Angel of Ruin (36 page)

“Hello, sister,” Mary said evenly.

“Hand it over. It is not yours.”

“It is not Father’s either any more, is it? You’ve done quite a satisfactory job of ruining his poem.”

“I have not ruined it.”

“He wanted to tell it his way. You should not have changed it.”

“It was not his way. It was Lazodeus’s way and you know it.”

“What would Father know about the war in Heaven? Lazodeus was there, Father was not.”

Deborah put out her hands. “Give me my box.”

“And if I don’t? Shall you use your demon key? Shall you turn me into a frog, dear sister?”

Deborah took a step forward and snatched for the box. Mary lifted it over her head, remembering too late that Deborah had a good six inches on her. She whipped it out of Mary’s hands and pressed it against her body, her arms crossed over it.

“Please get out of my closet.”

“I shall tell Father you have changed his words.”

“He won’t believe you. He trusts me. He loves me.”

Mary snorted. “He does not love you, Deborah, do not be a fool. He loves nobody but himself. If you could not take his dictation he would ignore you. Like he ignores Anne.”

Deborah did not answer, she merely stepped aside to let Mary through the door. Mary slunk past. As Deborah slammed the closet door, Mary went to the window. She took a few breaths on the ledge, then slipped into her secret room.

“Lazodeus,” she called. “You must come. It is important.” She didn’t care either way about Father’s poem, really. This was just a magnificent excuse for calling Lazodeus. Her body missed his touch, her eyes missed his seductive glow.

“I
must
come?”

She whirled around. He stood between two billowing curtains of blue velvet, in his familiar layers of black silk and lace. He bowed deeply.

“You have ignored me nearly a whole week.”

“I apologise. I have been otherwise engaged.”

“Are there other girls? Are you someone else’s guardian?” She couldn’t bear the thought. As it was, with only doddering Anne for a rival, she felt safe.

“No, I see no other mortal women except you.”

“What about other angels?”

He smiled. “There is no attraction between angels.”

She wasn’t convinced. “Are there female angels?” If there were, they would be as beautiful as him. More so. How could she compete?

“We are ungendered,” he said. “In our true form we have no distinguishing organs. We are pure light.”

She shook her head. “I don’t understand, and I don’t care to understand. If you say I am the only one, I shall endeavour to believe you.”

“You are the only one,” he said gently, touching her cheek. “Now, what is the important matter?”

“Important? Oh, yes. Deborah has changed Father’s poem.”

“What do you mean?” His voice sounded urgent.

“She’s making the fair copy — insisted upon it, warned Father to replace me with her — and she’s changed it all about.”

“What has she changed?” His eyebrows drew together, giving his face a dangerous aspect. Mary started to wonder if this matter were more important than she had originally perceived.

“Well, not all of it,” she said slowly. “But she has changed significantly the scenes you told to Father.”

For a moment, she saw his lip curl in rage, the scar drawing up into a puckered line. It was an expression almost animal in its intensity, but it was soon gone, replaced by a slow smile. “That wicked girl.”

“Wicked? She’s hardly wicked. That almost makes her sound interesting. She’s rather too dull for wicked.”

He shook his head. “Silly, silly Deborah.”

“I’ve a good mind to tell Father about it.”

“No, don’t say anything to anyone. Let me think upon it. I need to speak to some of my peers.”

Mary wrinkled her nose, pulling his hand to draw him closer. “Father’s not really
that
important in Pandemonium, is he?” His body touched hers. Electric.

“Do you have no concept of his fame?”

“I suppose I know he’s rather notorious. People sometimes walk past our house to see where he lives. But he is hardly as famous as a fine actor, or a courtier, or the King.”

His hands closed around her waist. “Mary, there is no more powerful, persuasive, subtle and evocative force in this universe than that of words. Those who wield them mightily can change history, they can endure forever.”

“Nonsense,” Mary said, tired and a little repulsed about speaking of Father while in the angel’s arms. “He’s a doddery old blind man. His shirts are always musty and he eats his food like a nervous sparrow.”

Lazodeus laughed. “Mary, Mary, one of the things I adore about you is your disrespect for knowledge.”

She smiled. “You do?”

“Oh, yes, there is a certain charm in a woman who refuses to avail herself of the facts.”

That didn’t sound particularly complimentary, but he was gazing at her with such a pure expression of passionate desire that she could not find it in herself to question him.

“If you say so.”

“Stay in the dark, Mary,” he said kissing her. “I like you there.”

“Come, Deborah, are you ready?”

Deborah looked up. Father stood impatient by the door of his study, hat and coat on, ready for the walk to Simmons’s printing house.

“Nearly, Father. Just a moment longer.”

She bent her head once more to her task, checking that all the pages were in order. She had finally finished the copying, the censors had been consulted and duly ignored; Father was no lover of censorship. He had declared he would do no more revisions, the manuscript for
Paradise Lost
was complete and ready to take to the printers. Deborah’s fingers trembled a little as she leafed through the pages. Here and there, she could see her alterations, alterations which would soon be in print forever. Although she wished every success upon her Father, she secretly hoped that
Paradise Lost
would vanish very rapidly after its publication. The thought of her deception being reprinted into a remote future was not one she relished.

“There,” she said, squaring off the pages. “’Tis done.”

“Then let us go, Simmons is expecting us.”

“Mr Simmons will wait a few moments, Father. I must wrap it. We cannot have pages scattering far and wide between here and Aldersgate.” As Father stood by, shifting his weight from one leg to the other, she placed the manuscript in the middle of a sheet of plain brown paper, wrapped it carefully and tied it with string. The result was a large, heavy package which required both hands to carry.

“Father, we may need help. I cannot hold your hand to guide you while I carry this package. Shall I call Liza?”

“Liza? No, I do not trust her. As Betty is not here, it will be just you and me, Deborah. I require no hand to hold. As long as you watch out for me, I shall walk just behind you, and I shall carry the package.”

“Are you sure, Father?” she asked.

He reached out impatient hands, clicking his fingers. “Here, here. Give it to me then.”

Outside, a fierce, hot wind blew. Deborah had been listening to it in her bed this morning as it rattled windows, lifted tiles and scattered the first dead leaves of autumn up the alley. The dry weather had made her eyes sore and her skin rough. The whole world appeared to be moving under the wind’s impetus. She kept her head down as a particularly violent gust rushed up the street. When she turned to check on Father, his hat had vanished.

“Father, your hat …”

“Never mind the hat, I still have my manuscript and nothing matters more than that.”

They made their way slowly down to Aldersgate. Deborah spotted the sign of the Golden Lion and found Simmons’s printery next door. She took Father’s elbow despite his grumbling that she would cause him to drop his package, and led him to the front door. The top half of the door was open, the bottom closed. Through it, she could see a small office where a pale, dark-haired man sat wearing tiny spectacles, reading closely. Beyond him, through a doorway, she could see men busy in the workshop, calling loudly to each other and clattering and banging. The man glanced up without a glimmer of recognition for Deborah, but as soon as he saw Father he leaped to his feet.

“John! How delightful to see you. I wasn’t expecting you until later this afternoon.” He spoke very rapidly as he rose and came to them, his hands emphasising every second word.

“Good morning, Simmons,” Father said, and he tried a smile. But he was so nervous that it looked like a grimace. “I have brought my manuscript for you.” He held out his manuscript with shaking hands, and Deborah looked away, unable to witness such vulnerability in him.

“I’m so pleased,” Simmons said as he took the package and carelessly dropped it onto his desk. “I’m very excited to be publishing this, John. There are many people who are waiting for it to appear.”

“Is that so?” Father said, pleased with himself.

“Oh, yes, everyone I’ve mentioned it to is most eager for its publication.” He suddenly broke off his address to Father and looked at Deborah. “Excuse my manners, my dear. You must be Mrs Milton. I’d heard that John had married a young beauty but —”

“She is my daughter,” Father said, his face suddenly stony. “She is little more than a child.”

Deborah had thought Simmons might respond with a barrage of prattling apology, but instead he fell silent for a moment, then withdrew into his office, calling behind him, “I shall find you the first part of your advance, John. Just you wait there.”

The next few minutes as Deborah waited next to Father were deeply uncomfortable, but she didn’t know if it was due to Father’s anxiety as he waited for his payment, or his embarrassment that Simmons had presumed his daughter to be his wife. When she tried to touch his shoulder he flinched away, and she suddenly wished to have been his son; a young man with whom he could proudly walk down the street, free of speculation.

Simmons returned, held out some gold coins which Deborah took and pressed into Father’s hand.

“Thank you,” Father said, but Deborah wasn’t sure if it was for her or for Simmons.

“’Tis my pleasure, John.”

“And when will … when will it be …?”

Again, Deborah felt a twinge of compassion. Confronted with his dearest wish, Father became rather smaller and paler. He seemed not so frightening at all, and Deborah was unsure if she liked that. With
the threat of Lazodeus over his head, she would prefer he seemed indestructible.

“As soon as we can. We have quite a few jobs waiting, and this is a long work.”

“Before Christmas?”

“Notwithstanding some unforeseen problem, I should say shortly after Christmas.” Simmons smiled and reached out to grasp Father’s hand. “Now go home and take a long rest, John. You must have worked on this for many years.”

“In some ways, my entire life,” Father said with a proud smile.

A life’s work. Deborah was suddenly frightened. “Will you put the manuscript somewhere safe?” she asked, eyeing it perched precariously on the corner of his desk.

He winked at her. “Put your mind at ease, Miss Milton. ’Tis in my good care.”

Anne was in mid-sentence, though she could not later remember what that sentence was, when she and Mary opened the door to their bedroom after an afternoon with the laundry.

Lazodeus paced the floor, his hands clasping and unclasping in front of him. His head jerked up as they came in. Before either of them could say a word, he said, “Where is your sister?”

Anne and Mary exchanged glances.

“Your other sister. Where is Deborah?”

“Out with Father,” Anne said.

“What on earth is the matter?” Mary asked.

“Nothing on earth,” he snapped. “The matter is in Pandemonium.”

“You are angry,” Anne said, afraid. Lately she had only experienced his love and sensuality. Anger was a shock to her.

“I have been waiting for you for hours. I would have appeared down in the kitchen, right in front of you and your stupid maidservant, if you hadn’t returned soon.” Anne had never seen him so agitated. His face was flushed, and his usual soft glow was dissipated. He would not stand still.

“What is the matter in Pandemonium?” Mary asked, growing impatient herself. “And what has it to do with Deborah?”

“How long has she been gone?”

“I know not. I didn’t know she had left. Anne?”

Anne shrugged.

Lazodeus shook his head impatiently. “This is not a big house. How can you lose each other?”

“Lazodeus, tell us what the problem is,” Mary said. “We cannot help you if you do not tell us.”

He pressed a thumb and forefinger to his forehead and sighed. “Yes, yes. Sit down.”

Anne and Mary sat on the bed. Lazodeus kneeled before them, leaned forward and began to speak. His words were deliberately slow. “I idly mentioned your father’s poem to a colleague of mine. He is a seer angel, which means he has a partial ability to predict future events. Mostly in Pandemonium, but sometimes on earth. As hard as you may find this to believe, your father’s
Paradise Lost
is fated to last through the ages, to be read many hundred years from now, to inspire generations.”

“Death! Is the world destined to grow so much more dull? I should be glad to die if it is.”

“Do not make light of it, Mary, for you have not heard the whole story,” Lazodeus said.

Mary dropped her head, chastened.

“We went directly to Lucifer with the information, of course. Because of the poem’s future wide influence, and because of Deborah’s alterations, our story is destined to be mistold for generations. Our
relationship with mortals, which I hoped to improve by dictating to your father, will be worsened.” He took a deep breath as though trying to brace himself against an awful fear. “Lucifer was angry with me.”

“Angry? But why? You were innocent of blame,” Anne said, feeling somehow guilty. She was related by blood to the two people who had brought him into mischief.

“I am not. For I did not tell him immediately of my involvement in its composition, I did not warn him of the …” He trailed off, and Anne thought she saw tears in his eyes, but they were soon blinked back. Her chest ached from trying to control her heart. She could not fling her arms about him and comfort him in front of Mary.