The Death of Jane Lawrence(90)

“Of many things,” Renton said. “Of things long gone from this world.”

A shiver went through her. “And when you died? What was there?”

“Pain,” Renton said. “Pain, and knowledge. I played at magic, and I died. I died, and I knew magic.”

“Can you teach me?” she asked, voice barely a whisper.

Renton did not smile. He also did not frown, or laugh, or say no. “Finish your work,” he said.

She placed the last few stitches. She cinched the thread tight. Standing, she helped him from the tub. His stomach shifted as he climbed out, but her stitches held. He looked down at himself, filthy but whole.

“It is almost dawn,” he said. “Show me your ritual.”

She bound him up in her old nightgown, so that he would not drip along the floor. She left him standing at the top of the stairs as she went to retrieve the next hen’s egg and a fresh candle. As she drew out her original circle in chalk and cemented it in salt, she looked up at him, willing him to say something. To correct her. To enlighten her.

He was still as death.

Shame began to creep in at the edges. Renton did not look away. He watched as she muttered to herself, as she painted herself with oils, as she playacted something she did not understand. Power tingled in her fingertips, coursed through her veins, but it felt sour. Can you see it? she thought, gaze boring into Renton’s. It’s real. It’s real, isn’t it?

He did not respond.

She did not want him to see this, she realized. She did not want anybody to see this. This ritual, this magic, was wrong. It led to a man tearing open his abdomen because he had perverted his own body. It led to ghosts walking the halls.

She wanted to shout, to scream, to throw him out of the room. But if she spoke any but the prescribed words, would it break the ritual? She could not ask, could not risk it, and though the circle stood firm between her and Renton, she felt exposed. Vulnerable. Naked. Flayed.

Renton stood by, unmoving, watchful.

Her voice trembled and cracked as she said, “The thin shell protects the potential within from harm; it cannot survive unaided, in the way that the grown mind protects the unprepared soul from the expansion of the universe without.” Philosophical poetry. Wishful wanderings. Not science, not logic. She swallowed, cheeks burning, eyes burning. “But the shell must finally give way; the mind must blossom and allow that which lives within to breathe in its birthright.” The words blurred. The power in her was distant now. All she felt was shame.

And then, outside the circle, Renton at last began to move. He mouthed the words along with her with his lipless maw. The stiffness of death sloughed away, and he was fluid again, slumping and shifting, emotions passing over his face.

He was expectant, fascinated. He looked hungry, for what she had achieved already, for what she might still achieve.

She reached for the egg and the dish. The shell gave way under her thumb where she gripped it too firmly. Quickly, she cracked it open, searching for another flash of crimson. The words began to make sense anew. The egg—might it develop a little more each time, just like her understanding of the world? A synchronicity, or a sign of the magic?

She could see a small pink form inside the mass of gold and red, with two dark pebbles for eyes. She thought of the malformed infant that Augustine had pulled from Abigail Yew’s body. Nausea rose in her and her stomach gave another pang. Renton would see her eat this. He would see her swallow down this abomination, and then wouldn’t she truly be the monster he had named her?

Her thumbs touched the embryo. She broke the yolk around it, painted her face with its leavings. And then she gripped the bowl and raised it to her mouth, letting the egg—it was still only a hen’s egg, it was still small—slide between her lips. She swallowed.

She looked to her ghost for guidance.

As she watched, as sunrise filled the room, Renton disappeared. He left nothing behind him, not one scrap of knowledge, and Jane yelled, throwing the bowl across the room. It shattered into sticky fragments.





CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR


“DID HE TALK to you of magic?”

Jane sat in front of the stone wall, face streaked with egg yolk, fingers caked with filth. The sun was rising. The servants would be there soon.

She didn’t care.

“Did Aethridge tell you what he’d learned, in all his years of study, all his mistakes?” she asked the stone. Cold roiled from the impassive surface. “Did you never think to ask?” She ran her hands over it, feeling for imperfections. There were none. “Speak to me, Augustine,” she begged.

He did not respond.

Scowling, she sketched a hasty chalk circle on the floor with the stick she had tucked into her sleeve, alongside a pouch of salt. She didn’t want to be without these tools, now; to be separated from them was like a physical pain. She cast the circle and built it up, then focused on the door. Abigail’s miscarriage; Renton’s twisted bowel; Aethridge’s bones. Things growing out of place. This wall, grown out of place.

Open. Open!

The wall did not move.

She slammed her fists against the stone, then pulled back, hissing. The servants would be here soon; she was running out of time to make herself presentable. But she would not leave this, could not leave this, until it was solved. The answer was so close, and if Renton had just remained—