And then, outside the circle, Renton at last began to move. He mouthed the words along with her with his lipless maw. The stiffness of death sloughed away, and he was fluid again, slumping and shifting, emotions passing over his face.
He was expectant, fascinated. He looked hungry, for what she had achieved already, for what she might still achieve.
She reached for the egg and the dish. The shell gave way under her thumb where she gripped it too firmly. Quickly, she cracked it open, searching for another flash of crimson. The words began to make sense anew. The egg—might it develop a little more each time, just like her understanding of the world? A synchronicity, or a sign of the magic?
She could see a small pink form inside the mass of gold and red, with two dark pebbles for eyes. She thought of the malformed infant that Augustine had pulled from Abigail Yew’s body. Nausea rose in her and her stomach gave another pang. Renton would see her eat this. He would see her swallow down this abomination, and then wouldn’t she truly be the monster he had named her?
Her thumbs touched the embryo. She broke the yolk around it, painted her face with its leavings. And then she gripped the bowl and raised it to her mouth, letting the egg—it was still only a hen’s egg, it was still small—slide between her lips. She swallowed.
She looked to her ghost for guidance.
As she watched, as sunrise filled the room, Renton disappeared. He left nothing behind him, not one scrap of knowledge, and Jane yelled, throwing the bowl across the room. It shattered into sticky fragments.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
“DID HE TALK to you of magic?”
Jane sat in front of the stone wall, face streaked with egg yolk, fingers caked with filth. The sun was rising. The servants would be there soon.
She didn’t care.
“Did Aethridge tell you what he’d learned, in all his years of study, all his mistakes?” she asked the stone. Cold roiled from the impassive surface. “Did you never think to ask?” She ran her hands over it, feeling for imperfections. There were none. “Speak to me, Augustine,” she begged.
He did not respond.
Scowling, she sketched a hasty chalk circle on the floor with the stick she had tucked into her sleeve, alongside a pouch of salt. She didn’t want to be without these tools, now; to be separated from them was like a physical pain. She cast the circle and built it up, then focused on the door. Abigail’s miscarriage; Renton’s twisted bowel; Aethridge’s bones. Things growing out of place. This wall, grown out of place.
Open. Open!
The wall did not move.
She slammed her fists against the stone, then pulled back, hissing. The servants would be here soon; she was running out of time to make herself presentable. But she would not leave this, could not leave this, until it was solved. The answer was so close, and if Renton had just remained—
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 …