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?”
“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-”
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.”
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.”
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?”
“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–”
“--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.
“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?”
“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.”
“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–”
“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.”
“I did walk you home for a purpose,” he said, “but you’re right, it was not purity - it was enterprise. Allow me to introduce you to my benefactor on Friday evening. And, if you’d be so kind as to save a dance for me?” Lucy looked him up and down. “No, thank you.” She went inside and locked her door behind her. Mr. Vanderberg grinned and replaced his hat, fangs glistening in errant moonlight.
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