“No, Mrs. Lawrence,” Mrs. Purl said, steel in her voice now.
“Your salaries must have arrived with this letter.”
“They did,” Mrs. Purl allowed, “though you have shorted us.”
Jane had a finger beneath the envelope’s seal. Slowly, she withdrew it. “Impossible.”
“Mrs. Luthbright and I compared. It is true.”
Jane turned away, pressing the stiff paper against the bulge in her flesh. “I am sorry,” she muttered. “I made a mistake. I will fix it. Forgive me, please—my mind is not my own.”
Mrs. Purl relaxed a fraction. “Let me send for a carriage,” she said. “The surgery is better for you.”
Anger rose up over her momentary shame. “No. This is where I belong. My husband was allowed to remain here alone every night. Why do you hold me to a different standard?”
“He never made this house smell of death,” Mrs. Purl cried, then mastered herself again. “Mrs. Lawrence, please. Return to town.”
No. He had never brought filth into this home, only guilt and shame. But she was not worse than Augustine for it. He had not been seeking enlightenment; he had given up. He had only endured. She was trying for so much more.
Wasn’t she?
Her resolve faltered.
She made a quick bargain between the obsession inside of her and the reasonable, responsible Jane who had come before her. If Dr. Nizamiev called her mad in her letter, she would heed it. She must heed it.
She tore open the envelope and scanned the words inside.
Dr. Nizamiev said nothing of the sort. She wrote only that she had heard of Augustine’s disappearance, and followed it up with one bare line of encouragement.
I know that you will keep your wits about you; you are uniquely suited to your task.
“My husband will need me when he returns,” Jane said, lifting her head. “Until then, I will remain here. Does that satisfy?”
“No, Mrs. Lawrence,” Mrs. Purl said. “Come downstairs. We will remain here day and night until he returns, but you must go to the surgery. You must rest. You look as if you haven’t slept in days.”
“And who are you to care if I sleep or not?” Jane snapped.
Mrs. Purl’s mouth dropped open, so much like Mr. Renton’s.
What benefit did Mrs. Purl serve for her? Mrs. Luthbright cooked, but Jane did not require sustenance, only ritual. Jane could tend a fire. She could do it all. She would do it all.
“I am not a fit mistress—you are right,” she said. Mrs. Purl’s shoulders sagged in relief. “I will have the balance of your salary and additional severance pay sent to your homes. Leave your chatelaine in the study.”
“Mrs. Lawrence—”
“Your services are no longer required. Thank you for your loyalty. Goodbye.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
MRS. PURL AND Mrs. Luthbright left immediately.
Jane watched them from the bedroom window, shivering with relief and pride. She felt euphoric, freed. Without them hovering, she would achieve more. She would learn faster, test herself more, take advantage of the daylight hours when the ghosts left her alone.
Yes, this was for the best. Why hadn’t she done this sooner?
Fear. Self-consciousness. Shame. But shame was what had kept Augustine bound to Lindridge Hall. She should never have indulged her own, never let it get even a toehold. She was better than him, in this; that was her strength.
With the servants gone, there was more work to be done. She must take stock of what she had, measure out her remaining moss and grave loam, plan out her ritual meals. Had they already made today’s stewed hare? Had they left her enough hens’ eggs? If they had not, she would need to find a way to send for more.
She redid her stays and gown properly. Her stomach ached at the added pressure, and she curled in on herself, touching one hand to the caged bulge. It already felt larger. It did not kick or move as if she were with child; it was hard and unyielding. But she felt a thrumming in it, far apart from her pulse but just as insistent. A living vibration, responding to her will.
She could not name it.
Jane descended to the kitchen. There were more than enough eggs, and fresh milk and a new loaf of bread besides. And sitting on the dining table was her stewed hare. But there was only the one plate; the icebox held sea grass and nothing else.
Very well. She would eat a small portion now and save the rest. She wasn’t hungry anyway.
That only left the question of magic.
The ghosts that had visited her these past two nights were real beyond dispute; her mattress was still stained, and Mrs. Purl had smelled Renton’s filth. Now she must test herself beyond simply drawing circles and building walls and swallowing eggs. She needed to influence the world around her, make something that was impossible, that proved she had real power. Since she could not remove the stone slab yet, she must try something else, and mark her progress.