to do so as an apprentice would be quite a feather in Jane’s cap, if she could manage it.
Most diabolists who wished to fly made the Pact with a demon that granted such an ability. But Jane had looked at the Bilinen ?eytanlar?n Kitab?—The Book of Known Demons—and none of those demons seemed like her idea of a life’s companion. Especially Seven Clouds; beyond granting levitation, all it did for its diabolist was “calm the nerves,” and Jane could make herself a cup of tea for that.
And anyway, she didn’t want to levitate. She wanted to fly. Diabolists were like unto gods and goddesses; why should they not have the powers of such?
As she rinsed out her dust rag in the kitchen sink, Jane blushed, her eyes tracking nervously toward the door to the stairs of the Library. Her mother would not like to know that such a thought had crossed Jane’s mind. Nancy was always quick to remind them that diabolists were not gods; they were not kings and queens.
Fine with Jane. She didn’t want to rule anyone. Plenty of gods didn’t seem to care a fig for the struggles of men. They just wanted to have a good time, and that was Jane’s goal too. She longed to escape Hawkshead and Cumbria altogether so she might go on adventures in the deserts of Egypt wearing gauzy white; attend parties in fabulous flats in Paris wearing scandalous, alluring black, a color currently forbidden to her by her mother because, well . . .
We’re not witches, Jane.
Jane sincerely hoped her mother would enjoy the taste of her own words when Jane was zooming about the countryside on a broomstick like Margaret Hamilton in The Wizard of Oz.
Jane didn’t have her own looking glass, much to her chagrin, and the bathroom’s tin mirror revealed what could be only charitably described as an Impressionist interpretation of her face. For her final inspection, only her mother’s vanity would do, so just before noon, Jane took off her apron and went upstairs to see if she was at all mussed from her labors. But when she entered Nancy’s rooms, she found the vanity already occupied.
“I don’t know why braiding my hair makes me fly to pieces when I can create a potion of binding from memory,” snarled Miriam.
Jane felt an overwhelming rush of affection for her friend that did much to dispel her earlier pique.
“Let’s see what we can do,” she said, coming up behind Miriam. She freed Nancy’s comb from where her friend held it twisted in her fingers and then set to detangling the mess before her. There was no salvaging any of whatever Miriam had been trying to do; they’d have to start over entirely. Jane began by trying to find all the pins in Miriam’s hair with her nimble fingers.
Jane envied the dark waves that cascaded over Miriam’s shoulders. Her own mousy-brown tresses were so thin and fine that there were few fashionable styles that looked well on her—oh, to have Hedy Lamarr’s mane to start out with!
“Let’s do a few pinned rolls and then use a ribbon,” she said, running the brush through Miriam’s hair. A bit of blue would accentuate her friend’s dark hair and high color.
“I trust you,” said Miriam.
“You’ll look beautiful,” said Jane. It was true, she would, with her big dark eyes and her thick brows that would make Miriam really stand out if only she’d let Jane tame them a bit.
But, of course, the last thing Miriam wanted was to stand out.
“You manage it so easily,” sighed Miriam, as her hair began to take on an actual shape and style.
“I find it fun,” said Jane. “A harmless distraction from the war, if a bit pointless when one lives in a tiny village. Why, the only person around our age who lives within ten miles and seems remotely thoughtful is the blacksmith’s son—hey!”
Miriam had lurched around, her elbow narrowly missing the box of hairpins Jane had set upon the vanity. “Sam?” she asked, mouth hanging open in childish astonishment. “Do you fancy him?”
“Goodness no!” Jane put her hand on the top of Miriam’s head and physically turned it back to face the looking glass. “I just admire his ability to speak in complete sentences.”
“I see,” said Miriam.
The truth was, Jane had never fancied anyone, ever, and she didn’t think she ever would. In spite of what her mother might think, she felt nothing for Clark Gable or any other star of the silver screen. Jane’s