Creatures of Charm and Hunger (The Diabolist's Library #1) - Molly Tanzer Page 0,10

even more than usual. Her dark skin was set off beautifully by a black suit that looked very much like something a stylish recent widow might wear, complete with black hat and black lace veil. Jane almost moaned, looking at the jet beadwork.

It was likely true what Nancy said—that given their rural location, it was a bad idea for any of them to “look like a witch.” Diabolists might not use magic, but they could be prosecuted for it, given the unusual and unchristian nature of the Art. But that was just another reason Jane had for wanting to leave the village. No one in a city would bat an eye to see a smartly dressed young woman attending a party all in black. At least, so it seemed from Edith’s accounts—and the movies Jane loved so much.

“You girls can’t stop growing up, can you?” said Edith. Jane’s heart soared when Edith caught her eye and gave her a private, approving nod.

“They won’t slow down even though I beg them,” said Nancy.

There was no road to the old farmhouse, just a path, so Edith supervised the loading of her luggage into the mule cart and passed the driver a pound coin. He looked pleased and promised prompt delivery.

“Brr, it’s cold,” she complained, as they began to walk. It was two miles from the village to their farm in the lonely countryside, over muddy paths dotted with frozen puddles. “How do you manage?”

“It’s not so bad,” said Miriam, the picture of loyalty. “The house is very snug.”

“It’s the Library I’m more worried about,” said Edith, shivering inside a long black greatcoat she’d pulled from somewhere; its dramatic collar and cinched waist gave her a silhouette that would not be out of place in an Erté. “It’s not exactly warm down there even if it’s dry. I’ll have to borrow some slippers so my toes don’t freeze during your Test!”

“Test?” asked Miriam. She sounded as shocked as Jane felt. “Whose Test?”

Edith pulled a bag of what looked like fancy sweets from her purse and popped one into her mouth. They were her method of keeping in touch with her demon Mercurialis, but to any non-diabolist it looked like nothing more than a woman indulging in a bit of candy.

“Yours,” said Edith, matter-of-factly. “It’s time, according to Nance—but she couldn’t test you herself. She’d be too easy on you.” Edith’s dark eyes flashed wickedly as she took Jane’s hand and beckoned for Miriam to come along. “That’s why I’m here at this dreadful time of year. Don’t look so surprised, my dears, or at least don’t act so surprised. It slows you down, and I’m perishing for want of a hot cup of tea.”

“Oh, of course we’ll have tea before you begin,” said Jane’s mother. “I even made a Victoria sandwich yesterday.”

“I can’t imagine having enough eggs for cake!” Edith sighed happily, but as she looked from Jane to Miriam, she sobered somewhat. “Such long faces! And with cake awaiting us! Don’t worry, girls. You’ll do just fine! You’re ready!”

“Ready for what, though?” asked Miriam.

Jane had a different question, directed at both her mother and her aunt. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

“Tradition,” said her mother.

Jane scowled. Tradition was her least favorite reason for anything.

“Think about it this way—we’ve saved you the trouble of worrying about it!” said Edith.

Jane wasn’t so sure about all that. They still had the entire walk home before them, after all.

And tea.

3

* * *

NANCY BLACKWOOD’S VICTORIA SANDWICH had won a prize three years in a row at the Hawkshead village fête—and it might have won more if Nancy hadn’t stopped entering for the sake of the other bakers. War rationing meant Nancy baked less often these days, much to everyone’s regret, so a slice was always a treat. Today, however, the perfectly delicate sponge was like ashes in Jane’s mouth and the jam a cloying paste too sweet on her tongue. She could barely manage three bites.

Edith was having no such troubles; she had already polished off a second helping and was just washing it down with the last of her tea.

“If I can fit into any of my dresses by the end of this visit, it’ll be a miracle,” she said.

“Nobody’s forcing you to have so much,” said Nancy.

“You are,” said Edith, pressing the pad of her manicured forefinger into the crumbs. “There’s no cake like this in London—no cake like this in Paris, even. I think it has to be baked in the country to taste this