The Library also seemed to expand to accommodate new works, though interestingly its measurements remained the same whenever anyone tried to calculate its size. It was an astonishing work of diablerie, and Jane never failed to be moved by it. She just knew that there were other astonishing wonders out there in the world, and she wanted to see them, too.
“Ah, girls!” Jane’s mother was in the process of receiving an ancient scroll through the Library’s Basque Lens, a tool used by every diabolist in the Société to send written messages over distances. The Basque Lens lay flat upon Nancy’s large oaken desk, and while it would indeed reflect the viewer’s face, it did so much more than that. Its surface had been infused with various diabolic essences and coated with layers of specific armamentaria, and once a Master made theirs, they could send written requests for chapters of books, or even entire volumes—from the Library, or from their fellow Masters. Merely press a scrap of paper bearing a message to a Basque Lens’s surface, and a perfect copy would appear upon the addressee’s.
It was Nancy’s duty to keep up with fulfilling what requests came to the Library. It wasn’t as onerous a task as one might think, given most diabolists’ penchant for owning their own collection of rare volumes, but it still occupied the majority of her working hours.
Miriam raced up to take a look at the pile of Library materials Nancy had been sending along to their recipients. Jane chose instead to wait patiently, though in truth she was just as full of nervous energy and longed to be already walking toward the village.
Her patience was tested as everyone fumbled their way into their coats and their hats and mittens and scarves. No one was dawdling—not even Miriam, who tended to delay leaving the house as long as possible. Regardless, Jane was in agonies by the time they left, and barely able to keep herself from skipping ahead when the white cottages and the spire of the village church came into sight.
“Here we are at last,” said Nancy, as they walked up to the low wooden doorway of the Queen’s Head, “and now you can relax, Jane! Next time, just put on a collar and bark at us the whole way if you’re going to herd us so ruthlessly!”
Jane blushed. “I just thought we should be here when Edith arrives, not out of breath from rushing up at the last minute.”
“We’re certainly not late,” remarked Nancy.
“We could always pop over to the Lion and have a cup of tea,” said Miriam, her eyes angled longingly to the neighboring coaching inn.
Nancy peered at Miriam. “They have tea at the Queen’s Head, and that is where we are to meet Edith. Does their tea not suit you?”
Miriam shook her head. “No! I just thought it looked . . . a bit warmer, is all.”
Jane managed to pretend her snort was just a cough. The village forge was behind the Red Lion, and that, of course, was where Sam worked. Miriam’s attempts to hide her interest in him were so clumsy, poor thing. Jane was just about to try to help her out by coming up with some reason, any reason, to amble past the forge, when Sam did them the favor by just appearing from the alley. He was carrying what looked to be, judging from the way his muscles were straining against the sleeves of his jumper, a very heavy box.
Miriam startled like a colt when she saw him. Poor Miriam!
“All right, ladies?” he said, with a smile that showed off his good teeth. “Are you in need of assistance?”
“Hello, Sam,” said Nancy. “I can see why you would think we might be, what with us just standing in the street like three fools. I believe we were discussing whether the Lion would be warmer than the Queen’s Head. Have you an opinion on the matter?”
Miriam could not look more miserable and humiliated as she stared at the tips of her muddy boots—which was why it was Jane who noticed that Sam’s eyes slid toward Miriam as he spoke.
“The Lion is always a bit warmer,” he answered, confirming Jane’s suspicions; he said it to Miriam, not any of the rest of them. “At least, so it seems to me.”
He trailed off as Nancy shrugged elaborately; Miriam still said nothing. Jane was just mulling over how to help out her friend when the rattle of her aunt’s stylish but finicky Citroën reached her ears.
“There’s Edith!” she cried. A distraction would be the best possible thing for all of them at that point.
“I must be off,” said Sam, excusing himself as he walked on with his box, much to Miriam’s obvious relief.
Edith hallooed at them, waving wildly with one hand as she steered with the other, much to the dismay of several villagers who were out and about on their various errands. Jane sighed to herself in envy; how she would love to be so noticed as she went through the world!
“Why on earth are you all standing in the street!” cried Edith as she killed the engine and leaped out of the automobile. A very confused stable boy wandered out to accept her gloves when she handed them off to him.
“I wish I knew,” said Nancy, embracing her sister. “Were we strange children? I can’t remember.”
“The strangest!” declared Edith. “And you know it!”
Edith stood out in any crowd, but today she looked the part of the glamorous Continental even more than usual. Her dark skin was set off beautifully by a black suit that looked very much like something a stylish recent widow might wear, complete with black hat and black lace veil. Jane almost moaned, looking at the jet beadwork.
It was likely true what Nancy said—that given their rural location, it was a bad idea for any of them to “look like a witch.” Diabolists might not use magic, but they could be prosecuted for it, given the unusual and unchristian nature of the Art. But that was just another reason Jane had for wanting to leave the village. No one in a city would bat an eye to see a smartly dressed young woman attending a party all in black. At least, so it seemed from Edith’s accounts—and the movies Jane loved so much.
“You girls can’t stop growing up, can you?” said Edith. Jane’s heart soared when Edith caught her eye and gave her a private, approving nod.
“They won’t slow down even though I beg them,” said Nancy.
There was no road to the old farmhouse, just a path, so Edith supervised the loading of her luggage into the mule cart and passed the driver a pound coin. He looked pleased and promised prompt delivery.
“Brr, it’s cold,” she complained, as they began to walk. It was two miles from the village to their farm in the lonely countryside, over muddy paths dotted with frozen puddles. “How do you manage?”
“It’s not so bad,” said Miriam, the picture of loyalty. “The house is very snug.”
“It’s the Library I’m more worried about,” said Edith, shivering inside a long black greatcoat she’d pulled from somewhere; its dramatic collar and cinched waist gave her a silhouette that would not be out of place in an Erté. “It’s not exactly warm down there even if it’s dry. I’ll have to borrow some slippers so my toes don’t freeze during your Test!”
“Test?” asked Miriam. She sounded as shocked as Jane felt. “Whose Test?”
Edith pulled a bag of what looked like fancy sweets from her purse and popped one into her mouth. They were her method of keeping in touch with her demon Mercurialis, but to any non-diabolist it looked like nothing more than a woman indulging in a bit of candy.