The Death of Jane Lawrence(91)

But there was another option, wasn’t there? Her nails dug into her palms, and she leaned forward until her lips were barely separated from the stone.

“Was he lying to me?” she whispered. “Was he haunting me in the way most calculated to destroy me?” For why should she trust a ghost? And if she could not trust what he had said, what else was in question? “I wanted what he knew. I believed in what he knew. Was he lying? Is it a lie? When I call a circle, what am I doing, Augustine? Augustine! Tell me!”

The last words were a roar, and the house roared back, creaking, groaning, its whole monumental edifice threatening to come down upon her head in answer. Augustine, trying to communicate? Or just an ill-maintained house built on ridiculous occult principles? It had to be the former, had to, and yet—and yet—

“Why?” she whispered. “Why can I do this? You studied for years. Dr. Hunt studied for years. Renton, Aethridge—you all wanted this, and yet I can call the circle? I can work rituals and feel real power?” She shook her head. “I’m—I’m deluding myself, aren’t I? I’m just so desperate for something, anything…”

She trailed off into silence, staring hard at the white stone. It did not change. It did not ripple, did not shiver. It was only stone.

Stone. Surely Mrs. Purl had noticed it by now. Hadn’t she?

And there was the test of her reality. When Mrs. Purl arrived, Jane would ask about the hallway. Casually. Calmly. And if Mrs. Purl saw the stone, Jane would know this was real. If she said, what about that door? then Jane would recommend they go down in search of Augustine, because the passages below Lindridge Hall were dangerous, he had told her they were dangerous …

Beneath her cheek, the stone whined.

She jerked back, staring, looking for some other sign. There was none. But as her heart calmed once more, she realized how close to sleep she had been. Sleep. She could not sleep. The painful exhaustion of the day before had gone, but now her fatigue was insidiously gentle, waiting quietly.

She stood up, unsteady as a fresh foal, and leaned her shoulder against the stone. She didn’t dare close her eyes, but she whispered, “Thank you,” in case it had been Augustine who had woken her. Then she pushed herself away and staggered upstairs to the bedroom.

Her pins and tight stays weren’t enough anymore. She would have to turn to Augustine’s means.

She’d stashed the cocaine and syringe kit in the wardrobe, and she drew it out now, shaking. She laid it out on the bed; Mrs. Purl had remade it the day before without comment. Jane opened the polished box. The syringe gleamed up at her alongside a small, empty bottle to compound in and a collapsible brass scale. By the light of the rising sun, she measured out the powder into the bottle, and combined it with cold, still water left in her basin by Mrs. Purl the previous day. It was thankfully clear of yesterday’s old egg yolk, and once she had measured out the appropriate proportion, she washed her face.

The cocaine compounded and loaded into the syringe, she attempted to roll up her sleeve, but it was too tight. So she undid her bodice and dragged it down, then undid her stays and pulled the laces from them, tying them around her upper arm the way she had seen Augustine do in the surgery.

Her bared stomach bowed out.

Jane paused, frowning, and set down the needle. She touched the distended flesh, a little to the left of center, just above her hip. It hurt. Faintly, but it hurt, and her hand shook. Abigail’s miscarriage. Renton’s bowel. Augustine’s voice: He’d discovered certain books, and had played at spellcraft until he felt something quicken inside of him.

How quickly would it grow in her?

She snatched her hand away and took up the syringe once more. No. She had to focus instead of fear. She did not feel ill; and so long as she did not prod the growth, she did not feel pain, either, though she understood now what had surged within her at the first dusk working, and last night when she had tended to Renton.

It meant only that she needed to be efficient. She could not afford to fail, to begin again.

She found the vein, as Augustine had, and steadied herself. Her vision tried to swim, but she stilled it with careful breaths. She focused, the way she focused when building the circle.

She pressed the needle into her vein.

The cocaine felt like molten metal, filling her body in a filigree cast. She bit down on an agonized cry, and panted as it faded, breath by breath. But in its wake, it left a gentle wash of alertness, and with it, the confidence she had lost in the past night.

Then, from the door: “Good morning, ma’am. There’s a letter for—oh, my—”

Jane looked up.

The letter was in Mrs. Purl’s hands, clutched tight. Jane hurried to drag her dress back on. With her stays unlaced, it fit ill.

“What is that smell?” Mrs. Purl gasped, then covered her nose and retreated into the hall.

Smell? But then Jane realized the stench of death and filth was still all around her, emanating from the bathroom. She cast the syringe onto the bed and rushed to look. The tub was still filled with brandy and rot, and Jane fought down bile.

“Ma’am, pardon, but you must go into town to see Mr. Lowell, to see the locum,” Mrs. Purl said, her words twisted by nausea. Jane turned back to face her, flushed. Mrs. Purl held out the envelope, gesturing wildly. “This—whatever this is, it is not healthy. You are not well.”

“I am well,” Jane said. She listed to one side, and Mrs. Purl moved, reflexively, as if to catch her—and then stopped, just one step inside the room. “Give me the letter,” Jane demanded, stepping forward.