Creatures of Charm and Hunger (The Diabolist's Library #1) - Molly Tanzer Page 0,25

and by her own dressmaker no less. It was similar to the one that Jane had practically drooled over when Edith had arrived in Hawkshead—similar enough that when it was discovered in the armoire of the guest room, she hoped Nancy would assume she’d simply forgotten it there in the haste of packing. Jane, of course, would try it on, and find the note pinned into the inner lining.

It was an arcane method of gifting, but Edith had learned caution after the time she’d given Jane that stylish black cloche and Nancy had been so cross because of some silly “no black clothing” rule. But if she was going to give Jane a dress, it would be one her niece would actually want.

Contemplating these matters did little to enhance Edith’s mood. She didn’t wish to be alone. The house was too quiet. She needed company after being sequestered in the country for too long.

It was later in Paris than in London, and the sun had already set, but that was all right. For a diabolist, the nighttime streets of Paris were substantially less dangerous, though not without their perils. There were others out there with agendas—and abilities. She would be taking precautions.

One did not need a demon to effect a disguise, but Mercurialis gave Edith’s illusions an unparalleled verisimilitude. At night, she usually chose to appear as a young university student with light brown hair, tall and lean as he slouched through the streets in his too-large coat. He was not handsome enough to attract attention from women or from men, not wealthy-looking enough to attract thieves or bawds, not poor enough to make the police wish to hassle him. Edith didn’t use her cosmetics to create him, she had a mask she’d altered diabolically. It disappeared on her face when she applied it with a glue she made from the diabolically altered roses she grew in pots in her atrium. The other illusions—her height, her distinctive and yet wholly generic gait—were the combination of her use of her body and Mercurialis’s gifts.

That night, her destination was the Société headquarters. While it might not be Paris’s most fashionable venue, it was always open to any diabolist, at any hour of the day or night. There were rooms for socializing, a library, a kitchen, and even a few bedrooms for those who needed them, as well as offices and official meeting spaces. Furthermore, only there would she find people who understood.

The Société was located in what appeared to be one of those always-closed restaurants that are part of the Parisian landscape. She let herself in through the alley door with her key.

“Ah, Mademoiselle Blackwood,” said Fran?ois, as she walked in the door, even before she’d shed her mask. Shrugging out of her coat, Edith approached the manicured man standing behind the desk. No one knew whether it was through diablerie or just phenomenal organization that Fran?ois managed the Société’s front and back of house while also greeting everyone at the door, but he did.

No one knew his surname, either.

“Bon soir, Fran?ois. Who’s about tonight?”

“Of your set?”

At one time, Fran?ois would have meant the Young Talarians. Now, sadly, he meant only those who still believed in the innocence of Egon and Sofia Cantor—Miriam’s missing parents. While their debated innocence or guilt hadn’t exactly caused a schism in the ranks, there was understandably less friendly socializing these days between those of differing opinions.

Edith signed her name in the register with a quill dipped in diabolic ink that always formed the user’s real signature.

“Yes, of my set,” she said, finishing up the signature with her typical flourish.

“You’ll find Mademoiselle Znidarcic, Monsieur Yellowhorse, and Madame Lizman in the Red Room, playing cards.”

A faint blush came to Edith’s cheeks at the mention of Graham Yellowhorse. Fran?ois did not comment if he noticed. but Mercurialis, for its part, teased her in a voice that sounded of crickets chirping and the first drops of summer rain on hot cobblestones.

Some diabolists—likely those without such chatty companions as Edith—deluded themselves into thinking they and their demon were of one mind. Edith knew that was not the case, no matter how delightful the fantasy might sound. Smart diabolists knew demons always had their own ideas, their own agendas. Demons honored the Pact because they had to; that was the very most one could say about their motivations with any certainty. The truth of the matter was they were not of the same world as humans, and it was foolishness to assume