She went out to meet him, anticipating Mr. Lowell and fearing what new case she would be called to, but it was only a courier. He brought no word from Mr. Lowell, either, only the post. She retreated to the study, unsure if she should be relieved or distressed. She could offer no help to other patients, but for Mr. Lowell to have already given up, and to have sent no word of his search for Augustine …
The courier’s package contained several brief letters, mostly from last week’s houseguests, studiously avoiding any mention of the ritual or their hasty departure, and extending thin-sounding invitations to dine with them when next the Lawrences found themselves in Camhurst.
One envelope, however, bore the emblem of the Crown University Royal Teaching Hospital, and was tied to a small journal.
Jane’s breath caught in her throat, and she seized the envelope, tearing it open with her fingers instead of the small cutter. She held the page at an arm’s length so that she could make out the careful hand it was written in.
Mrs. Lawrence,
I hope this letter finds you well, and your problems already solved. If it does not:
I have enclosed a copy of a rite which several magicians that are known to me have sought to employ. It guides a magician to an awakening in exchange for deprivation. It claims to focus magical abilities, and to aid the practitioner in progressing along a path of attainment. It is not easy, and I do not recommend it. However, you have asked for help, and this is the help that I can provide.
If you can, charge Augustine with its performance. He is better used to deprivation in the pursuit of the impossible. But if his practice prevents him from taking a leave of absence, or if you have now grown curious about what you might achieve were you to dip your toe into the ineffable, embark on this journey with a clear purpose.
I will continue to search for an answer to your particular question about banishing the spirits of the dead, and will send word on any discoveries, but please know that what I send may not be true. It is hard to untangle fanciful ramblings from real knowledge.
Be careful, Mrs. Lawrence.
Your friend,
Dr. Avdotya Semyonovna Nizamiev
She stared at the page for a long time, disbelieving. What had Hunt and Vingh called it? Synchronicity? Basic chance, but chance that had deep meaning. Yes, she had sought out Dr. Nizamiev’s help, but here was her response, actionable and useful, right as Jane needed it.
She had cast a circle. She had learned what Augustine had done. And now she had a way to move forward. The promise of salvation, for herself, for the town.
For Augustine.
The thought of him conjured anger in her, but not a sensible anger. Not anger at what he had done to her, at the lies and how he had attacked her in delirious hope of saving her. No; it was more complex than that, an anger that he was not there with her, that she could not point to what had happened and say, See? See why you must fight?
And anger, too, at herself.
And panic.
She was not ready to lose him, not so soon after finding him. For all his faults, he was hers; and while she could not have saved her mother, perhaps she could save him. Her enemy was not as great as a war; it was only the impossible. And perhaps all the horrors between them were their own blessing, because Augustine would never have taken heed of what Dr. Nizamiev had sent them. Perhaps this was her chance.
She could fix this, and damn his arguments against it in favor of his suffering.
Jane opened the journal where Dr. Nizamiev had copied out passages from a longer text referenced as The Doctrine of Seven, by Magistrate Symon Ginette of Lurania, first published two hundred and seven years ago. The page where the details of the ritual were described was marked with a ribbon, as well as a note from the doctor to still read the surrounding work for context. She knew Jane’s mind well already; Jane tried not to shudder.
The rite required sequestration for seven days. The practitioner had to remain within the boundaries of a building. No size was specified, so she supposed the surgery would have qualified as well as Lindridge Hall, if only the surgery were private. The practitioner had to consume a minimal, ritualized diet of medicinal herbs and purgatives, and had to eschew physical intimacy and sleep for the whole duration. The former would be easily done, but the latter …
Was she really considering this? Starvation, isolation, sleep deprivation? But before she could hesitate, her mind was already racing through solutions. It was tempting to send Mrs. Purl and Mrs. Luthbright away. Privacy would let her work without fear of discovery or interruption. But the rites required supplies, and elaborately prepared meals, and Jane knew she would need help if she were to do it all with no sleep, no way to leave the house. The thought, too, of being entirely alone with the ghosts for that length of time nearly brought her to tears. No; she would keep them on, and do her best to hide the extent of her chosen madness.