Shall we finish up?
Jane’s opinion of the presence in her mind did not improve as it persisted.
“Finish?” asked Jane.
You said you wanted to finish up before you went to the Admiral’s party. And if we don’t get started, we’ll be more than fashionably late.
“But—”
They’ll find you irresistible, said the voice. The perfume will befuddle their senses, bewitch their minds, hold their attention!
“Why?” asked Jane.
Because that is your will. Your desire. Jane didn’t think that sounded like her at all, and she began to suspect something odd was going on with this entire experience. You want them to notice you, to see you, admire you. You want to be at the center of their lives, don’t you?
Jane felt greasy and unsettled. “I do want that,” said Jane—why lie; it could read her thoughts!—“but I want to win that on my own, not through a perfume . . .”
You are a diabolist, Jane! It sounded almost annoyed, as if she were betraying some sort of previous agreement between them. Jane!
“But—”
“Jane,” someone said. “Jane!”
It was her mother. Jane startled up in her chair as Nancy squeezed her hand with a deep and reassuring pressure. This rare motherly gesture brought Jane back to herself.
Better still, the presence in her mind was completely, totally gone.
“There you are.” Nancy’s smile was tense and worried.
“What’s wrong?” she asked. “Is it Miriam?”
“No, no. Miriam’s been awake for a while—she’s upstairs, with Edith.”
“She disappeared . . .”
Jane’s mother squeezed her hand again. “She was here the whole time. So was Edith. It’s the nature of the serum; it takes you into your own mind, but sometimes in surprising ways.”
Jane’s head began to clear. “I didn’t really speak with a demon today, did I?”
“No,” said her mother. “You didn’t. It was a diabolic hallucination. It was meant to show you your own mind about how you’d act if you had made the Pact.”
Jane felt an enormous sense of relief. “I passed, then. I said I didn’t want to control anyone or make them bend to my will or something.”
“That’s good to know!” Nancy looked extremely, almost disproportionally relieved. Then she said: “But your reaction to the actual experience of sharing yourself so fully with a demon was what was being tested.”
“My reaction?”
“It can be . . . unnerving, sharing one’s self so closely with another,” said Nancy. “A lover could never be so intimate. And it doesn’t tend to get less intense. There’s no privacy to be had after you summon a demon. They know everything; they’re a part of you forever.”
She peered at Jane. “I only mention this because, usually, the longer the Test takes, the less successful the encounter.”
“Is that so?” Jane made sure to convey only the mildest of interest in this as she yawned and stretched, but in reality she was starting to feel very uncomfortable.
She couldn’t have failed the Test. That was impossible! She’d always been destined for Mastery. It was the only thing she’d ever wanted.
“The truth is”—Nancy still seemed anxious, as if Jane hadn’t said the right word or phrase that would end this nightmare for them both—“the Société has found that those who do not enjoy their experience during the Test rarely go on to enjoy having a demon companion. We’d rather just not have them among our ranks—for their sake. The Test allows us to weed them out early, before it’s too late.”
“Of course.” Jane would not let herself be weeded out. She deserved to be here as much as anyone.
She forced herself to smile. Nancy visibly relaxed. “Why would they want to continue anyway?” she asked, a decoy inquiry.
“You’d be surprised.” Nancy still had that aura of anxiousness. “Sometimes the idea of being a diabolist is so appealing that people ignore their reason and dive in when they’re not suited for it. It rarely works out for them,” she said with a sad smile.
Jane knew she had to distract her mother, and quickly. She decided to try a new tack. “I was dressed so fabulously in my dream, or whatever it was,” she said. “I hope that also bodes well!”
That was what Nancy had wanted to hear, apparently. “That’s my Jane,” she said, visibly relieved. “A black dress, I assume?”
“Oh, yes!”
“Come along upstairs, then,” said Nancy, standing and helping Jane to her unsteady feet. “Let’s go see Edith and Miriam. We have to celebrate!”
“Miriam passed too, I take it?”
“Oh, of course she did,” said Nancy. Jane cringed inwardly at this; of course Miriam had passed, but her mother had been clearly quite worried about her own daughter.
And the worst part was she was right to be so.
“Oh, Jane!” said Nancy. “I’m so proud of you.” And with that she embraced her daughter, a rare though coveted occurrence—and in this case, an entirely undeserved reward.
4
* * *
JANE HAD HAD QUITE ENOUGH tea for the day, but she politely accepted a cup after Edith welcomed her into the farmhouse’s kitchen with embraces and tears of joy that were agonizing to endure. Worse, however, was Miriam’s reaction—she was, as always, reserved, but the emotion in her eyes was sincere. Under other circumstances, Jane would have been truly moved by the support and enthusiasm of these women, but receiving it when she didn’t deserve it was a kind of torture.
Nancy was not talented at idleness; not long after their return, she was up and making some hot water crust pastry for the raised meat pie that would be their celebration dinner.
“The Test wasn’t always a test of one’s self,” said Edith, answering some question Miriam had asked. Jane had only been half listening as she mulled over in her mind what had happened in her dream. “It’s only since the last, oh, fifty years or so that they changed it, right, Nance?” Nancy nodded. “The Société felt that studying for a proper examination was pointless. Only apprentices with the aptitude necessary for the Art ever make it far in their studies. We needed to test whether they had the disposition for it.”
“I never even thought about that,” said Miriam, as Jane kept her expression studiously neutral. “I imagine it might go poorly for the Société—and others—if someone violent or dangerous became a Master.”
“Oh, it doesn’t stop that,” said Nancy. “It’s more . . . if diabolic possession isn’t going to make someone happy, then it’s just all such a waste, isn’t it?”
“A waste?” asked Jane, and then cursed herself for prying.
“A waste of time, a waste of resources . . . and for what?”
“Oh, come now, Nancy, you know what it’s for.” Edith reached into her bag and took out a silver compact mirror. Dipping her finger into the powder, she tapped it along her brow line and looked up at them out of big blue eyes that had been dark brown a moment before. “There are other professions that are more lucrative, or that put one more in the spotlight . . . but none so powerful as ours. We take the world, Nancy, and we remake it to our will!”