Creatures of Charm and Hunger (The Diabolist's Library #1) - Molly Tanzer Page 0,18
ersatz aunt feel welcome. She wasn’t exactly craving more of Edith’s company, but the woman had an air about her that made Miriam suspect she had something important to relate.
“I’m here to apologize for introducing a contentious topic of conversation at the dinner table,” she said, standing in the center of Miriam’s room like a child instructed to atone for bad behavior. She had, for some reason, her handbag, and clutched it in front of her like Eve with her fig leaf. “I didn’t realize it would spoil the mood, but as you know, divining the right time for a discussion is not a talent of mine.”
To say “yes” would be an insult, to say “no” would be a lie, so Miriam simply shrugged.
“I’m also here to talk with you about something sensitive. And I’m not so good at delivering sensitive information, as I’m learning.”
Edith’s expression revealed nothing as she perched on the edge of Miriam’s desk. Miriam felt the backs of her knees start to sweat where they were tucked under her. She wished Edith would just get on with whatever she had to say. There was only one topic that Miriam would have considered “sensitive”: the fate of her parents.
For the first four or so years of Miriam’s stay in England, she had received letters from her mother, at first through the Basque Lens and then, later, through the mail, their postmarks and addresses forged diabolically. They’d never been long letters, nor regularly sent, but they’d come. Miriam had kept them all, of course, but the last of them she was especially careful with. It had clearly been written in haste and arrived very dirty. They’d given her their love and told her not to worry about them, but that had been impossible.
“Are they dead?” asked Miriam, keeping her voice as emotionless as possible.
Edith’s dark eyes went wide. “Oh, Miriam!”
Miriam’s stomach dropped. “I wondered,” she said. “I haven’t had a letter in . . . I’m sure you know exactly how long.”
“The truth is, we don’t know.” Edith looked very serious, indeed. “We do know they were taken.”
“Taken where?”
Miriam’s parents hadn’t told her anything about being spies; Edith had been the one to answer Miriam’s questions. She had always been good to Miriam in that way, believing as she did that Miriam was a young woman who had a right to know what was going on with her family.
“I can’t tell you,” said Edith, and Miriam nodded. Of course Edith couldn’t say. “I can only tell you it’s happening, we’re aware of it, and we’re responding as we can.”
Miriam thought for a moment. “Can you tell me if you, personally, are worried about them?”
“I am.”
Miriam trembled; this feeling was too big to hand off to her shadow-self. “But I will also tell you that I’m doing my best to make sure we find them, and that the truth is discovered.”
“The truth?”
“There are what I can only describe as troubling rumors about your parents, Miriam.”
“Rumors of what?”
Edith was not usually a fidgeter, but as she spoke, her long fingers toyed with her black scarf. “The Nazis have their own diabolists. That’s always been the case, but lately their efforts have gotten much more effective. It’s as if they had help from one of us.”
Miriam’s confusion quickly turned to rage. “You think my parents—”
“I don’t think your parents are traitors,” said Edith. “But the timing of their disappearance has some tongues wagging.”
Miriam got control of herself, slowing her breathing deliberately, pushing her fury down, down, down until the shadow claimed it.
“It’s not just them,” said Edith. “Every member of their cell is a suspect until we find out what happened. What they were up to . . . Miriam, it was hugely important to the war effort, and it seems like it’s all come to nothing at the worst possible time.”
“I see,” said Miriam. She had been prepared to receive devastating news about her parents—or, at least, she had been prepared to accept that there was some. She had not thought to steel herself against the accusation of treachery. “Thank you for letting me know.”
“You don’t have to . . .” Edith trailed off. “I don’t know what to say, honestly.”
“You don’t have to say anything.” In reality, what could be said? Miriam was now not only a German expatriate and Jew in hiding, but the child of suspected traitors. Her shoulders were tired from carrying the pity of others; that soft