Angel of Ruin (47 page)

“Then we shall feed it to him on Lord’s Day, for I always make supper on Lord’s Day and he will suspect nothing out of the ordinary.”

Anne fought down the rising tide of paralysing guilt which threatened to engulf her whenever she thought about their plan. Lazodeus’s arms would make it all well again, and he had promised her they would be together always and eternally as soon as Father was dead.

“And what of Mary?” she had asked. “Will she not expect such reward as well?”

“We shall solve that problem in due course. For now, concentrate on the task at hand,” he had replied.

And so she would, but with an eye on the future. “Yes, Lord’s Day will be perfect,” she said. And a perfect time, perhaps, for Anne to keep a little of the poison aside for Mary. How else could she ensure her sister’s foolish love for Lazodeus would not stand in the way of their eternal bliss?

Betty became aware of voices through the haze of her sleep — for sleep was the only relief from the aching in her joints and the burning of her throat. Mary’s words from that morning still haunted her.
There can be no doubt that it is the plague you suffer.
What an unbearable terror her words brought, for she had all the symptoms. A magic plague, pushed upon her by Mary and her witchcraft. It had been foolish to assume her stepdaughter was no longer a threat.

“Father, there is no doubt in my mind.” It was Deborah’s voice. She could see the shadows of her and John on the other side of the curtains.

“It cannot be, Deborah. Yesterday she was completely well. One does not contract such an advanced case of the disease overnight.”

“I know it is unusual, Father, but we must not ignore it. We must send for a physician.”

“We can no longer afford a physician, Deborah. You must nurse her. Liza is fled, I cannot see, and your sisters bear Betty no love.”

A short silence, and Betty felt herself dropping back out of awareness. Then Deborah’s voice again. “Father, will you allow me to bring someone who may help?”

“Deborah, I am wretched. I wish not to lose another wife.”

“Very well. You sit with her. I shall be back as soon as I can. If Mary or Anne try to enter, prevent it by all means.”

“I shall.”

Betty fell into an uneasy slumber. She doubted this time whether Deborah’s good magic could help.

Deborah paced anxiously in the withdrawing room.

“Sit down, Deborah. You make me nervous,” Father said from his chair.

Deborah sat, winding the material of her skirt through her fingers.

“You must have little faith in this physician you have brought,” Father said.

“She is not a physician.”

“Then what is she?”

“She is a healer. She healed her maidservant of this very illness, many years ago.” Deborah glanced towards the curtain, wishing that she could watch, but Amelia had insisted that Betty needed quiet, not a legion of people hanging apprehensively around her bed.

Father had fallen silent, his hands pressed between his knees. Deborah could not bear to see him so
distressed, and to contemplate her sisters’ plan froze her very soul.

“Please do not worry, Father,” she said quietly, but he did not answer.

At length, Amelia emerged from the bedroom. Deborah looked up at her with guilty eyes. After their argument that morning she had been surprised that Amelia even responded to her request. Perhaps Deborah had underestimated her.

“She is resting,” Amelia said.

Father jerked to his feet, straightened his shirt. “Will she live?”

“Oh yes. The illness may have strook her quickly, but it has not had time to cleave to her very strong. I have dealt with the sores, and checked that her lungs are clear. She will be well in a matter of days, given rest.”

“Is it … safe to go near her?” Father asked.

“Yes, she is past the stage of infection. But should you suffer a sore throat or a fever, you are to tell Deborah to call me immediately.”

“Thank you, Mrs Lewis,” Father said, extending a hand.

Amelia shook it with a smile. “It is Miss Lewis. I knew your wife, Mr Milton.”

“Katherine?”

“No, Mary. Your first wife.”

Father frowned. “I see. Well, you have done a great service to our family. If Mary lived yet, she would be grateful.”

Amelia suppressed a laugh and Deborah bit her lip. If Father’s first wife were still alive, he wouldn’t have a third to tend to. But Father was finding his way through the gap in the curtains to sit with Betty, oblivious to his unintentionally comical remark.

Deborah took Amelia’s hand. “I apologise for my behaviour this morning.” They had spoken only of
Betty’s symptoms on the way from Leadenhall Street; Deborah had avoided any reference to their earlier conversation.

“You are forgiven,” Amelia said in her imperious tone.

“I remembered you saying you had healed Gisela of the plague. But I never questioned you about it later because I thought …”

“You thought that if I hadn’t studied on the continent and didn’t belong to the Royal College, I could not be a proper healer?”

Deborah dropped her head. “Precisely.”

“Doctors of physic study many years in stuffy libraries, Deborah, and still know less than the least village witch. Knowledge takes divers forms.”

“I know. I am sorry. I was disappointed in you.”

“I could not have disappointed you so greatly if you had not expected so much of me.” She indicated towards the curtained room where Father sat. “You may look to others all your life as paragons and never learn about yourself. Look inside for your own strength, and stop expecting others to bestow it upon you without struggle.”

Deborah pressed her lips together, chastened. “I shall think upon it,” she said.

Amelia glanced around. “Walk me into the street. There is something we must discuss.”

Deborah called out to Father that she would be back shortly and accompanied Amelia out onto the Walk. Slowly, strangely, London was staggering to its feet around her. The night soil man was back on the job, the endless procession of carts had come to life along the main street and the Walk was once again clogged with traffic. Amelia picked her way around a muddy hole and hitched her bag of medicines further up her shoulder. She seemed reticent, so Deborah prompted her.

“What do you wish to discuss?”

Amelia took her time in answering. They were on the main street and heading towards Cripplegate. Amelia stopped. Across the road in the Artillery grounds, the makeshift village was already growing smaller as the unfortunates within found alternative accommodation. They watched two children playing with a kite, running around in a large circle, their laughter being snatched away on the autumn breeze. Finally, Amelia turned to her.

“Your stepmother’s illness was probably advanced by magic.”

Deborah considered a moment. “Mary.”

“With Lazodeus’s help.”

“Yes.”

“It will recede as quickly as it came upon her, but still watch her carefully.” Amelia held out the demon key on the chain about her neck. “Your demon key made an unexpected sound.”

Deborah shook her head. “I’m sorry?”

“It rang out, once.”

“Oh,” Deborah said. “That is the alarm.”

“I know it now, for I was curious and set about scrying for the answer. It rings when your sisters are together and planning your father’s demise.”

“I did not know it would ring more than once, more than the first time.”

Amelia put a hand on Deborah’s shoulder. “In the scrying water I saw your sisters planning. They intend to murder your father on Lord’s Day.”

Deborah took a breath against the dread. “I have little time, then.”

“You could prevent them by persuading your Father to leave the house on Sunday,” Amelia said.

“Then they will murder him upon his return. No, I must remove Lazodeus. He assists and inspires them.”

Amelia cast her glance away again. When she returned it to Deborah, her countenance was softer than Deborah had ever seen it. “I am not angry with you for this morning’s argument, because I am culpable. I know now that I am culpable.”

Deborah merely nodded. It seemed inappropriate to say anything. A couple with two spaniels walked past and eyed them suspiciously.

Amelia pulled Deborah into the shade of a tree, close to a wall on which a vine crept and spilled. A handful of the leaves were turning yellow. “I did not believe that Lazodeus had tempted your sisters into patricide, because I could not believe that I had been so wrong. To call a guardian angel from among the fallen is … well, it is the work of an amateur, which I suppose I was then. I did not know fully what I was doing, and did not believe that it would lead you into danger.” She touched her hair nervously. “I was wrong and too proud to admit it. I accept that. And I’d like to help repair the damage.”

Deborah felt such a gust of relief billow into her lungs that it nearly knocked her over. “You will help me?”

“All that I can. I will tell you about the angel key, and whatever your punishment is, I will share it with you. It is the least I can do.”

“I feel not so alone now.”

Amelia nodded slowly. “You must understand that ridding your family of Lazodeus may not change everything back to the way it was.”

“But it will release my sisters from Lazodeus’s spell.”

“Not if they love him. Or at least, I’m not sure. You may still have to protect your father from them. You may have to protect yourself. I cannot say for sure what will happen if you succeed.”

“I will still try, Amelia. It is everything to me. My father is everything to me.”

Amelia grasped Deborah’s hand in her own. “Listen carefully. Take yourself to the river when you are least likely to be disturbed. Go to an empty place; it should not be difficult with so many of the docks destroyed by fire. If someone pulls you up out of the water ere you have the key, all will be foiled. Angels cannot be tricked twice.”

“I see.”

Amelia took a deep breath. “When you are on the very point between life and death, an angel will come to identify you, to assess your fitness for Heaven. He will lean over you, and then you must take both his hands in yours, as quickly as possible. But be not surprised if it feels curious, for you must use your subtle body, not your mortal body.”

“Will I be dead then?” Deborah felt a chill creep across her skin despite the warm sunshine on the street.

“Momentarily. All that happens next will take place in the space of moments, although it may feel like much longer. You must say to the angel, ‘I demand an angel key.’ He will then take you away to present your case before a delegation.” Amelia stroked Deborah’s fingers with her own. “Be careful, Deborah.”

“What will they ask me at the delegation?”

“I know not. I have never met a person who survived an attempt to command angels.”

Deborah swallowed. Her throat felt dry. “Do I have any hope?”

Amelia considered. “I believe you do, for you are young and strong, and drowning is a gentle, slow death. If I do not hear from you, I will come to find your body and ensure you are properly buried.”

Deborah drew her hands out of Amelia’s. “I am so very frightened,” she whispered.

“Are you certain you want to do it?”

Deborah looked back up the Walk towards home. “My life for Father’s? Yes, I am certain.”

The world seemed very quiet at four o’clock in the morning, and that was the clearest sign to Deborah that the city still had much to recover from. Ordinarily, a cacophony of carts and merchants would be parading the streets within the walls, but the blackened ruins lay still and silent in the half-light. The sky was not yet aglow, but Deborah could see no stars, only clouds. A light drizzle misted down as she made her way to the river.

Queenhythe was the very centre of the devastated riverfront, and Deborah headed there. A stone wall was built here, rather than the ordinary muddy banks, and Deborah climbed over and sat upon it. She shivered in the cool morning air, and flinched against the idea of how cold the water would be. Reluctance now weighed upon her. Need it be so serious? Need it be so dangerous? The answer was yes, but her body felt as though it were saying no, over and over, in every twitch of her frightened muscles.

She sat upon the wall a few minutes, then a few minutes longer. The rain came down harder now, and beat its mournful cadence on the sour ashes behind her. She turned her face up to it, let the water run into her mouth, and wondered if she would ever feel the rain on her face again.

You are young and strong.
Amelia was certain that counted for something. Deborah slid into the water. It came up above her calves. She put out an unsteady hand and sunk to her knees, took a breath and plunged herself backwards. Cold. She stretched out full on her back, her arms over her head, her pale silky hair floating in strands about her.

And waited for an angel to arrive.

H
er lungs began to panic almost immediately, as if they disagreed violently with the resolution in her mind.
Breathe, breathe.
Spasms lurched through her body. A black stain crept across her field of vision.
Breathe, breathe.
Her lungs seemed poised to explode, her fingers tingled and her stomach clenched.
Breathe, breathe.
But she would not breathe. She said it over and over in her head, I will not breathe I will not breathe I will not breathe. Her ribs felt bruised by the effort, it was becoming impossible to clench them any longer. Under the river, she cried out, “Father!”, and the water gushed inside her, poured through her nose and mouth, seemed to fill every crevice of her body, sour and acidic. Her head was weighed down with it, she screwed her eyes closed and felt herself fading from the world, slipping, slipping away …

A light above her, a circle at the end of a dark tunnel.
All is confusion, I know not where I am.
Her body was suddenly weightless and felt as though it was being pulled gently in all directions. A moment of wonder, then a blazing light flashed before her and she knew this was the angel. But how to catch him? She
had assumed he would appear in mortal form. There was no time for deliberation, she propelled herself up and lunged at him. Her own hands looked ghostly and pale, yet they seized something solid. She pulled gently, and found herself looking at a pair of perfect hands. The angel had suddenly transformed into mortal form. In that moment she was nearly undone, because the great beauty of the angel fleetingly eradicated her ability to think. Here was a creature hand-carved by God, neither recognisably male nor female, a slender seraph with blazing eyes and marble skin. Lazodeus, by comparison, seemed base and dark.

“I demand an angel key,” she managed, though not forcefully.

The angel fixed her with large, sad eyes. “Are you certain?” he asked. In this place between life and death, his voice seemed to emanate from all around her.

“I am certain. I must save my father.”

“All will be well if you leave things as they are.”

“My sisters are about to kill him.”

“It is not such a loathsome thing to die.”

Deborah remembered what Amelia had said about angels, that they could be cruel and despised to give mortals power over them. Despite his comforting words, she hung on. “I demand an angel key,” she said again, this time with more certainty.

He blinked slowly then smiled. “Very well, hold on to my feet.” He suddenly slipped from her grasp and began to move away from her. She desperately grasped his ankles and felt herself pulled upwards and upwards. From his back two mighty wings had sprouted, snowy white and beating rhythmically above her. The dark earth below moved slowly away and she felt a rolling, spinning fear of falling. A million miles seemed to fill the space between her feet and the
ground. They moved towards the light above them, through the dark tunnel between the worlds.

“Can you hear it?” the angel called behind him.

“Hear what?”

“Listen.”

She listened. As they drew closer to the circle of light, she could detect a sweet shimmering music: viols and pipes and harpsichord. The music seemed to sink inside her and fill her with a calm joy. “’Tis beautiful,” she said.

“It is Heaven,” he replied.

They swept up and up, the music grew louder and louder, vibrating through her with mellow resonance. Suddenly the circle of light opened up like a great eye, and they broke through it. Deborah closed her eyes with fear. A mighty swooshing sound shuddered over her, jolting her like a tiny boat on a stormy ocean. The music reached a desperate crescendo, breaking like colossal waves. She clung to the angel, her teeth clenched hard, her eyes screwed shut. Then a soft quiet descended upon her, the music pulsed gently as though moving on a summer breeze, and she realised she was lying on the ground.

“Open your eyes, Deborah,” the sweet angel voice said.

Deborah opened her eyes and suddenly, miraculously, all anxiety and urgency evaporated. She sat up and gazed around her. A twilit landscape stretched out as far as the eye could see around her; soft grass and a balmy breeze which shifted in the treetops like a gentle caress. The trees were dark against the velvet blue sky, the stars a magnificent landscape of shimmering points. In the distance, almost hidden behind a copse of trees, was a great hall which gleamed softly in the darkness. As she was trying to make out its lineaments, a tiny pulse of light darted from behind one
of the trees and raced across the sky, a cross between a shooting star and a firefly. Her eyes followed it into the darkness where it disappeared. Another light detached itself from a tree and zoomed towards her, over her head and into the twilight behind her. As it passed her, a soft feeling of well-being descended over her, and the music grew suddenly louder. She remembered in a brief instant a moment of her childhood, sitting with her first stepmother in a sunbeam in the kitchen, as a fly grazed itself against the window. Her stepmother’s hands in her hair, gently stroking the silky strands. It flashed over her and then washed away; the music faded off. More of the lights darted around her, and she could feel glimmers and edges of old memories, of soft peaceful moments in ordinary corners of ordinary places, where a first breeze of autumn, or a touch of a bird’s wing, or a glint of sunlight through leaves had made a fleeting impression of happiness on her then been forgotten. The memories spun out around her like a glimmering net, one suggesting another, enveloping her in a sense of flawless peace. She sank down to the ground again, felt the dewy grass beneath her fingers and gazed at the sky, temporarily dumbfounded. The firefly thoughts whizzed around her and the music swelled and sank.

“That is my favourite music,” she said at last. “I am so glad to know it is also the favourite music of Heaven.”

“Everyone hears different music,” the angel said, “just as everyone draws different memories from the lightspinners.”

“’Tis so very wonderful here,” she said, knowing how profoundly understated such a sentence was.

“You cannot stay, Deborah. You are to return with your angel key if it is granted.”

She sat up again. The angel sat across from her. “I do not know your name,” she said.

“Natiel. I am a seraph.”

“And you know who I am?”

“We know all the children of earth.”

“I feel I should be frightened, but —”

“Heaven is a place of peace.”

“What must I do now?”

“You must meet with a committee of angels.” He indicated the gleaming hall in the distance. “You may wait here while I arrange it. I shall call you. Enjoy Heaven, for I fear a separation for you.”

“What do you mean?” Deborah asked, but he had turned to leave, and nothing seemed urgent or frightening here, so the comment slipped off her. She lay down again and watched the lightspinners dart about in the soft twilight. Memories glimmered and faded, over and over, and she felt herself sinking further and further into a mood of deep serenity. Hearing her name roused her.

“Deborah!” Natiel called again. She sat up and saw the angel beckoning her from the hall in the distance. She rose and began to walk towards him, feeling weightless and tranquil. The trees were cool and dark around her and she slipped between them, a soft breeze lifting her hair. She drew closer to the hall, and a sweet smell of cinnamon and flowers enveloped her. Natiel opened the door of the hall, and somewhere in the very back of her mind, a nagging doubt occurred to her. He had said something to her earlier which she should be concerned about.

“Let everything be as it is,” Natiel said, and his words instantly neutralised that fleeting doubt.

Let everything be as it is.

She ascended the gleaming stairs and entered the hall. Muted white light rose from every marbled surface, a chandelier of lightspinners hung above her, and as she looked up she momentarily forgot where she was,
submerged suddenly in memories. Father touching her little head and calling her a good girl; running after Mary with a kite; the way the long grass moved one afternoon in spring; the snow that had clung to her shoe and glittered like diamonds before it melted in front of the fire; crying in Anne’s arms while listening to the warm beat of her sister’s heart; one of Amelia’s cats purring gently in her lap; hot potato soup on her tongue; the feel of her favourite nightdress; the delicate touch of her own eyelash on her skin — oh, the miracle of an eyelash … infinitely, infinitely perfect moments stretched out in an immense shimmering web around her.

“Deborah, welcome to the Hall of Morning.”

She blinked and fixed her eyes on a trio of angels who sat before her at a long carved table. “I did not realise my life had been so filled with joys.”

Natiel shook his head. “Hardly anyone does. Deborah, this is Huzia, warden of this celestial hall, and Poiel, a Principality.”

She greeted each in turn, trying to tell between them. Magnetic perfection and symmetry characterised each face, leaving no distinguishing feature for her focus to light on.

“Do you like our kingdom of peace?” Huzia asked.

“’Tis heavenly,” she said, then realised what a absurd thing it was to say and started laughing. The angels laughed with her, but she saw them exchange conspiratorial glances, and again the doubt flickered in the back of her mind.

“Let everything be as it is, Deborah,” Natiel said again. “It is of no concern, for one way or another eternity will come and every man, woman and child will eventually find the pathway to this place.”

It soothed her.
Let everything be as it is.

“I need an angel key. My sisters plan to kill my father, and it is due to a fallen angel.”

“We know,” Poiel said. “We know the entire story.”

“Then you will grant me an angel key? I wish to destroy Lazodeus.”

“Are you willing to pay the price?” Natiel asked. His face seemed to darken suddenly with seriousness.

“What is the price?” she asked, that niggling doubt recurring to her.

“The price we name.”

“Yes, but what is it?”

“We will tell you after the angel key is returned to us. We will confer upon it until that time.”

She considered for only a moment. “I agree.”

“You are certain? For as well you know, we do not like to be commanded by mortals, and expect a high repayment from them,” Natiel said.

She nodded.

“Very well,” Huzia said, “approach the table.”

Deborah did as Huzia asked and he held out a silver rod on a chain. She took it from him reverently and examined it closer. The silver was shot through with rainbow colours. If she focussed on it very keenly, she thought she could hear a faint ring of music emanating from it. She carefully hung it around her neck.

“Listen carefully,” Poiel said. “The angel key bears mighty and dangerous powers. You are protected by angel magic now and are not susceptible to its dangers, but you must not use it near any other mortals for they may be injured or die. You must deal with Lazodeus alone. The key protects you from his subtle senses, so he will not know you are nearby unless he sees or hears you, and nor can he read your intentions. As soon as the key has appeared in his presence, he will be earthbound and must remain so until the end of the matter. When the time is right, you must say, ‘I command Lazodeus’s annihilation.’ Seven Seraphim are contained within that key, and they will carry out your
command. Then they will go, the angel key will disappear, and you may expect Natiel to call upon you soon after with your price.”

Deborah nodded, trying to commit it all to memory.

“We wish you luck, Deborah,” Natiel said. He glanced towards the door of the hall. “Morning fades. The sun will soon be upon us.”

“Have you ever seen the sun rise in Heaven, Deborah?” Poiel asked with a slightly mocking smile.

“You know I have not.”

“Go and watch it, for Father Infinite passes over at sunrise to tell his love to all angels,” Huzia said.

“It is a moment you will never forget,” Natiel said.

“Even if an eternity might separate you from our kingdom of peace,” Poiel said.

She turned towards the door and saw that light had begun to grow outside.

“Go, Deborah. Go and witness what you may never see again.”

A coldness began to grow in her stomach. “What do you mean?”

“Let everything be as it is,” Natiel repeated. “Go quickly.”

The sense of peace returned and she hurried her steps to the world outside. She ran through the trees and out into the open field to watch the sun’s rising. The lightspinners shot past, bringing their happy ordinary memories and she stood with her back to the night, watching as the orange blaze broke over the horizon. Golden light bathed her, drawing a long shadow behind her. Birdsong rose and the sweet taste of morning kissed her lips. A swelling of promise; something wonderful was about to happen, and she could feel it at the very core of her being. Something magnificent and brilliant was about to erupt from the horizon and wash over her and it was …

She collapsed, fell backwards. Light moved and scudded above her, a giant tide of indescribable splendour and golden shadows, and she was suddenly awash in joy, in love, in ecstasy.
He loves me, he loves me, he loves me, he loves me, he …

Cold, spluttering, choking.

“Miss, Miss, you must try to breathe.”

Gasping, coughing, suffocating.

“Turn her over.”

“Her lungs are full of water.”

Flipped violently on her stomach. Cold, hard water splashing from her nose and retching out of her. She opened her eyes. The docks, the Thames, three men in simple clothes. She fought for air, her lungs felt bruised and twisted. Her fingers grasped at her neck, ensuring the angel key was still there.

“I saw her move.”

“She is alive.”

Their rough hands pressing her back, pushing the gagging water out of her. She spat and she coughed and at last she breathed. She breathed. She breathed.

“What happened, Miss?” one of the men were asking.