Angel of Ruin (9 page)

“I shan’t wait for daylight. I’ll bring back candles and coal after supper, and those old hangings Betty intended to throw out.”

Deborah turned to Mary, considering her in the dark. “You’re serious then? About having your own room?”

“Of course I’m serious.”

“How will you get Max across here?”

Mary frowned. “I shall make a little sling for him, bind him against me. He’ll be frightened, though.”

“And where will you sleep?”

“On the floor. I’ll bring some blankets over, start a fire.” She frowned, and Deborah doubted she would ever actually spend a night here.

“Mary? Deborah?” Anne called querulously from the window.

“Just a minute, Anne,” Deborah replied. “And what will you do when the shop is let again, and somebody wants to live here?”

Mary shook her head. “Anne and I are only here until Twelfth Night anyway. And if that is so, if Father and foul Betty are determined to send us away, then I shall not care what trouble I cause. Why, I might invite Sir Wallace up here for an illicit exchange.”

“Mary, you shouldn’t endanger the reputation of all of us,” Deborah remarked, feeling her temper rise. Mary’s flightiness and rages she could live with, but not her unchaste excesses.

Mary punched Deborah playfully. “’Tis little wonder you’re the only daughter Father wants to keep by him. You are so virtuous. Sir Wallace is probably too infirm to climb up here anyway.”

“Mary?”

“Yes, Anne, we’re coming!” Mary cried.

“Be easier with her,” Deborah said as they moved towards the window.

“As soon as she tells me how to summon our guardian angel, I will be easier with her,” Mary huffed. “Until then, she’s a traitor to our family, to us.”

Deborah followed Mary back to their attic room. Her sisters were both determined to believe this guardian angel story, but surely such things didn’t exist outside of nursery rhymes. They were no longer children. Mystical beings wouldn’t take care of them; they had to rely upon themselves.

“Mary! You have a letter!”

Her sister’s voice came from deep in the house. Mary was kneeling on the grass in the tiny garden, combing tangles out of Max’s coat. “Who’s it from?” she called. Max wriggled this way and that, whimpering intermittently. “Shh, Max, sit still. It doesn’t hurt.”

“Uncle William.”

Mary turned. Deborah stood in the doorway holding the letter out to her.

“Uncle William?”

“Do you want me to throw it straight onto the fire?”

“No, no. I’ve asked him for some information.” Mary stood and Max instantly fled inside. “Here, give it to me.”

Deborah passed her the letter. “What information?”

Mary tapped Deborah’s forehead with the corner. “Don’t be so curious.” She picked off the seal and quickly scanned William’s uneven handwriting.

Mary squeaked with excitement. She folded the letter hastily and grabbed Deborah’s hand. “Come walking with me.”

“Where?”

“To Leadenhall Street.”

“What’s on Leadenhall Street?”

“Just come with me.”

“Should we ask Anne if she’d like to walk with us?”

“No, just you and I.”

“Mary, you’re acting strangely.”

“I’m mightily excited,” Mary said, then leaned in close to whisper, “I know where the wise woman lives.”

Deborah’s brow furrowed in puzzlement. “Mother’s wise woman?”

Mary nodded. “I can barely keep my skin on, Deborah.”

“I’ll come with you, but you should not expect to find anything there.”

“Come, we’ll go over the garden wall so nobody sees us.”

Mary led Deborah via a back route down to Mooregate, then across the city until they reached St Peter’s on Bishop’s Gate Street. The tall smooth trees in front of the church stood deep in piles of shed leaves. A brisk wind gusted up Cornhill, making the leaves rattle against each other.

Deborah shivered. “Where are we?” she asked.

“We’re here,” Mary said.

“She lives in St Peter’s?”

“No, she lives at Leadenhall Street. Number 251.”

“Then why are we standing here? Why are we not walking up Leadenhall Street?”

Mary turned to her. “I think I’m frightened.”

Deborah laughed out loud. “You’re not frightened of anything.”

“Anne is so determined that it would be wrong to call the angel back.”

“So you really believe Anne’s story?”

“Don’t you?”

Deborah shook her head. “I am uncertain. I find it impossible to imagine us commanding an angel.”

“Then why is Anne so affected by the idea? If it is not true?”

“Perhaps she dreamed it.”

Mary grabbed her hand. “Deborah, when we speak of the angel, Anne becomes pale and shakes. Does any dream of your childhood affect you so fiercely?”

Deborah considered. As a child, she had often dreamed of being publicly decapitated: the filthy, screaming crowd, the cold block beneath her cheek, the bite of the axe. It had terrified her when she was young, but now it hadn’t the power to affect her. “I suppose …”

“Sister,” Mary said, her voice solemn, “what if it is true?”

A cold twist of fear moved in her stomach. She hadn’t considered for a moment that it might be true. “I … I know not.”

“Do such things exist in the world? If we can believe in God in his Heaven, can we not believe his angels are here on earth?” Mary placed her hands on her sister’s shoulders. “What power might such a creature have to heal? What might he teach you of physic and the working of the body?”

A sudden wave of anticipation washed over Deborah. “Perhaps …” Some of the most respected writers on
natural philosophy had mentioned communing with angels. If it was right for them, it should not be wrong for her.

“There is no harm in trying to summon him. Can we not believe in more than can be seen? Can we not believe in magic?”

Deborah nodded slowly, feeling her excitement grow. “The whole hidden universe … he may be able to tell me of it.”

“Let us find her.”

They walked quickly up the street. The traffic was heavy, and carts were parked along the way. The strong smell of horse sweat and dung filled the air. Deborah stepped carefully over the filthy cobbles. In the distance, somebody played a tune on the harpsichord. The solemnity of the music seemed out of place on the dirty, crowded street.

“There!” Mary exclaimed, pointing to the last house in a row. It was constructed of black wood and was unusually narrow, as though it had been built on the corner almost as an afterthought. The front path was laid with old straw and two gaunt trees bent over the front door, their pale branches a severe contrast against the dark wood. A shingle hung from the front, an eye inside a triangle.

Mary pressed a hand to her chest. “My heart is fit to burst. I do not know if I’m more terrified than excited.”

“We need not be terrified, I am sure. Mother wouldn’t have done anything foolish, would she?”

“I know not. I was only little when she died. And knowing the rest of her family, Grandmamma and Uncle William …”

Deborah laughed. “Oh, pity us, for that is the line from which we must draw our inheritance.”

They giggled for a moment, then turned to face the
house together. “Come, then,” said Mary, “knock at the door.”

“You knock. This is your idea.”

Mary squared her shoulders and moved down the path, Deborah following close behind her. She had heard tales of witches, crones with the devil’s eyes in their heads. Mary lifted her hand and knocked. In a few moments, the door opened a crack and a hunchbacked old woman with a black veil over her hair peered out.

“What is it?” she asked in a heavily foreign croak.

“Are you Amelia Lewis?” Mary asked.

She shook her head. “I’m Amelia’s maidservant. Is she expecting you?”

“No.”

“She doesn’t see anybody new.”

“We aren’t new, though. At least, our mother was one of her clients. Can you ask her if she’ll see us?”

“What are your names?”

“Deborah and Mary Milton, daughters of Mary Milton late of Petty France,” Deborah said. “It was many years ago, but she may remember.”

“Wait here.”

The maidservant closed the door, leaving Mary and Deborah standing between the two slender trees in the autumn chill. Mary tried a smile. “I wonder what she looks like.”

“I thought the crone was her.”

“As did I. Just like a picture of a witch.”

The door opened again and a blonde woman appeared on the threshold. This was no crone. Although she was, perhaps, as old as Father, her dark eyes were sharp, her face pretty, her hair glowing brightly. Even her teeth were still whole. She wore a black dress, deeply plunging in the front, and black ribbons in her hair. Deborah assumed she was in mourning, possibly recently widowed.

“Good day,” Mary said, “are you Amelia Lewis?”

“Yes, I am. You are the daughters of Mary Milton?”

“Yes. I’m named for my mother,” Mary offered.

Amelia fixed her eye on Deborah. “And you are named for the Hebrew prophetess.”

“I know not.”

“Ask your father, he will tell you as much. Come in to the warm.” She ushered the girls in and led them to a dark withdrawing room where a tiny fire crackled in the corner. The furnishings were rich: velvet chairs, embroidered tapestry hangings, wool rugs, silver candlesticks. The lushness inside contrasted dramatically with the poor appearance of the outside of the building. Scattered about the place, as though they were beautiful accessories to the room, were seven cats. And yet the house didn’t smell of cats, it smelled of rosewater and lime.

“Please sit down. Would you like biscuits? Gisela has been cooking all morning.”

Deborah settled among velvet cushions. She saw Mary’s fingertips brush the soft material longingly. “No, thank you, Mrs Lewis. This is a fine home,” Deborah said.

“Call me Amelia. I am not and have never been married.”

“Never been married?” Mary blurted, “but you’re so … beautiful.”

“My beauty was not the problem. The lack of it in others was.”

“I thought these were your widow’s weeds,” Deborah said, indicating the black dress.

“Oh, these are certainly the clothes of bereavement,” Amelia said with a frown. “I am mourning my lost youth.”

Deborah didn’t know if she should laugh. But Amelia didn’t appear to be jesting.

“Ma’am … Amelia, do you do so well from your trade that you can afford such a magnificent house and a maidservant?” Mary asked.

Deborah glared at her sister for being so forward, even though she wanted to know the answer herself. She had never seen such rich objects, and the very idea of an independent woman living this way was astounding to her.

“No. I had a large inheritance from my grandfather, and Gisela works for me out of love. I cured her of the plague, ten years ago.” Amelia sat opposite them in a grand, stuffed chair and took a cat in her lap.

“You can perform physic?” Deborah asked, her curiosity piqued.

“Hush, Deborah, we are not here to be nosy,” Mary said with a mischievous smirk.

Amelia leaned forward. “Time enough later for questions. How may I serve you, girls?”

“Do you remember our mother came to you, ere Deborah was born?” Mary said.

“I have never forgotten anything, ever,” Amelia said. There was no indication that she spoke anything other than seriously. “She asked for a guardian for you and your other sister … Anne. Why is Anne not with you? Has she died?”

Mary and Deborah exchanged glances. “No, Anne is well,” Deborah said.

Amelia drew her eyebrows together. “She doesn’t know you’re here. She doesn’t want you to be here.”

“Did you guess that or do you … know?” Deborah asked. She had heard that some wise women could read thoughts.

“I guessed, Deborah Milton,” Amelia said, a pale hand stroking the cat lovingly. “You look at each other furtively, you feel guilty.”

“Anne is afraid,” Mary said. “She thinks that the guardian angel killed our little brother.”

“Angels are not so base,” Amelia replied.

Deborah felt a wash of relief, and realised that under deep layers of her thoughts, Anne’s fear had affected her. “Yes, of course,” she said.

“She only recently told us about our angel,” Mary said. “And now we are under threat.”

“And you want to call upon him. I see.”

“Is he still ours?” Deborah ventured. “Or do they only look after children?”

“No, he is yours for life, until the last one of you dies.”

“Can we have the summoning, then?” Mary asked.

Amelia pressed her graceful hands together. “Let me consider it for a few moments.”

“But Mother paid for it, did she not?” Mary said. “You
have
to give it to us if we ask.”

Amelia turned a gaze on Mary that was akin to how she might consider a carpet bug. “My dear, I don’t
have
to do anything. I’m Amelia Lewis.”

“I apologise for my sister,” Deborah said. “She’s very excitable.”

“The problem is this,” Amelia continued, as though she hadn’t heard. “The angel is supposed to serve all three of you, but your sister Anne does not want him called. So what I shall do is give you a summoning in which all three of you must partake. It will then be your role to convince Anne to join you.”

“Convince Anne! But she’ll never agree to it,” Mary moaned.

“If she never agrees to it, then you’ll never see your angel,” Amelia said. “But ’Tis important that the three of you work together. Do not treat the bonds of sisterhood lightly.” She rose, dropping the cat gently on a nearby cushion. They were the most docile cats
Deborah had ever seen, not like the mad creatures at Grandmamma’s house, always running terrified from whomever approached. “Now wait here, I will go to my study and write the new summoning.”

“But …” Mary started, then decided better of it.