“Of course.” She searched Dr. Nizamiev’s face for a flicker of a joke. There was none. She thought of the proof that had demonstrated to her, as a young girl, that the area of any triangle, of any arrangement, could be found using the measure of its component parts. The unmeasurable calculated from the measurable.
And she thought of Elodie.
“For the moment, let us grant that changing the rules of the universe is impossible.”
“Granted.”
“Then a magician—one with proven ability to do things beyond what their fellow humans can—is somebody who has a particularly focused kind of madness. Does that sit better with you? Their belief in an impossible thing is so strong that if they turn their will on a question, they can change the answer for other people without ever telling those other people what they did. It changes how those around them perceive the world, even if the underlying fabric of the world remains the same.”
“The ghosts I’ve seen,” Jane said, hand tightening on her glass. “You contend that Augustine’s force of will did that.”
“Yes.”
“But the logic is circular. Because the ghosts exist, you’ve proven Augustine can work magic. Because he can work magic, he is the reason for the ghosts. What if it’s something else?”
What else is there? Augustine’s hands in Elodie’s chest—
“Simplified concepts for the introduction of ideas aren’t ever accurate,” Dr. Nizamiev said. “The ghosts exist. That is our constant point in this puzzle. The rest is supposition. Likely supposition, but supposition all the same.”
The throbbing in Jane’s head was so insistent now that she wondered if she’d cracked it open on the library floor, and she rubbed at her temple with her free hand. “If it’s a matter of simply believing in the impossible, why couldn’t he have brought her back from the dead? Why isn’t she here, right now, at his side?”
Because he did something worse than what he confessed to Dr. Nizamiev, her mind proffered. Because what you saw was not the action of a man desperate to save his dying wife.
But her throat closed up and she could not voice the thought aloud. If willing something could make it true, voicing her suspicions could surely do the same.
“Magic,” Dr. Nizamiev said, her accented vowels focusing Jane’s attention, “is, at its basest nature, knowing the reality of something to be different from what it is. But it is not a matter of wishing for an end result, or we would all be capable of it. The magician must understand every element that must change in order to produce the desired result. Every equation must balance and proceed from one to the next. The changes to the world that would be necessary to truly bring somebody back from death would require knowledge too complex for the mind of man to comprehend.”
“So instead he … what, trapped her spirit?”
“If the ritual he found was incorrectly structured, it’s possible. The ritual guides the magician’s force of will. It cements the magician’s knowledge of the working of the world and thereby lets her choose exactly which thread to pull on, which number to change the meaning of.”
With a sickening pop, something clicked into place inside her brain. “A proof. Rituals are like mathematical proofs,” Jane said wonderingly. “Dr. Vingh said rituals function by reproducing the steps over and over again, thereby learning the logic of it by the practice. Like studying trigonometry. But couldn’t you just as easily practice nonsense? Just because a thing is written out, step by step, doesn’t mean it leads anywhere.”
Dr. Nizamiev inclined her head in approval. “Just so. A poorly designed ritual can lead a magician astray. A magician gets what she asks for, whether she meant to ask for it or not.”
And what had Augustine asked for? What plea had he been making, up to his arms in gore? Jane shuddered, bowing her head and curling in upon herself.
“Tell me,” Dr. Nizamiev said, voice quieting but not softening, “what happened up there.”
“They were asking to be shown what had led Augustine away from his old life,” Jane said. “And I saw her. I saw Elodie.” She swallowed.
“As you have before?”
“No. Before, I saw her in the windows. She was silent. This time—this time, it was as if she was in the room, and she was screaming. Augustine was—Augustine had—I don’t understand.”
“Tell me.” It was a command, and Jane flinched, drawing back reflexively. She did not want this cold, strange woman to see into the house’s darkness, but who else could she turn to?