The Death of Jane Lawrence(45)

“Why tell me this?” she asked again. Dr. Nizamiev had some less altruistic aim, but what it could be, Jane did not know. It yawned, black and indistinct behind the glittering sharp edges of the truth of Augustine.

“You are clever, Mrs. Lawrence; let me set the puzzle pieces out for you, and you can tell me what you see.”

Jane’s throat bobbed. And then she nodded, wordlessly. Go on.

“His spell was unsuccessful,” Dr. Nizamiev said, “but that does not mean it had no consequences.”

“The hauntings,” Jane said.

Dr. Nizamiev nodded. “He fled, trying to avoid them. But he sickened. When he came to me three months ago, he was barely able to stand, but no doctor had been able to diagnose him. He came to me first, instead of seeing Georgiana Hunt or the others, because he was afraid they would discover what he had done. He knew I was circumspect, and that I was … experienced.”

“Experienced how? Are you a—a sorceress?”

Dr. Nizamiev smiled then, animating her face, which Jane realized had been oddly blank while she related her story. “I study those who perform magic, and those who think they perform magic. It’s a personal curiosity of mine, after being a part of that eating club.”

“Mr. Renton,” she said, eyes widening as the logic clicked into place. “He called for you to attend Mr. Renton because he may have worked magic.”

“And then he turned me away, because he did not want to know what had happened, only to have me remove a problem from his hands. And because, I suspect, he resents that I could not help him when he first came to me. But I have been doing research on his behalf and have tracked down some texts that may be of help.”

Jane looked at the sitting room doorway, mouth gone dry. “Let me get him,” she said. “You should be telling this to him, not me.”

“I have already spoken to him,” Dr. Nizamiev said. “He refused my aid.”

Jane frowned. “Refused?”

“Something has convinced him that he deserves whatever punishment finds him inside these walls.” Dr. Nizamiev shrugged. “If that is his choice, so be it. But if you have also seen things, you deserve the choice to arm yourself.”

“To work magic, you mean.” Impossible. Impossible.

“Yes, or to convince him to do it himself.”

Was that it? Genuine concern for her safety? Jane scanned the other woman’s face and found only that unsettling stillness. No; there was more here than wanting to rescue Jane and Augustine. There was more that she was not saying.

Jane would be a fool to believe Dr. Nizamiev, when her explanations were so thoroughly tempting and wrapped with approval that had not been there the day Mr. Renton died.

“You’ll forgive me,” she said, gathering up her skirts and standing, “if all of this sounds ridiculous. How am I to believe you? To believe this?”

“My colleagues are skilled at diagnosing abscesses and fractured bones, but I am skilled at locating fear. You’re terrified, Mrs. Lawrence.”

Jane could not argue that.

But it didn’t matter. “I am returning to the surgery tonight. I will never come to this house again. I was never meant to come here—this is not meant to concern me.”

“Is that so?” Dr. Nizamiev said. But before she could press her argument, Augustine’s raised voice broke through the seductive murmur of the next room. She heard the scraping of furniture against wood, and saw again the blackened windows of full night.

The spirits had arrived.

Jane rushed into the sitting room, sure that she would see red-eyed Elodie in the window. But instead, she found Augustine red-faced, unable to find his words, and Hunt at his side, grinning.

“It’s only a little spell,” Hunt said. “Can’t we go back to the way things used to be?”





CHAPTER EIGHTEEN


“THIS HAS GONE on more than long enough,” Augustine snapped, jerking away from Hunt as if her touch at his shoulder burned. He was panicking. “I—we—have enjoyed your company, but it is time to be reasonable, Georgiana.”

Hunt’s delighted expression fractured, and she raised her chin a hair. “Do not treat me like a child, Augustine.”

“You come to my home despite my objections, you impose upon my wife and my staff, you refuse to listen to our polite suggestions that you return to Larrenton—”

Jane stepped fully into the room, and Augustine stopped, looking at her, eyes wide.

“I must,” he said, mastering himself with visible effort, “return to the surgery, at any rate. My patients may have need of me.”

He was running away.

From her? From his guests? It hardly mattered. He was a man beset, a man who rejected aid. If Dr. Nizamiev was telling the truth, he had chosen to suffer and so leave them both vulnerable, when he could have fixed this all. Could have acted so she would never have encountered the spirits of the previous night.

Selfish, foolish man.

“My husband tells the truth,” she said, and watched his shoulders fall in limp relief. “One of us must always be in attendance at the surgery, if possible.” Soft murmurings rose from the back of the room, wagers of if she’d go and leave the doctor to them. Flight called to her, the simplest answer she had. But she did not want to leave. She felt as if she stood balanced upon a precipice. Answers on one side, ignorant bliss on the other.