The Death of Jane Lawrence(77)

He should have known not to try. He should have left her there, at peace, without him.

“Why?” she asked the empty house. He’d been in love. He’d been convinced he’d failed her. But why go to such lengths, why do it alone, why fail again to save her? He was a doctor. He had seen death, had been its close companion as surely as the undertakers. Jane rose to her feet in the early dawn light, turning slowly in a circle, looking at the monument all around her to his knowledge, his learning, his brilliance.

It was just as she’d told him that night at the surgery. He was selfish. He was so selfish.

What could he have been, if he’d hadn’t confused self-loathing with humility?

“How could you do this to me?” she asked the shelves. “To her? To yourself? You, with your doctor’s arrogance, your loving arrogance! Come back!” Her voice rose until she was shouting, voice booming and strange in her ears. “Come back to me, and make this right!”

The house groaned in response, and for just a moment, she thought she saw Augustine’s face in the wallpaper of the hallway, through the door Orren’s ghost had left open the night before. Tears streaked down her cheeks. “I can’t do this alone,” she whispered. “I killed a boy last night. I killed a boy, and I am just like you. All I could think about was how I failed.”

The wall was blank. The house was still.

She was alone in Lindridge Hall as the sun crested the horizon, the storm clouds cleared away, and light streamed in through the windows.

From below, she heard the front door open and the sound of chattering drift up from the foyer. Mrs. Purl and Mrs. Luthbright. They could not find her like this, and what if they had heard her screaming? Shuddering, she grabbed the book and stepped out of the circle.

She felt nothing as she crossed it. No popping, no membrane, no sign of the wall that she had been so certain she had built around herself. Jane turned back to the line of chalk and ash, frowning. She lifted a hand and felt for the barrier, but there was only air.

Had any of it been real?

Head spinning, Jane went to the bedroom. She made herself crawl beneath the covers of the bed—his bed, the bed she had not been able to look at before—and hugged herself tight, shutting her eyes against the bloody memories of Elodie and Orren. Dr. Nizamiev had called magic a focused kind of madness, but now, as she watched through lowered lashes as Mrs. Purl came in with a basin of hot water, then left again without a word, she wondered if she was simply mad.

She snatched a few fragmented moments of sleep but roused herself before an hour was up; staying abed would only lead to more questions. Jane rose and washed, changed her clothing and reset her hair.

There was breakfast waiting for her in the dining room, soft-boiled eggs and grilled river fish. She ate it despite the solid block where her hunger had once resided. Sleep, she needed sleep before she undertook any more investigations of the door, but how could she explain that to the servants?

She was contemplating asking Mrs. Purl to please build up a fire in the library, then leave her to some unspecified work, so that she might snatch a few hours of rest, when a rider made his way up the road to Lindridge Hall.

She went out to meet him, anticipating Mr. Lowell and fearing what new case she would be called to, but it was only a courier. He brought no word from Mr. Lowell, either, only the post. She retreated to the study, unsure if she should be relieved or distressed. She could offer no help to other patients, but for Mr. Lowell to have already given up, and to have sent no word of his search for Augustine …

The courier’s package contained several brief letters, mostly from last week’s houseguests, studiously avoiding any mention of the ritual or their hasty departure, and extending thin-sounding invitations to dine with them when next the Lawrences found themselves in Camhurst.

One envelope, however, bore the emblem of the Crown University Royal Teaching Hospital, and was tied to a small journal.

Jane’s breath caught in her throat, and she seized the envelope, tearing it open with her fingers instead of the small cutter. She held the page at an arm’s length so that she could make out the careful hand it was written in.

Mrs. Lawrence,

I hope this letter finds you well, and your problems already solved. If it does not:

I have enclosed a copy of a rite which several magicians that are known to me have sought to employ. It guides a magician to an awakening in exchange for deprivation. It claims to focus magical abilities, and to aid the practitioner in progressing along a path of attainment. It is not easy, and I do not recommend it. However, you have asked for help, and this is the help that I can provide.

If you can, charge Augustine with its performance. He is better used to deprivation in the pursuit of the impossible. But if his practice prevents him from taking a leave of absence, or if you have now grown curious about what you might achieve were you to dip your toe into the ineffable, embark on this journey with a clear purpose.

I will continue to search for an answer to your particular question about banishing the spirits of the dead, and will send word on any discoveries, but please know that what I send may not be true. It is hard to untangle fanciful ramblings from real knowledge.

Be careful, Mrs. Lawrence.

Your friend,

Dr. Avdotya Semyonovna Nizamiev

She stared at the page for a long time, disbelieving. What had Hunt and Vingh called it? Synchronicity? Basic chance, but chance that had deep meaning. Yes, she had sought out Dr. Nizamiev’s help, but here was her response, actionable and useful, right as Jane needed it.