The Death of Jane Lawrence(51)

“So instead he … what, trapped her spirit?”

“If the ritual he found was incorrectly structured, it’s possible. The ritual guides the magician’s force of will. It cements the magician’s knowledge of the working of the world and thereby lets her choose exactly which thread to pull on, which number to change the meaning of.”

With a sickening pop, something clicked into place inside her brain. “A proof. Rituals are like mathematical proofs,” Jane said wonderingly. “Dr. Vingh said rituals function by reproducing the steps over and over again, thereby learning the logic of it by the practice. Like studying trigonometry. But couldn’t you just as easily practice nonsense? Just because a thing is written out, step by step, doesn’t mean it leads anywhere.”

Dr. Nizamiev inclined her head in approval. “Just so. A poorly designed ritual can lead a magician astray. A magician gets what she asks for, whether she meant to ask for it or not.”

And what had Augustine asked for? What plea had he been making, up to his arms in gore? Jane shuddered, bowing her head and curling in upon herself.

“Tell me,” Dr. Nizamiev said, voice quieting but not softening, “what happened up there.”

“They were asking to be shown what had led Augustine away from his old life,” Jane said. “And I saw her. I saw Elodie.” She swallowed.

“As you have before?”

“No. Before, I saw her in the windows. She was silent. This time—this time, it was as if she was in the room, and she was screaming. Augustine was—Augustine had—I don’t understand.”

“Tell me.” It was a command, and Jane flinched, drawing back reflexively. She did not want this cold, strange woman to see into the house’s darkness, but who else could she turn to?

How could she return to the surgery in the morning? How could she greet her husband?

“What ritual,” she asked, voice weak, “would lead a man to cut open his wife’s chest and reach in to take her still-beating heart?”

Dr. Nizamiev inhaled sharply, the first scrap of surprise Jane had seen in her all night, the first crack in her control.

“What you saw,” the woman said, “may not be literal reality. You must remember that.”

“But what if it was?”

“I have no answers.”

“It doesn’t make sense,” Jane whispered. “I have seen him with his patients, and he is caring, and kind, and skilled. I have never seen him be cruel. I have seen him lie, I have seen him manipulate, but never harm.”

“Neither have I,” Dr. Nizamiev agreed. “Which is why I wonder if it might not be, instead of the truth, a filtered perception.”

“What do you mean?”

“If Elodie is here, in these walls,” Dr. Nizamiev said, rising from her chair and gesturing around the room, “then does it not follow that she may still retain some measure of coherence? Of thought? Of feeling? Stories tell us that ghosts are fixed in time by strong emotion. Fear, or grief, or confusion. What if you saw not what was, but what the ghost of Elodie remembers? Fractured interpretations, reassembled into something that goes against truth.”

“I cannot take that chance,” Jane said. Her hands fisted in her skirt.

“Then what will you do?” Dr. Nizamiev asked. “A nightmare is not evidence for a magistrate.”

Jane plucked at the cloth, picking at threads. She stared straight ahead.

What options did she have?

“Why ask about magic,” Dr. Nizamiev said, “if you have no plan to use it?”

“I just want things to make sense,” Jane whispered. “I just—”

She was interrupted by Vingh appearing in the doorway. “Pardon,” he said, ignoring Jane entirely. “Nizamiev, have you seen my instrument case?”

Jane frowned and rose from her seat. “Is something wrong? Is somebody hurt?”

“A little accident,” he said, gaze flicking to her and away again. “Georgiana went to pick up her glass and it shattered. But I can’t find my blasted bag.”

Dr. Nizamiev said nothing, looking at Jane instead.

“I haven’t seen it, but there are tools here,” Jane said. “A-an old bag of Augustine’s, I just had the contents cleaned up the other day. It’s in the kitchen, if I’m not mistaken.”

“That will have to do,” he said grudgingly, but he did not move. Instead, his skin grew pale.

“Dr. Vingh?”

He was looking at the darkened window.

Jane turned to look as well, but found only their reflections looking back.

“I’ve never known you to be skittish, Andrew,” Dr. Nizamiev said.

“I had not expected screaming tonight. No offense, Mrs. Lawrence.”

“I would have preferred to be spared it myself. The glass shattered?” Jane asked. She motioned for them to follow her into the kitchen. Vingh and Dr. Nizamiev followed at her heels. There, on the counter, were the cleaned scalpels and other tools. Vingh went to them immediately, fingers hovering just above, until he found a sharp, curved needle.

“It was the strangest thing,” he murmured. “Never seen it in my life. Like the offering bowl, it just—split. Reese is convinced that she closed the ritual wrong in all the chaos of your fit. She’s up in the library again, trying to fix things.” He scoffed. “What a load of nonsense, if you ask me. Mrs. Lawrence, do you have sewing thread?”