“Yours,” said Edith, matter-of-factly. “It’s time, according to Nance—but she couldn’t test you herself. She’d be too easy on you.” Edith’s dark eyes flashed wickedly as she took Jane’s hand and beckoned for Miriam to come along. “That’s why I’m here at this dreadful time of year. Don’t look so surprised, my dears, or at least don’t act so surprised. It slows you down, and I’m perishing for want of a hot cup of tea.”
“Oh, of course we’ll have tea before you begin,” said Jane’s mother. “I even made a Victoria sandwich yesterday.”
“I can’t imagine having enough eggs for cake!” Edith sighed happily, but as she looked from Jane to Miriam, she sobered somewhat. “Such long faces! And with cake awaiting us! Don’t worry, girls. You’ll do just fine! You’re ready!”
“Ready for what, though?” asked Miriam.
Jane had a different question, directed at both her mother and her aunt. “Why didn’t you tell us?”
“Tradition,” said her mother.
Jane scowled. Tradition was her least favorite reason for anything.
“Think about it this way—we’ve saved you the trouble of worrying about it!” said Edith.
Jane wasn’t so sure about all that. They still had the entire walk home before them, after all.
And tea.
3
* * *
NANCY BLACKWOOD’S VICTORIA SANDWICH had won a prize three years in a row at the Hawkshead village fête—and it might have won more if Nancy hadn’t stopped entering for the sake of the other bakers. War rationing meant Nancy baked less often these days, much to everyone’s regret, so a slice was always a treat. Today, however, the perfectly delicate sponge was like ashes in Jane’s mouth and the jam a cloying paste too sweet on her tongue. She could barely manage three bites.
Edith was having no such troubles; she had already polished off a second helping and was just washing it down with the last of her tea.
“If I can fit into any of my dresses by the end of this visit, it’ll be a miracle,” she said.
“Nobody’s forcing you to have so much,” said Nancy.
“You are,” said Edith, pressing the pad of her manicured forefinger into the crumbs. “There’s no cake like this in London—no cake like this in Paris, even. I think it has to be baked in the country to taste this good.”
“Flatterer.” Nancy shooed her sister’s hand away from her plate. “Stop that and take these girls down to the Library. They both look like they’ll shed their skins if we put this off a moment longer.”
Jane looked at Miriam, but there was nothing she could think to say. It was time.
“Bring your tea,” said Edith.
Jane’s had long ago gone cold. She shook her head; she’d had enough—but to her surprise, her mother poured her a fresh cup, and Miriam too.
“Bring your tea,” said Nancy, and there was a bit of sternness to her tone.
Jane took her cup and saucer. Miriam did too, similarly mystified.
“Now, let’s get comfortable and talk about this Test,” said Edith, as she led them down the stairs to the Library. “No need to keep you in suspense any longer.”
“Why keep us in suspense at all?” asked Jane.
Edith’s sympathetic expression did little to mollify her when the reason was, of course: “Tradition, Jane. If anything important having to do with the Société ever seems byzantine or unnecessary or even just plain silly, just think to yourself, This is probably a tradition.”
“I know! But—”
“Questions later. For now, sit.”
They stopped at a little reading area with comfortable chairs that surrounded a low table. Edith flung herself into a wingback and produced an eyedropper from somewhere upon her person. When Jane and Miriam set down their tea, she put a few drops in both cups.
“Drink up,” she said. “Mandatory, sorry. It’s part of the Test.”
“What is it?” asked Miriam, before Jane could even open her mouth.
“Truth serum,” said Edith smoothly.
“So we can’t cheat?” asked Miriam.
“So that you cannot cheat yourself.” Edith’s response was irritatingly cryptic. Jane took the cup and drank it all in one swallow.
Edith gave her an approving smile as Miriam rushed to catch up.
“Now,” said Edith, “the Test is nothing like what you may have experienced in school. It’s not going to be me testing your knowledge of the Art. Instead, it will be a test you give yourself; or rather, you will be tested on your own willingness to become a diabolist.”
“How?” asked Miriam.
Edith didn’t reply. After a moment, Jane felt her stomach lurch—Edith wasn’t being coy, she wasn’t moving at all. She’d frozen in place, her darkly rouged lips parted to reveal straight teeth as she leaned against the left arm of the leather wingback chair. She didn’t blink, and when Jane stood to investigate, she didn’t appear to be breathing.
“Miriam,” said Jane, but Miriam didn’t answer.
Miriam wasn’t there. She was gone as if she’d never been, and when Jane put her hand on the seat of the chair, it was cold.
“Miriam?”
She isn’t here.
The answer came from somewhere inside Jane. It wasn’t a voice—she felt it, rather than hearing it; the words weren’t articulated so much as conveyed.
She screamed.
It’s all right. Please don’t worry.
Jane’s wildly beating heart did not slow at this request. She felt faint as the tea sloshed gently in her heaving stomach and she fell to her knees. It wasn’t just the shocking sudden presence of whatever it was that now occupied her mind; it was how much of her mind it felt free to occupy. It was not only speaking to her with an expectation of a response—it was looking her over, pawing through her memories, her feelings, invading everything that made her Jane Blackwood. It was the most intimate thing she’d ever experienced, and she hated it so much. She felt she would rather die than endure it a moment longer.
“Stop!” she cried. It was embarrassing, to be so exposed before someone, or rather some thing, she hadn’t given permission to look at her. How could her beloved aunt have betrayed her so utterly?
Stop? But you invited me.
“I didn’t!”
You did. You summoned me; we made the Pact. Forever shall I be a part of you, Jane Blackwood, and you, me. Be not afraid! We shall work wondrous acts of diablerie together.
Jane looked up, hoping her aunt might have come back to herself, but Edith was now gone, as was the chair she’d been sitting in. Jane was amazed to find herself in, of all places, a flat. A flat in a city Jane could not immediately identify from the bright skyline beyond her windows. She looked down and saw she was in a black dress that pulled across her breasts and her hips in a way that somehow gave her the illusion of curves. She was standing before a table with a black cloth softening its edges. Beakers and phials and bowls of powders had been set out—whoever was missing from this scene had been in the midst of some sort of diablerie.