem, as the summer heat sweltered on into late August. Mary still did not speak with her unless to ridicule her, Anne grew colder by the day, and she worked and worked on
Paradise Lost
until she was so immersed in the world of the angels and the first inhabitants of Eden, that she often lost track of which day of the week it was. Only when it became difficult to see the work in front of her did she realise she had missed dinner and evening was closing in.

She leaned back and stretched her arms over her head, then brought her hands down to massage her fingers against one another. Her stomach growled. Why hadn’t Mary or Anne come to fetch her for dinner? But she supposed she knew why. Neither of them were affectionate towards her. They had probably made up a plausible reason for Father why she wasn’t there, and been happy that she might go hungry.

Deborah leaned her head back on the wall and closed her eyes, yawning vastly.

Something changed in the room. The light was different beyond her closed eyelids. Subtly, but
certainly. She opened her eyes. Lazodeus, waiting for her. She sat up with a start, and the door to her closet slammed shut. They were in almost total darkness, but for the faint luminescence from the angel’s skin.

Deborah quickly lifted her hand to her forehead as Amelia had shown her. “I shall scream if you try to injure me,” she said.

He strode towards the bed and stood over her. “I am not here to injure you.”

“You know I shall never believe you about anything ever again.”

He indicated her hand, pressed to her forehead. “Who showed you to do that?”

Deborah remained silent, looking up at him.

“How many times did you turn the scrying mirror upon me?” he said at last.

“I only watched you once. And that sole viewing provided all the evidence I need to hate you justifiably. When I tried to show you to Anne —”

“I know, the mirror broke. How do you dare to watch me?”

She tried to sit up tall, not to be cowed by him. “You have tried to read my thoughts. You have seduced my sisters. You intend harm to my father. How do you dare to ask me to justify myself?”

“You are a fool. You are so young and so ignorant.”

“If I am such a fool why is it that my sisters have fallen under your spell and I have not?”

Lazodeus’s shoulders drooped forward lightly, and suddenly all his enraged bearing evaporated. “Deborah,” he said softly, almost pleadingly, “I could explain everything to you —”

“Go on, then.”

“You would believe none of it.”

He seemed so appealing in his softness, and Deborah hardened her heart against him. A trick, a
ploy to weaken her. “Do you or do you not intend to seduce my sisters to commit patricide?”

“I cannot speak of it. I cannot speak of what oaths I have made in the Royal Court of Pandemonium.”

“It seemed very clear to me from what I saw.”

“But what you saw was but a brief moment in my life!” he protested. “Please, Deborah. I could be in great trouble for speaking of it.”

“I heard what you promised.”

His voice dropped to a whisper. “What I promised and what I do may be two different things,” he said. “Now, I have said too much. You know that elementals live within these walls. I can speak of nothing more serious or specific.”

Deborah narrowed her eyes against him. “I cannot trust you so easily as my sisters,” she said.

“I have not injured you, have I?”

“You are under an oath not to harm anyone. ’Twas part of our original summoning.”

“Deborah, I would not harm you, or your father, and especially not your sisters for the deep love I bear them both.”

Deborah shook her head. “I am sorry, but my resolve will be firm on this. You have proven yourself unworthy of my trust at every turn. You and I, Lazodeus, are sworn enemies.”

He stood up straight again, his mouth forming a rigid line. The scar above his eyebrow twitched. “As you wish it, Deborah Milton. I shall not endanger myself by speaking with you any longer. But you shall see, in time, that I am worth trusting. You shall see in time that I intend no injury to you or those you love.”

Could he be sincere? The suggestion of relief that she felt could overwhelm her if she allowed it. He was right: she had only watched him for a few brief hours, after all. “I believe my mortal state allows me a limited
amount of time, Lazodeus,” she said, not meeting his eye. “Do not leave it too long to prove yourself.”

The subtle luminosity of his skin flickered, and he disappeared. Deborah lay down upon her bed, kneading her tired hands. If only her tired mind was so easily soothed.

When Mary came down the stairs and into Father’s study, she only intended to find a book she had left there many weeks ago. Father, who sat by the window listening to a bird’s song, looked up when she came in and said, “Deborah, are you finished the fair copy of the tenth book yet?”

Mary frowned. “It is not Deborah, Father, it is Mary.”

“Mary?” His eyebrows shot up. Did he look nervous? “I am surprised. It has been so long since you came to my study I assumed —”

“You no longer invite me to your study, Father.” She looked at him closely. His mouth was very tight. “Is Deborah making your fair copy?”

“It is of no concern to you, Mary.”

“I have a much better hand than Deborah. She writes like a spider who has dipped his feet in ink.”

Father remained silent. Mary spotted the book she wanted and picked it up. Turning, she gazed once more at Father. Why had he given her task to Deborah? Deborah already took his dictation; making the fair copy as well was an enormous demand on her time. No wonder she was always yawning — she must be up half the night transcribing the poem. It would not be so unusual that Father should entrust all his tasks to his favourite if it weren’t for the circumstances. For Mary knew, and was certain Deborah knew, that some of Father’s great scenes were drawn directly from the nocturnal dictations of Lazodeus.

“Did Deborah dissuade you from using my writing skills, Father?”

“I shall not be drawn into petty rivalry between my daughters,” he said, his blind eyes just a degree short of her own gaze. Amazing how he could do that. If she weren’t examining his face so closely for signs of fear or mistrust, she would have believed him to be staring directly at her.

“I am not such a bad seed as she would have you think, you know,” Mary said.

Once again, he fell silent. Typical. The old bore always refused to talk when he felt uncomfortable. She took her book and left.

So Deborah and Father were secretly working away on the manuscript together. She remembered what Lazodeus had said about spirits in Pandemonium being unhappy with what Father wrote. What was her sister up to?

“Deborah! Deborah, come downstairs please!”

Father’s voice. He sounded agitated. It was unlike him to call to her up through the house, rather than sending Liza. But then, Liza was unusually busy this week. Betty had gone to visit her sister in Suffolk, and Deborah spent all her time finishing off Father’s manuscript. All the housework fell on the poor maidservant and whichever of the hapless sisters were available. Needless to say, they made themselves unavailable as often as possible. The house was dusty and the kitchen was in chaos.

Deborah put aside her writing tray and bounded down the stairs. They were almost finished. Father had pronounced himself happy with the newly rewritten beginning, and she had made a fair copy of it for Simmons’s approval. She was just finishing off the last few pages of book ten. Soon it would be all over. She
would be able to sleep all night, instead of rising at three o’clock.

“What is it, Father?” she asked as she approached. His pale hand was pressed against the dark wainscoting as though he were holding himself up. “Are you ill?”

“No, not ill, Deborah. I have a letter just delivered. Could you read it for me? The messenger said it was from Simmons.”

“Simmons?” Deborah snatched the letter from his hand. She was nervous, and knew he must be too. If Simmons did not like the poem the promised advance would not come, and Father would be forced to seek another publisher. And the damage to his confidence would be irreparable. Her fingers broke the seal and she unfolded it.

“Read it. Read it to me,” Father urged.

Deborah grasped Father’s hand. His skin was cool and smooth, and to her surprise, he returned her squeeze.

“‘Dear John, I thank you for the opportunity to read the first two books of
Paradise Lost.
I am astonished, sir, by the scope of your work, your erudition and your unrivalled ability to write the most splendid verse. I am so very impressed with this superb work, and eagerly await reading the poem in its entirety. I believe that
Paradise Lost
may challenge the works of Virgil himself. Please deliver the complete manuscript post haste. I shall pay you the agreed sum upon its speedy delivery. I remain, your faithful servant, Samuel Simmons.’” Deborah looked up. Father was glowing.

“Challenge the works of Virgil …” she said.

“Let us walk, Deborah, for I cannot contain such an overmeasure of excitement in my heart by standing still.”

“I’ll fetch your hat.”

Summer was refusing to give up her hold on the streets. September was only a few days away, but the heat and dryness of the season still clung to trees and houses. In fact, Deborah could not remember a hotter summer in the city. A warm breeze gusted up the Walk as they made their way to the Artillery grounds.

“Anywhere in particular, Father?” she asked.

“Let us head in the direction of the burial ground,” he said. “Be my eyes, Deborah.”

“The sky is dazzling blue and the clouds are moving fast, as though there is a great engine driving them, very high up. The sun …” They crossed the open road, emerging from the shadows of the crowded houses on the Walk. “Can you feel the sun, Father? It is still harsh today, as though it has no idea it must prepare for winter. I see a lark overhead, and two blackbirds in the field. Over the treetops the windmills are moving slowly.” She glanced around. “A group of men approaches us. They are dressed like Quakers, four of them. Beyond them, across the road towards the city wall, a young man woos a young woman with a posy. Come, this way.” She pulled his hand gently and led him across the road, down the hill and into the burial ground. She knew which game he wanted to play, but today it didn’t feel like a game. The rows of graves laid out crookedly through the grounds only reminded her that Father could be at risk.

“Read me some dates, Deborah,” he asked.

“Father, surely we could find a more cheerful place to be on one of the last mornings of summer?”

“Nonsense,” he said, waving his hand as if to wave away her suggestion. “Go on.”

Deborah moved forwards slowly, scanning the headstones. “Here, Father, Elizabeth Lincoln, born 1608, died 1636.”

“Women aren’t made of as strong stuff as men,” he said knowingly. The comment should have angered
her; it was, after all, his opinion about the capacities of her sex which had driven such a wedge between them. But seeing him standing among the headstones, an old blind man who did not know he was in danger from his own daughters, it was all she could do to stop from throwing her arms around him.

“And here, Father. Jonathan Harris. Born 1610, died 1660.”

“In truth, there are not many of us that live as long as I, Deborah.”

She smiled at him, his unseeing face in dappled sunshine, and squeezed his hand gently. “No, Father. And long may you live.”

He shook her hand off and said gruffly, “No need for mournful sighs. The plague didn’t finish me, nor did the return of the King. I’m meant to be here, Deborah. I was meant to write my great epic. I’ve always believed I have an angel on my side. I shall live a good long while yet.” He wandered off by himself a few steps, stopping and putting his hand out to find a headstone to rest upon.

Deborah stooped to pick an errant wildflower from under a stone, wishing she could enjoy the morning. But such a heavy weight was upon her heart. How well she knew: the angel was not on his side at all.

Idly, idly, Mary slunk past Deborah’s closet to see if she was in. No sign of her. The old man was gone, too. She supposed they were out walking. With Betty away, Deborah was on escort duty. She probably enjoyed it, toadying up to Father as she had always done. They were two of a kind, those two. Pompous, lily-livered, and impossibly dull. Mary checked around again, and entered the closet. She opened the lid of Deborah’s trunk and quickly ploughed through. Nothing. She fell to her knees and peered under the bed. A flat wooden
box lay there. She pulled it out, flipped up the brass fasteners and opened the lid.

Here it was. Father’s manuscript. She riffled through the pages, sniffing derisively. Deborah’s handwriting was appalling compared to her own. She could barely keep her lines straight. Father was mad to let her do the fair copy. Mary read a few lines. So very tedious. The parts she had heard by Lazodeus were far superior. At least they had a measure of intensity, of fire. She deliberately found such a scene; being close to Lazodeus’s story was a sorry substitute for being with him in person, but he had not responded to her calls for three days.

When she read the lines, she was surprised. She had been sure it read differently. She read on.

“Why the little minx,” Mary said. Deborah had changed it. This was why she had insisted upon doing all the copying, even though it was wearing her ragged. What lies had she told to Father? What would he say if he knew she had toyed with his words?

More importantly, what would Lazodeus think? All his hard work, finally trying to get the real story told, only to have Deborah make the archangels superior to Lucifer and the fallen angels. Superior to Lazodeus! Such a creature did not exist in the universe. Mary placed the pages back in the box and stood with it under her arm, not sure who she would read it to first: Lazodeus or Father. She turned to leave the closet and saw Deborah standing in the doorway.