Under the Sanguine Influence

Lucy’s enthusiasm for parties died out a few years ago, when she realized that all that really happened was drunk men asking women to dance before they ignored them for eternity. She was certain it was different for heiresses and women of means, but Lucy made her own living, had no family connections, and was considered lucky to have a friend in Mrs. Fairfax. Their relationship had blossomed when she housed the spirit of Mrs. Fairfax’s father in a painting of a quaint home by a pond; an idyllic solution to her neighbor’s problem.

Of course, “neighbor” was a generous exaggeration. Lucy didn’t live in the slums by any means, but the Fairfax Estate was notably farther north than Lucy’s apartment. They held balls frequently, and Lucy usually turned down her invitation, but Mrs. Fairfax was certain this one was going to be a ‘real kick in the pants,’ and insisted Lucy join her. Sometimes Lucy thought Mrs. Fairfax was lonely in that house, with no children and a husband that ignored her; that perception changed at their Summer Solstice ball.

The number of guests alone was enough to spark discomfort in Lucy, whose strengths lay distinctly in tete-a-tetes. Her primary comfort was that in the throngs of party-goers, many had chosen elaborate silk and organza gowns, embroidered with radiant scenes of golden sunlight and lush greenery - an inspiration to her artistic eye. Lucy herself had a damask gown of rusty orange and blush pink, but she’d worn it for every ball before this one, and intended to do so for every solstice ball after. Her fortune was competent, but limited, and largely consumed by her ailing mother. She’d resigned herself to the inevitability that she would die penniless and childless; but first, she’d paint herself a gorgeous landscape for an eternal resting place. 

If her mortal soul remained on earth, that is. Lucy was still concerned that heaven and hell had regulations of which she wasn’t aware. Considering she’d just discovered demons are a functioning part of her world, she was now open to the possibility that Catholicism was more than something nice to do on Sundays. It perhaps may be the only thing keeping many people from becoming possessed with ghosts and demons. 

So, amongst the throng of party-goers, the first person Lucy greets is the Minister, himself.  

“Mr. Tuttleby,” she said with an apologetic smile. “Can you ever forgive me for last weekend?”

His jaw twitched, and he took a steadying breath before replying. “I must insist you call me by my god-given title.” 

A passing server offered a tray of champagne flutes, and Lucy plucked two of them happily. She held one out to the grump. “Consider this an apology, Father.” 

He glared at Ms. Harrison. “When you are facing the pearly gates and St. Peter is recounting your sins, do you think he will open the kingdom of heaven to you over a glass of champagne?” 

Not waiting for an answer, Father Tuttleby turned on his heel and skirted around the crowd, deftly finding his way to other, more polite company. Lucy sipped from one glass, looking around for Edwina. She saw the widow Grover, whose frock was coated in cat hair; Mr. and Mrs. Ratliff, their eyes only drawn to each other; the Lennon sisters, triplets with an uncanny ability to finish each other’s sentences; and the wealthiest of the city stood in the farthest corner, casting aspersions with their eyes. Mrs. Fairfax stood at the edge of this group, and catching Lucy’s eye, immediately rushed over to drag her into the fold.

Lucy almost wanted to run away, but Edwina was so genuinely enthused that it would feel cruel to deny her. 

“Thank heavens you’re here,” she mumbled low in Lucy’s ear, “the quartet canceled at the last minute and I’ve had to improvise while Mr. Fairfax finds a pianist to fill the void.” She brightened while approaching the poised, polite gathering. “Here she is! Our belle of the ball.” 

Lucy laughed awkwardly in the face of Edwina’s indifferent crowd. Two women in feathered hats, one elderly man with a large moustache, and a twiggy thing that couldn’t be more than 17, her freshly-debuted curls not yet pinned up in the adult fashion. 

“Ms. Harrison,” Edwina said, “this is Mrs. Pargetter and Mrs. Fane, Count Ormond, and his niece Helga.”

Only the niece paid Lucy any mind, so Lucy gave her a greeting. “Nice to meet you,” Lucy said. “You look lovely.” 

“Oh, thank you!” the girl tittered. “It’s only my second ball, so I’m still afraid I’ve worn the wrong thing.”

“You’ve done a splendid job,” Lucy said gently. 

Edwina had taken this opportunity to sidle up beside Mrs. Pargetter, whose bright green eyes flickered to Lucy. Edwina said something under her breath to Mrs. Pargetter, who said something under her breath to Mrs. Fane, and Count Ormond, watching the whole exchange, guffawed at the end of it. 

“Good heavens,” he huffed, and gave Lucy a once-over. “This little thing cursed a painting?”

She fought the urge to roll her eyes. “On accident.”

Mrs. Pargetter side-eyed Edwina. “Aren’t you afraid she’ll curse your house?”

“And before the opera house opens,” Mrs. Fane sighed. “You’ll lose half your reception party if you keep company such as this.”

A scoff of disbelief flew from Lucy’s chest before she could help it. She looked to Edwina for assistance. 

“Ladies, ladies,” Edwina admonished, “you’re looking at this from the wrong perspective. When will you get a chance to interview a witch again?”

Red in the face, and kicking herself for thinking she’d have fun here, Lucy started to defend herself. “I’m a person,” she began.

The Mrs. Fane and Pargetter exchanged dubious glances before the former leaned closer. “Is it true that you traded your soul to summon the spirit?”

The child, once enthused by Lucy’s attention, now stepped back in fear, looking to the Count for guidance. He laid a hand on her shoulder and glared at Edwina. “What could you be thinking, bringing her here?”

Mrs. Fairfax looked baffled. “Sir, it’s out of kindness that I invited Ms. Harrison. Where else could the poor girl meet people of merit?”

It was Lucy’s turn to step back, a sick feeling in her gut at her friend’s words. 

“Isn’t she orphaned?” Mrs. Pargetter said with scorn.

“‘She’ can hear you,” Lucy snapped.

“They really have no place among society, Eddie,” said Mrs. Fane. “It’s rather cruel to tease her like this.”

“I…” Edwina looked from her friends, to Lucy. “I was only trying to be charitable.” 

Lucy forced a smile. “Your charity is most saccharine,” she said lovingly. “But I can’t take up the hostess’ attention all evening.” 

She curtseyed briefly and slipped back into the bustling crowd, winding her way across the foyer, into the dining hall. It stood empty, plates and silverware in shiny sets, taper candles still tall, sconces unlit. Had she snuck in without anyone noticing, or had someone noticed and simply not cared enough to mention it? Lucy paused, then stepped into a corner, tucking herself into the shadow of a statue of Apollo. It was a gaudy addition to the dining room, she thought, but very convenient for escaping horrendous amounts of people.

Why had she come? Mrs. Fairfax hadn’t invited her out of the goodness of her heart, or a desire to see her, but to make her a spectacle to impress her rich friends. Lucy’s merit wasn’t in her talent as a painter, or even her novelty as a supposed occultist - it was in her other-ness. The innate sense of worth that came with a sizeable fortune was lost on the working class, and try as she might to claw her way out of the troughs, she was, through and through, meant for rougher climates than this. She could handle the crass gestures and language, navigate the finer details of a commission, and wash and dry her own smocks. To navigate the piercing gaze of women who never needed to work for anything - who found it easy to be Catholic, easy to be beautiful, easy to find friends - this struck Lucy to the core. 

She wasn’t ugly, or stupid, or cruel. She just had odd hobbies, and was just a touch too poor for this world. She could approach it, she could move within it, but she could never belong to it. Not in a way that soothed her, or satisfied her need for kinship. Lucy’s one tie to this world was her mother, who needed help bathing and eating - let alone keeping the house in order. Her mother, who was once the picture of vivacity, now lay sick day and night, and Lucy hadn’t had enough of Edwina’s time or attention to share this tidbit. And how could she share such personal news with a woman who viewed her as a charity case? Who could trust a woman that repeatedly stood not with her friend, but with the majority? 

Lucy gazed at the ceiling, willing tears in her eyes to sink back into the socket. Deep breath after deep breath blew away the self-pity shrouding her. She was certain her eyes were drying when a figure emerged from the kitchen, dabbing the corner of his mouth. He halted some ten yards from Lucy, startled by her presence. His attire was far too elaborate for a servant, with emerald threads woven into a black short-fronted tailcoat, and long black hair was pulled back in a loose, old-fashioned braid. Dark eyes beneath darker lashes drank in Lucy’s figure, first with curiosity, then with amusement. 

“Mademoiselle,” he said, “you’ve stolen my hiding place.” A tear snuck out around her smile, and she dashed it away quickly. His amusement shifted to polite concern. “Whatever’s the matter? No, let me guess.” He stepped closer, offering her the napkin. “You’re overwhelmed with dance partners.”

She stifled her bitter laugh, taking the napkin and using a corner to dab at her eyes. “Yes,” she said in mocking solemnity, “you are right on the money.” 

“I’m a lucky man.” 

Lucy didn’t realize he was waiting for her explanation until she glanced up at his raised brow. “Ah, well. It’s childish, really. I’m sure you don’t want to know.”

“I have a feeling,” he said, edging ever-closer. “It has something to do with the fact that you’re the most beautiful woman here, and yet I don’t know you.” He lifted his forearm, hand closed. “Tell me on the dance floor why you’re this city’s best-kept secret. Ms….?”

“Lucy Harrison.” She blushed under his gaze, but laughed at his arm. “I don’t know why you’re offering me that, the quartet won’t arrive and Mr. Fairfax will be hard-pressed to find a pianist at this hour.” 

His eyes lit up. “Ah-ha! Even better. Join me, mademoiselle.” Eyes narrowed, she acquiesced. He led her out of the dining room and across the foyer with a pride as plain as the sky, and twice as sunny, despite his pale complexion. 

“What is your name?” Lucy said, half-exasperated.

“Gus,” he said simply. He ushered her to the piano, bidding her to sit at the bench.

“I don’t play,” she hissed. The eyes of her fellow socialites, and that of the upper echelon of snobs, were boring holes into her beet-red face.

“Then just look very enthusiastic and brush the keys lightly,” he replied with a wink. 

A woman in a daze, she watched as he turned the piano into an extension of his hands, leaning here and there, singing in a rich baritone that masked any lack of effort on Lucy’s part. 

It took three songs, but eventually the party picked up on the opportunity and took to dancing. Lucy realized now that she barely knew these dances; had she been able to take Gus up on his offer, she'd have likely embarrassed herself. Two more songs and Gus announced he'd taken up too much time already, and now the elite lined up to take the place of the young couple. Gus allowed Lucy to lead the way to the foyer, and Edwina attempted to catch their attention; the two were all too content to ignore her.

“Do you always make a spectacle of yourself, or was that all for my benefit?” Lucy remarked. 

“One can't have a ball without music. They just needed a musician with a little bravery to show them how it's done.” He gazed at the foyer around him. “It's nicely built, isn't it? But pale with these white walls. No home is complete without artistry.” Lucy frowned at the non-sequitur. “Have you ever considered being an artiste résident?” 

She rolled her eyes. “Unfortunately, I don't think the Fairfaxes would have me.” 

“The poorer souls, they.” 

Her eyes flitted over the man. His expensive and wrinkled waistcoat, his relaxed posture, his smug remarks. “You’re him, aren’t you?” she asked.

“Pardon?”

“Mr. Vanderberg’s benefactor.”

His head tilted. “Now, why would you think that?”

“Because you’re the only one here who doesn’t think I hold a paintbrush by the horsehair.” Edwina began making her way over to the pair, paused only by a greeting from the Lennon sisters. Lucy sighed. “If I’m not the fool toting paintings around, I’m the witch cursing them with spirits.” She started when Gus took her gloved hand in his, holding it reverently.

“The city is full of small minds. The country gives one space to see the world as it is. How much did Troy offer you?”

Lucy frowned, now. Was it Gus’ familiarity, or the prospect of prosperity that made her suspicious? “That’s rather gauche to ask at a party.”

“I’ll double it,” he said without missing a beat.

Edwina was close now, and Lucy pulled her hand from Gus’. “You’ll give others the wrong impression,” she hissed.

“Then bring a chaperone,” he chuckled, “to our Sunday luncheon at Harperton Hall.”

Embarrassment swelled in her chest. “Harperton?”

Edwina caught Lucy’s arm in her own, sidling up as though nothing had happened between them. “Harperton luncheon? Are you entertaining again, Mr. Grosvenor?” 

He turned on a dazzling smile for Edwina. “Naturally, Mrs. Fairfax. I understand Ms. Harrison hasn’t seen the grounds before. She’ll need your help if she’s to relocate to the property as Mr. Vanderberg’s assistant.” 

Edwina choked out a laugh that was born of disbelief. “What a generous patron of the arts!”

Lucy felt her face heat with the humiliation of, again, finding herself in a position of total inadequacy. “Incredibly generous,” she breathed, steadying herself on her fairweather friend. 

“I do hope your husband is well enough to join us this time,” said Gus. “He has the most spectacular takes on the sermons of Father Tuttleby.” 

“John is obsessed with the Father’s cadence,” laughed Edwina. 

Lucy unhooked herself from Mrs. Fairfax and began slinking towards the door. “It’s getting late, I really must–”

Gus reached towards her, stopping her with only a motion. “You are coming to church Sunday, aren’t you? You and the Fairfaxes must take my carriage to the estate. No one knows the roads like my driver.”

“You are too kind, sir,” she said evenly. “But I’m afraid I made plans with my mother this Sunday.”

Edwina gave a tight smile, cutting her eyes from Lucy to Gus pointedly. “But you’ll be going to church after that, won’t you?” she said through grit teeth. 

“No– I don’t know, perhaps–” Lucy caught sight of Mrs. Fane and Mrs. Pargetter swarming Edwina and Gus. “I must go.”

Before they could protest, she dipped out of the foyer and into the lamp lit streets, clutching her waist and breathing deeply. 

Footmen approached Lucy, but she shrugged them off, stepping farther away until she was sure she wouldn’t be bothered. The street were too well-lit to be dangerous, with gatekeepers at every home and servants on errands back and forth between houses. They gave Lucy strange looks as she passed by in relative regalia. To them, it was the garb of a woman too rich to be walking alone at night; to the party-goers, it was a rug turned into a frock. 

Gus hadn’t been interested in her at all, beyond hiring her as a live-in painter - perhaps more. Harperton was a grand estate, with sprawling fields and even some wooded land; it also had a separate house for servants, like Lucy. She’d entered the Fairfax home as an equal, and in two hours became an object of wild speculation, and was now reduced to her working class status indefinitely. 

And where was Mr. Vanderberg, who was so sincere and desperate to dance with her that night? Where was the one person who was there at the church, who saw the madness, and helped her escape? Perhaps he took the day off and felt no need to chase after Lucy, now that his master had a chance to charm her. 

The night bit at her bare arms, and she tugged her elbow-length gloves up as far as she could. By the time she was home, some twenty blocks later, she was absolutely frigid, though whether it was due to her own nerves or the night air she could not know. She opened the door of her apartment and immediately locked it behind her, leaning against it with a heavy sigh. One day, she’d stop running away from these situations. She’d speak her mind and say what she felt and move on with her life. If she was going to feel like an outcast, she may as well move to a country where she didn’t speak the language, like India, or Italy, or Australia. At least then she wouldn’t know when others were making snide comments. 

The paintings in the hall, whether they were canvas tacked to the wall or in sturdy metal frames, whispered in conversation, but Lucy ignored them tonight. No one would make her feel at home like her mother could. She found her way upstairs, the two-bedroom floor creaking under her steps. The evening nurse bade Lucy goodnight, leaving her to tend to her mother on her own.

Mama laid in a bed near the window, asleep as usual, a variety of blankets and pillows supporting her back, wrapping her in prisms of yarn. She was so peaceful in moments like this that Lucy almost imagined the catatonia was a mistake; that her Mama would wake up and ask for something to read. 

A plush stool sat before her mother’s vanity, which now collected dust. Lucy pulled it to the bedside and knelt, resting her elbows on the mattress beside her mother.

“It's a strange night,” Lucy said. “I feel so lonely in the city, even when friends invite me along. I was offered a job, a high paying job, and all I could think of was that Mrs. Fairfax would never invite me anywhere again. She's not even a dear friend. You know her, always vying for popularity - and I'm not exactly capping off the hierarchy. 

“I shouldn't care. You raised me to care about the soul inside the vessel, not the vessel itself. Material objects aren't the measure of our worth. So why do I feel so strongly about rejection?”

Mama slept soundly. 

“It's lonely here. I know we came to the city for safety, but it's been years, and still, I have no friends. No suitors. And my white lies about being a painter's assistant have turned into… Well, no one will believe me if I ever come clean.” Lucy took her mother's cold hand in hers. “Trying and failing to find friendship is difficult. I’d rather just live in peace, without anyone peering over my shoulder to see if I’m good enough to speak to.” She pursed her lips. “Of course, you’re not exactly a fountain of conversation yourself, lately.” 

 Lucy felt a pang of guilt, walking around the house of a God she didn’t believe in - but she didn't realize that feeling irrepressible guilt is the first step towards becoming a good Catholic. She was gaining traction in her city as an up and coming artist - despite having to use a masculine pseudonym - and found her paintings did very well at the church fundraisers. The auctioneers drummed up enthusiasm, and the church got money to feed orphans, and Lucy got to field questions about the artist. “But why did he send you?” they'd ask. “Isn't he proud of his work?” 

“He is terribly shy, and he declares me to be the only one who truly understands his work.” 

That bit was true - Lucy was the only one who really understood her work. Each painting was a gorgeous landscape, whether mountainous or seaside, lush green fields or dense cozy woods. Each landscape was tantalizing enough that any viewer would want to live in it, themselves: and for this reason, Lucy was quite adept at giving ghosts a new home. 

The city of Fogshire was littered with ghosts, to the point that the priests and ministers simply didn't have the manpower to cast them all out. Most were relatively harmless, and wanted little more than a comfortable purgatory. Lucy was happy to oblige. 

Every Sunday, after mass let out and lunch was had, the congregation reconvened to attend some fundraiser or another. Last week it was a race around the high school track; the week before, a bake sale. Now Lucy and other prominent artists had their chance to earn a few morsels for the orphanage downtown, and demonstrate their talent to the righteous upper class.

“It is a shame your mother couldn't make it,” said Mrs. Fairfax, a neighbor who'd rather not be considered as working-class as blue-eyed Lucy. In a frock with more ruffles than sense, and a hat with an entire garden attached, she was the epitome of a Sunday protestant. “I'm sure she loves your benefactor’s work.” 

Lucy smiled, tucking a golden curl behind her ear. “Even more than I do.” It was her best defense, this game: if she was in on a joke with herself, which no one else knew, then she couldn't feel displaced. Where Mrs. Fairfax drew strength from her elegant visage, dark hair, and royal poise, Lucy drew strength from her amusement with herself. Lucy had not the means to wear symbols of wealth and grandeur, but she had the wit to hold herself in high esteem for more substantial reasons. “Is Mr. Fairfax unwell? It's rare that he skips mass.”

Mrs. Fairfax nods. “His headaches have returned with a vengeance. I doubt he'll be back to his office in time for the trial.” 

“Which case is he trying, again?”

“Oh, who knows.”

“The shipyard that's cutting wages, isn't it?”

“Ms. Harrison, it's bad manners to involve yourself in the affairs of men,” she chided, and linked arms with Lucy. “Do tell me more about this mysterious artist. Do you see him when you retrieve the paintings? Or does he leave them bundled at his door and watch you from the shadows?” 

“Seeing as he is a man, I don't think I'm at liberty to discuss his affairs.” 

“Don't play coy! Is he terribly handsome, or does he look like a toad?” 

“Suppose I told you. What would you do then?”

Mrs. Fairfax considered her options. “Well, I'd probably tell everyone I know.” 

“Leaving my poor benefactor to fend off everyone who wants a painting? I think not!” Lucy slid free of her neighbor. “Now excuse me, I must see how the winner of the bid likes his work.” 

She made her way through the clusters of church-goers, nodding now and then in recognition of certain neighbors and acquaintances. It was a pipe dream, trying to avoid Mr. Lewis and his troop of artists, but duck her head she did. If only it had worked. Mr. Lewis approached her, swiftly cutting off her path to the winners of the last painting. 

“Ms. Harrison! We were just talking about your employer.” With auburn curls and a deep blue suit, was good-looking and wealthy enough to be unused to rejection. It made him both amicable and irritating. 

“I am afraid he does not welcome inquiries,” Lucy laughed lightly. “As you well know.”  

He snatched Lucy’s hand, clasping it in both of his. “You must introduce me,” he said feverishly, as if by emphasis alone he could sway Lucy into producing a man that does not exist.

“Mr. Lewis,” Lucy chided. He never sought her out when she was at a ball, or teaching painting classes at a discount, or speaking to others about the differences between the renaissance paintings of the 16th century compared to shows revolving around realism nowadays. He ignored her when she commented on the rococo paintings at the Fairfax Estate, he even mocked women’s attempts at education to his slack-jawed artistic friends - who, until now, also ignored her. Now that her talents were attributed to a man, they were worth something. 

Despite her ill-veiled irritation, and his uncouth advance, Mr. Lewis continued, drawing himself closer to Lucy. “There are techniques in his oil painting that I cannot replicate, no matter how closely I study.”

“Compose yourself, sir.” Perhaps God was getting back at her for lying about her identity, after all. “And bid on another of my master’s paintings, if you’re so keen to study him.” Lucy also hoped he chose the painting that was inhabited by the ghost of a particularly lonely old lady who tended to wail in the night; they’d do each other some good. 

Lucy peered over Mr. Lewis’ shoulder, at the stout, graying minister and warmly chatty auction winners gazing at her painting where it stood on an easel. It was one of her finer pieces, she believed - cost her a pretty penny to make - and housed a troubled soul whose truest desire, as far as she could tell, was to live deep within the heart of a mountain. The minister was around fifty years old, thanking the young couple who purchased it. They were smiling while they chatted, and Lucy desperately wanted to hear what they thought, but Mr. Lewis wouldn’t move. 

“See here, love,” Mr. Lewis said softly, “you can’t keep secrets from your superiors. Tell me what I want to know, and I’ll leave you be. Simple as that.” 

Brow drawn, jaw dropped, Lucy struggled to pull her hand from his grasp. “You brute!” she hissed. 

It was at this moment that a gasp was heard across the room, distracting Mr. Lewis and indeed the whole hall of people. From the majestic mountain view Lucy had spent hours creating, smoke poured out, as though it were the window of a burning building. Panicking that her finest work was on fire - and concerned that the ghost that inhabited it may be in pain - she shoved Mr. Lewis out of her way and pushed through the crowd.   

The crowd had cleared, a slowly-growing gap between the painting and the audience. The paint itself was melting onto the hardwood floor. Lucy stepped forward. All that work, vanishing. She knelt to the floor to touch the pools of grey, blue, and white. With a screech, a figure rose into the smoke. The minister bolted out the side door, leaving the crowd to watch in horror.

A hulking, crimson, humanoid thing formed in the air. Ram horns adorned a grotesque head, with beady black eyes and a too-wide mouth grimacing down at the humans. Lucy suddenly felt exposed. Her peers had shrank to the back of the room, leaving her the only target for some twenty yards.

“Dolor,” groaned the demon in a painfully loud whisper. It prattled on in a language familiar but baffling. Lucy regretted not paying more attention when her mother taught her Latin. Perhaps this was a sign from God that she should learn it. 

“Do you speak English?” she called out to the demon.

It fixed its eyes on her, two glistening black pools of dread and woe. It need not answer; it need not speak. She was going to die. One massive, blackened hand, with charred flesh and eagle talons, eased down to her. It gripped her throat, squeezing until the world was dark. Her eyes stung, her head pounded, panic churned in her gut. 

Water speckled the side of her face and the demon recoiled with a screech.

The minister had returned, one hand clutching a cross and a bible, and the other throwing holy water at the beast. They argued in Latin, the demon’s voice chillingly loud compared to the muted cries of the mortal. After some time, the demon’s body cracked under the holy water, dissipating into a fine mist. 

Lucy, wiping the holy water from her face, was seized by the minister. He dropped everything, yanking her to her feet, and seized her shoulders. “You saved me,” she mumbled, shocked.

“For only a moment - he’ll certainly be back. What hell hath you wrought upon us, child?” he cried.

“I’m so sorry,” she gasped, “I didn’t know- I thought he would stay in the painting-”

“In the painting?”

The crowd drew near again, men clutching their wives, women fanning themselves. 

Mr. Lewis took it upon himself to intervene, standing behind the minister. “You cursed your master’s painting?” he demanded.  

Lucy looked from her accusers, to the crowd that was boiling with anger. Mrs. Fairfax was the only somewhat sympathetic face, but she would not risk her reputation for Lucy, and Lucy could not blame her.

“I painted it,” Lucy confessed.

“Liar!” Mr. Lewis scoffed.

“I tell the truth, sir,” she said to the minister. “I never meant to bring anything unholy here - never thought anything unholy could be brought here -”

“You have exposed us all to sin and corruption,” preached the minister, “in a manner so egregious that a man of the cloth could barely save you from not only death, but eternal damnation.” He shook Lucy lightly. “What have you to say for yourself?”

Lucy felt the fury of the congregation on her, and it brought tears to her eyes. “I didn’t know,” she pleaded. “Believe me, sir.”

“She will not even address you by your God-given title,” Mr. Lewis spat. 

Fed up, Lucy rolled her eyes. “For God’s sake, be quiet!” she yelled. “You have been determined to shame me for who I am from the beginning.” 

“For who you are as a demonic harlot!” Mr. Lewis scoffed.

“This is a house of God!” said the minister. “Refrain from such language.”

The new figure emerging from the crowd was lithe, the hat in his hand faded, his clothing gentlemanly but plain. If he hadn’t stepped forward, Lucy would never have noticed him, but she was all too pleased to have someone interrupt. 

“Father Tuttleby,” said the man.

The minister dropped Lucy’s shoulders and stood taller, as if embarrassed by his own parishioner. “Mr. Vanderberg!” said the minister. “I apologize for this display. It’s a-a most stressful day.”

“I should be the one apologizing,” said Mr. Vanderberg congenially, shaking his head of pale curls. He reached out to Lucy and laid a hand on her shoulder. “I am the artist of these paintings. Lucy here was only doing my bidding.” 

Lucy sighed deeply. “Please stop. I am the painter. I paint. I know every peak and shadow of that painting, and I’ll happily recreate it for the auction–”

Mr. Vanderberg tutted, wincing at Lucy. “Ms. Harrison, it’s so kind of you to cover for me, but you really shouldn’t lie to a man of the cloth.” Adrenaline mixed with frustration, was tempered by apprehension, and she forgot every word in her vocabulary. She simply stared at the latest in this series of men grabbing her.

“What on earth happened, Mr. Vanderberg?” asked the minister, with more compassion than anyone had offered Lucy today.

“Someone has cursed my studio,” he said solemnly. “You know how dangerous it’s been in the villages outside Fogshire; monsters are more prevalent than ever. I thought to keep you all safe by precluding myself from the church entirely, but I see now it only served to put poor Ms. Harrison in harm’s way.” He looked at Lucy, with uncanny sincerity in his expression. “I am truly sorry.” 

“There’s nothing to forgive,” she said factually.

He smiled with relief, laughing to the minister and Mr. Lewis (who, by the by, was flush with embarrassment at being before his hero). “She is the picture of modesty, my assistant.” 

Flabbergasted, Lucy backed away from the three men, seeking the exit. “I have to leave,” she said, half-dazed. “I have to get out of here.” 

“Ah! She is unwell.” Mr. Vanderberg popped his hat atop his head and bowed briefly to the minister. “Forgive me, Father. I shall see you next Sunday.”

“Of course, my son.”

Mr. Lewis started to speak, mouth open, finger in the air, but Mr. Vanderberg spun on his heel to stride up to Lucy. “Allow me to escort you home, Ms. Harrison.” 

“Sure,” she scoffed, grabbing his arm. “Why not?” 

He laughed heartily, putting on a jovial performance for the crowd that chased them out with gossiping whispers. 

Out of the reception hall, into the foyer, and down the cathedral steps, they walked through the streets of Fogshire. The roads were dark in the evening and wet with rain, but the air was thick and muggy from the springtime heat. Sweat beaded on their foreheads as they walked, and Lucy removed her hand fan from her pocket. She looked away from Mr. Vanderberg, trying to make sense of what just happened. The ghost she thought occupied that painting was so genteel - she wouldn’t have brought a painting with someone aggressive, let alone an entire demon. She’d never even seen a demon before. 

Lucy watched a few carriages pass; shook her head at a newsboy trying to sell her a paper. It was a busy Sunday evening, dwindling into a Sunday night, and to walk around, you’d never think a demon had just flown out of a painting. 

“Do you think it’ll come back?” Lucy asked Mr. Vanderberg.

He raised his eyebrows. “I can’t say,” he admitted. “Though it’d be uncommon for a demon to take one dousing of holy water as total defeat.” 

“How do you know?” 

His smile was practiced, his cheeks crinkling just enough to indicate sincerity, but Lucy could see fear lingering behind his dark brown eyes. “I can’t reveal all my secrets at once, can I?” 

Lucy sighed, looking ahead. “Yes, how irresponsible of me.” She pointed to the intersection. “We’ll be turning right at this corner.”

“Naturally,” he said with a nod. “May I ask you about your paintings?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“Because I’m curious.”

“You’re just trying to steal my work.”

“If I were, you’ve bloody well made it easy enough.” Lucy smacked her lips at his language. “Am I wrong?” 

“Of course you’re not wrong. You’re crass and opportunistic, but not wrong.”

“Just tell me how you do it,” he said. “The paintings are pretty enough–”

“‘Pretty enough!’”

“--but your ability to house demons within them is downright ethereal.” 

Lucy blinked. “Thank you?”

The two paused in front of a stretch of brightly painted townhouses, the lit windows within casting them in shades of orange. “An artist of your caliber deserves recognition, and here I offer it: Tell me how you capture these spirits, and I can secure you a place as artiste résident.” 

“I’m so sick of Latin,” she grumbled.

“That was French.”

“How much would this position pay?”

“Lavish room and board, infamy amongst the high-brow that will view your mural–”

“A mural?” Her hand fan stilled. 

“--and 10,000 a year. Do you interrupt everyone like that?”

“For 10,000 a year, I can stop. Why don’t you dress nicer?”

“Excuse me?”

“If you can go about offering exorbitant salaries, why don’t you dress like it?”   

“Suppose I make it 9,000. Could I dress how I like, then?”

“For an outfit like that, you’d better make it 2,000.”

He chuckled. “But you won’t give me answers about your paintings, at that rate.”

“Then you’ll have to be more presentable the next time I see you.” Lucy began walking towards her home again, Mr. Vanderberg following closely behind. “It’s not something I meant to do, you see. I always saw ghosts, and they always liked my paintings. My portfolio always has figures appearing and disappearing. Most souls don’t care for attention as much as comfort. For all the loneliness they endure, purgatory must be worse than hell, I think.” 

At this, Mr. Vanderberg scoffed. Lucy turned to look at him, and he cleared his throat, catching up to her side. “Excuse me. I take it you’re not a devout Catholic?”

“I think I’m the only one in the city who isn’t,” she replied. “I think that’s why I’m swarming with ghosts and everyone else is left to their own devices.”

“‘No rest for the wicked.’”

“Something like that. But I still can’t believe it… a demon.”

“You’ve never seen one?” 

“No. Are they so common?”

“Compared to the city, I suppose so. I’ve seen a few demons, but none that manifested so suddenly, without possession or summons.” 

Lucy halted, eyes wide. “Summons?”

A fleeting look of panic struck his face, before recomposing into an easy smile. “Is that what I said? Odd.”

Lucy stared at the sidewalk as they walked. Was it Vanderberg who summoned the demon? For what purpose? How did he let it get away? They arrived at the stoop of her apartment building having walked in silence for some five minutes. 

“Thank you for allowing me to escort you,” said Vanderberg, to which Lucy nodded politely. “And you’ll consider the residency?” She nodded again. He bit his lip, watching her walk up to her door mutely. He was losing her interest. He had to act fast. “Are you attending the Fairfaxes’ ball this Friday?” 

“What?” She looked at the man at the foot of her stairs, hat in hand, expression hopeful and pleading as it was when talking to the minister. To be the object of his sincerity made her bashful, despite knowing it was an act. “Of course. But how do you know them?”

He smirked. “I go to church every Sunday.” 

Lucy stared at him with skepticism, then chuckled. “Well, Mr. Vanderberg–”

“Call me Troy.”

“No, thank you. I don’t believe you have a residency for me, and I don’t believe you walked me home out of the goodness of your heart.”