The Death of Jane Lawrence(117)

Had Dr. Nizamiev seen it, too, in what could only have been a glance in the hallway?

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jane said at last, though her voice trembled.

“His long absence. Where was he?”

Another leading question, another balancing upon the precipice. Jane wanted to scream, hurl insults, drive Dr. Nizamiev away. But it was only for an instant; she and Augustine had already rehearsed this answer.

“The cellar,” she said. “The tunnels are unstable. He was trapped for a time. Their total collapse after he escaped is what destroyed the house. Or hadn’t you heard?”

“He went down below instead of attending a patient? My understanding,” Dr. Nizamiev said, making another note, “was that you saw him go out. Mr. Lowell mentioned searching the hills with the magistrate’s men.”

“I was wrong,” she said. “Overwrought. Exhausted. He left me to sleep, and I assumed he’d gone, but apparently he had stored books down there. Medical texts. It was dangerous, but less damp than the house proper.”

Dr. Nizamiev had not seen Augustine’s study in the house. The lie came easily, and Jane saw no flicker of distrust in her.

Or of faith.

“I’m sorry,” Jane added, before Dr. Nizamiev had a chance to probe further, “but I fear I must ask that you leave me to rest. You understand, the surgical intervention I required, it has left me quite worn down.”

“Of course,” Dr. Nizamiev said, rising from her seat, her dark skirts undulating. She closed her notebook, tucked it away in a pocket. “You have gone through a harrowing trial, and I am glad you have made it out the other side.”

“Thank you. I’m glad, as well; more glad that Augustine has come with me.”

Dr. Nizamiev inclined her head, bid Jane farewell, moved toward the door. But she hesitated at the frame, turned back to Jane. “Do not be a stranger, Mrs. Lawrence. It may be that in the weeks and months to come, you find you are not as much yourself as you would hope; please do not hesitate to call on me, should you need my services.”

And then she was gone in truth, her boots light on the stairs. Jane listened until the front door opened and closed, and only then began to sob.

Relief. It was relief only, that Dr. Nizamiev had not lingered to see Augustine, though it was the final confirmation that Dr. Nizamiev had been here to evaluate her.

“Jane.”

She lifted her head to see her husband waiting just outside the room, his brow furrowed in worry.

“Are you well?”

The question stilled her tears. It brought with it a moment of panic, but it passed off quick enough. Her nightmares would not fade for some time, but this man who came to her, sat on her bedside, stroked her hair—she trusted him. She trusted him in a way she couldn’t have two weeks ago.

She no longer needed the impossible. It was time to put away the reaching, grasping, arrogant part of herself, the part that had hungered for more than her husband’s salvation. She knew where that led. Dr. Nizamiev had done her a favor.

Whether it was intentional or not.

“I am well,” she said. She turned her head, kissed his palm.

He smiled, and did not mention their visitor. He might not even have seen her pass. Jane did not bother to ask as he toed off his shoes.

“Don’t you have patients?”

“I’ve asked Mr. Lowell to close up the surgery for a few hours,” he said. “I need rest.” He levered himself into bed next to her. “I’ve been doing far too much thinking today.”

“Thinking? About what?”

“What do you think of moving to Camhurst?” he asked.

“Camhurst? Why?”

“You could attend university, study mathematics. And Vingh has sent me word of a surgical posting. We could leave Larrenton, Lindridge Hall, all of it behind. Start over.”

Jane hesitated, thinking of bombs and basements, but her old fears felt smaller now, a marble bumping across the floorboards until stopping, silent, in a dark corner. She thought, too, of cells and floating magicians. Of being so close to Dr. Nizamiev. But she was not a magician anymore. She would keep her silence. There was no danger.

“That sounds wonderful,” she said.

Augustine kissed her forehead and drew her closer, mindful of her injury. She nestled in against him and closed her eyes, and knew that she was happy.

The lights guttered out.





ACKNOWLEDGMENTS


I STARTED WRITING The Death of Jane Lawrence almost five years ago, and it has gone through several iterations, getting weirder, bloodier, and more personal each time. While some parts remain recognizable, others have changed astronomically between then and now. Five years is a long time to work on a single book (at least for me), and while I never gave up, I also know I likely wouldn’t have gotten this book into your hands without a lot of help over that time.

So first, I need to thank my early readers. Ellis Bray and Kiki Nguyen, you were both invaluable for helping me diagnose the major fault in the first version of this project. Augustine will never be the same, thanks to you two. Emma Mieko “Screaming T-Pose Renton” Candon and Shyela Sanders, you both have read through multiple iterations and sat up late with me while I ranted and theorized and finally made my way to this final result. Thank you for being my rubber ducks and therapists.