The Death of Jane Lawrence(78)
She had cast a circle. She had learned what Augustine had done. And now she had a way to move forward. The promise of salvation, for herself, for the town.
For Augustine.
The thought of him conjured anger in her, but not a sensible anger. Not anger at what he had done to her, at the lies and how he had attacked her in delirious hope of saving her. No; it was more complex than that, an anger that he was not there with her, that she could not point to what had happened and say, See? See why you must fight?
And anger, too, at herself.
And panic.
She was not ready to lose him, not so soon after finding him. For all his faults, he was hers; and while she could not have saved her mother, perhaps she could save him. Her enemy was not as great as a war; it was only the impossible. And perhaps all the horrors between them were their own blessing, because Augustine would never have taken heed of what Dr. Nizamiev had sent them. Perhaps this was her chance.
She could fix this, and damn his arguments against it in favor of his suffering.
Jane opened the journal where Dr. Nizamiev had copied out passages from a longer text referenced as The Doctrine of Seven, by Magistrate Symon Ginette of Lurania, first published two hundred and seven years ago. The page where the details of the ritual were described was marked with a ribbon, as well as a note from the doctor to still read the surrounding work for context. She knew Jane’s mind well already; Jane tried not to shudder.
The rite required sequestration for seven days. The practitioner had to remain within the boundaries of a building. No size was specified, so she supposed the surgery would have qualified as well as Lindridge Hall, if only the surgery were private. The practitioner had to consume a minimal, ritualized diet of medicinal herbs and purgatives, and had to eschew physical intimacy and sleep for the whole duration. The former would be easily done, but the latter …
Was she really considering this? Starvation, isolation, sleep deprivation? But before she could hesitate, her mind was already racing through solutions. It was tempting to send Mrs. Purl and Mrs. Luthbright away. Privacy would let her work without fear of discovery or interruption. But the rites required supplies, and elaborately prepared meals, and Jane knew she would need help if she were to do it all with no sleep, no way to leave the house. The thought, too, of being entirely alone with the ghosts for that length of time nearly brought her to tears. No; she would keep them on, and do her best to hide the extent of her chosen madness.
They already thought her eccentric. She could last another week.
CHAPTER THIRTY
SILENCE BLANKETED THE surgery as Jane eased the door open. If Mr. Lowell was there, she could not hear him. She sagged against the wood, taking a moment to breathe.
Outside, it was the middle of the afternoon, and Mrs. Purl would soon be finished with the shopping Jane had tasked her with. The roads were soft but passable, as long as they returned to Lindridge Hall before the next inevitable storm came. There was much Jane needed to gather before she could lock herself away. She had sent Mrs. Purl by excuse and authority to fetch candles and attar of rose and lavender oil from the shops crowding the center of Larrenton, as well as fresh eggs and other, particular food stores, placing every purchase under Augustine’s name to be paid for at a later date. The cart that had brought them from Lindridge Hall had left hours ago, and Jane would need to hire their return carriage soon. She had stressed to Mrs. Purl that she should take her time, visit with friends, but that would not occupy her forever. Jane had to make quick work of this last stop.
But as she looked around the quiet surgery, she felt a curdling in her breast. How many patients had she missed over the last day and a half? How many had Mr. Lowell turned away, begging forgiveness? Even one was too many.
Focus. She had memorized the instructions from Dr. Nizamiev’s text and had more to do here before she could return to Lindridge Hall. She slipped into the ground-floor office and penned a quick letter requesting a locum, then crept upstairs. She gathered books on magic from Augustine’s study and avoided looking at the couch where they had shared so much. She took, too, her mathematical treatise, the one talisman of her life she allowed for herself. She packed all the texts away with fresh clothing and her spectacles.
There remained only the last few supplies on her list, the easiest of them all to acquire. As she descended to the storeroom, Jane’s skirt hem and shoes left a trail of bog muck. They were still damp from a few hours ago, when she’d gone out to the western edge of Larrenton, where the ground had shivered and sagged. Two handbreadths of moss from the great stands that floated above old, still waters were tucked into her bag. Beside it, a packet of soil. She had wandered the winding, confusing paths of Larrenton’s graveyard for too long that morning, too embarrassed to take what she needed, until her eyes fell on a fresh grave marker that read:
NICHOLAS RENTON
His death had been her initiation into magic, though she had not known it at the time, and that, more than any guilt she felt at disturbing such a fresh grave, let her act. As she had gathered fresh-turned loam from three inches below the surface, she’d tried not to dwell on the nature of luck, or on synchronicity. No groundskeeper had seen her, though they surely were near.
Now, this last theft, too, seemed fated to be unsettlingly easy. She hurried to the storeroom and began scanning the shelves for tincture of benzoin.
Benzoin, she had learned at Augustine’s side, was a wonderful fixative for bandages. From Dr. Nizamiev’s notes, she had discovered that it was also a fixative of the spirit, something to steady a magician when she reached for the impossible. Were the two concepts related? And was it chance, or something more, that a magician from over two centuries ago called for a substance Augustine stocked at his surgery?