text: [Themes: love & dating, historical, romance]
  
  The journey to London is uneventful, and you do your best to keep Peter's mind focused on happier things, or at least on anything that might serve as a distraction. You talk of magic and literature, of mathematics and politics, of the entrance of the French into the war with America. Peter talks of London, of its cathedrals and castles, the narrow streets lined with every imaginable shop and bursting with men and women. He is astounded to learn you have hardly spent a week in the capital during the entire course of your life and immediately sets out to educate you on everything you have missed as an ignorant provincial. You are happy to indulge him.
  
  "And set into the dome are great statues of the Church Fathers- Saint Augustine, Saint Basil, Saint Jerome, and all the rest. The dome is magnificent, designed by Wren in the Continental style, of course, and built after the Great Fire. The building itself is cruciform, a Latin cross, though Wren had original planned for arms of equal length. My dear man, are you quite serious that you knew none of this?"
  
  Your ride passes quickly, and the countryside changes slowly to the outskirts of the great city. Soon you are in its heart and disembark, bags in hand, for Lizzy's home. It is on St. Martin's Lane, above neat shop with a brass sign reading "Mr. Thomas Norrell, Bookseller." Mr. Norrell turns out to be a well-dressed older man with enormous spectacles. He embraces Peter, a gesture which clearly catches your friend by surprise, and ushers you both upstairs.
  
  You wait in the corridor while Peter speaks to his fiancee. Mr. Norrell strikes up a conversation about, naturally enough, books, and you spend the next twenty minutes discussing the comparative merits of various Hebrew dictionaries and editions of the Greek classics. His eyes keep darting from your face and to his daughter's door, and when Peter emerges he rushes at once to grab his hand. "How does she seem?"
  
  Your friend leads you a little ways from the door and then responds. "She is better than I dared to hope, and when she speaks her thoughts are perfectly lucid, though her voice is very weak. But she tells me she cannot keep down food, and her face is so terribly pale." He runs a hand through his hair. "I am no doctor, sir. What do the physicians say?"
  
  Mr. Norrell explains that he has had three doctors examine Lizzy, and each made a different diagnosis. But two, he says quickly, are quacks, and he has decided to follow the recommendations of the third. He turns to you. "She is starved for company. Peter will help a great deal with that, but if you would sit and talk to her awhile it would do a world of good." You nod and walk into her room, not sure exactly what to expect, as Peter and Mr. Norrell continue to discuss the situation.
  
  Even through the illness Lizzy is beautiful, her golden hair strewn messily across the pillow, her blue eyes undimmed by the disease. You quickly introduce yourself and she smiles. "Peter's friend," she says softly. "I have heard about you from him, and now I would like to hear about him from you, and about everything at the College." She motions towards a chair, and you sit. Peter was right, her mind is not at all affected, and she asks intelligent questions about everything you say. Before you realize it, you have explained quite a lot of daemonology, about practical metaphysics and history and the relevance of mathematics.
  
  Eventually Mr. Norrell and Peter join you. "It is time to sleep," her father says quietly, and Lizzy nods. Peter takes your place by her side and holds her hand, and you get the sudden feeling he is about to cry. You are not a very religious man, but now you pray silently to God not to take this woman from your friend, not to leave him without his love.
  
  Mr. Norrell accompanies you out and leads you to a spare room. "My wife and I had many children," he explains, "but death has claimed them all. All but my Lizzy." You try to think of something to say, but before you can he gives a stiff bow and departs. You sit on the bed, wondering whether death will visit this house again while you are a guest. You cannot bear to just sit and wait; now you are the one who needs a distraction. Perhaps a walk would do you good, though it is well past twilight. Mr. Norrell also has no shortage of reading material, though you doubt there is anything engrossing enough to take your mind off Lizzy's illness.
  
  > Book
  There is no need to go wandering around London in the middle of the night, courting trouble. You venture downstairs into the shop and peruse for a few minutes. You decide on a handsome new edition of Pope and carry it back to your room. He is hardly your favorite poet, but you think perhaps it will help you sleep. You are quite correct, and halfway through his Essay on Criticism you nod off, just before he warns that "fools rush in where angels fear to tread."
  
  Breakfast is an uncomfortable meal, and neither Mr. Norrell nor Peter has much to say. You speak to Lizzy for a few minutes, and she appears unchanged, but you spend most of the day exploring the great city. St. Paul's Cathedral is awe-inspiring, as is Westminster Abbey, and you do not disdain from gawking like the most rustic peasant.
  
  When you return in the evening, the entire atmosphere of the house has changed, and you sense it the moment you set foot inside. Mr. Norrell seizes your hand and shakes it energetically. "She has kept down her breakfast, she has kept down her breakfast all day!" he repeats, his face shining. Peter smiles too, and you do not find sleep nearly as hard to come by as the night before.
  
  The next day is still better. Lizzy kept down her supper and has quite an appetite this morning, and when you go in to speak with her, her face is noticeable rosier and her voice not nearly as weak. She still cannot stand, but everything in time. Another day goes by and the improvement is even more marked. Mr. Norrell pronounces it a miracle brought on by Peter's presence; there is no trace of the enmity you know he once had for your friend. By evening all the doctors concur. She will live.
  
  Peter insists you return to Covingsford now that the danger has passed. "You have missed many classes already, and I thank you. I'll follow soon enough." He leans in for a conspiratorial whisper. "The wonderful old man has promised we shall wed in June. In June!" He beams, happier than you have ever seen him.
  
  Your ride home is dull, as your companions in the carriage are two rather deaf women who sleep the entire way. You quickly make up for the lessons you've missed- Dr. Bullock shouts at you a little, but your other professors are all quite understanding.
  
  Two more days pass without Peter or Seria returning. Your magic is stronger than ever, as you learn during a walk in the countryside when you send a sudden bolt of lightening from the clear sky. You are thrilled, however, when Seria finally surprises you while you're asleep, waking you up in a very interesting way. You spend a while on pleasure and then turn to business, though you can't resist playing with her body a little while you talk.
  
  "Everything is in place. We need to strike now," she says, her suddenly serious tone quite a change from her earlier moans.
  
  "Tonight?"
  
  "Yes. Our allies are not as patient as you and I, and if you don't summon them now they may move on to easier prey."
  
  You consider it. "Hopkins is strong, but I believe I am stronger. The danger is that others join him, that we do not eliminate him without notice. Even with the daemons, I doubt I can handle more than a few at once, and the Chancellor is far more powerful than I."
  
  "Do not worry, my love. Even if every daemonologist in England joined your mother's killer, it would only add to your strength. The bloodier the combat, the greater chance your angelic blood will awaken, and when that occurs you will be unstoppable." She gives you a deep kiss, and you spend another couple minutes distracting yourselves from the work ahead.
  
  Finally she pulls away and grabs a piece of charcoal. It is time. You take the charcoal and begin to draw the summoning circle. The time you have waited for is nearly here, and you swallow your distaste at what you must do to avenge your mother.
  
  > The summoning
  You have come across many different summoning procedures during your research, though you've decided to use a simple one originally created by the Cathars. Seria stands on the other side of the circle, ready to tell you the different names of each daemon you will call up. You have the incantation written somewhere among your notes, but you're confident you know it by heart.
  
  "Quid sum miser tunc dicturus, quem patronum rogatorus, cum vix sit securus..." you intone. The charcoal lines begin to glow with dim blue light. "Ingemisco tamquam reus, culpa rubet vultus meus supplicanti parce..."
  
  Seria's eyes are locked on your own, and you stare right back. You are hers, and she is yours. Together you will do what should have been done years ago. A flicker of fear seizes you, not fear for today but for the future. How long can you continue as a student at the College while the love of your life is a daemon? Someday, perhaps, you will have to choose, and you cannot say what your choice will be. Whatever happens, you know she will stand by your side, first to kill Hopkins and then against whatever tries to keep you apart.
  
  "Propet hoc lugebit terra et infirmabitur omnis qui daemoniat..." Seria has a hungry look on her pale face, and the circle's lines are now very bright. It is time to call the first spirit.
  
  "Lignor," she murmurs, and you repeat the name. The air inside the circle ripples like water, and slowly something like pale green fog begins to swirl. You continue chanting as it coalesces, growing larger and larger, and then all at once the daemon is fully there. He is a minotaur, nearly seven feet tall with curling horns and broken teeth. He bows slowly and steps outside the circle.
  
  "Propet hoc lugebit terra et infirmabitur omnis qui daemoniat..." you chant methodically once more. This time the daemon is Nephilaxet, who would look like a perfectly ordinary merchant if it were not for the two long, curving scars that stretch from each side of his mouth to his ears. Then he smiles wide, and you notice that his gums are bright red. He too bows and takes his place beside Seria and Lignor.
  
  Then Jarobaal, who has the head of a great viper, Semkhapu the sphinx, and Spulliso, who has no face at all, only a terrible blankness, deathly white, where eyes and the rest should be. You soon lose track of the names and each one's particular monstrous appearance, though a few, like Yfrigge, who looks for all the world like a timid, frightened six year old girl, manage to stand out. Each one bows and joins the others, watching as you call forth more and more. Last of all is Anumun, a raksha covered from head to foot with a tiger's fur and stripes, and when he bows, you see that his tail is a cobra.
  
  Then it is done. Seria nods, and you mutter the final words of the summoning. Your eyes flicker from one daemon to the next. The room is quite full, and you guess that there are at least two dozen spirits inside. It seems excessive, far more than you need to eliminate Dr. Hopkins. Each one is staring back, and it is with a jolt that you realize that you, not Seria, are their leader. It is you who must keep them from devouring the hundreds of innocents who sleep in the College and in Covingsford.
  
  > speak...
  Though you are not entirely sure where the words are coming from. "Tonight we will gain revenge on Dr. Hopkins. From the moment I met him, he tried to worm his way into my sympathies with jokes and a facade of kindness. I am ashamed to say it nearly work. It would have worked if it were not for Seria, for she told me the truth. Hopkins murdered my mother, a powerful spirit, and he has wronged each of you too. Tonight we will make him pay for what he has done."
  
  It is a simple enough speech, but it seems to inspire the daemons. "We will follow you, great spellcaster," Jarobaal says. It is disconcerting to hear good English come from a snake's head, not to mention to receive obedience from a daemon, but you just nod. The others give their assent too, and Seria comes to your side.
  
  Her voice is forceful and her face wears a sneer as she speaks of the enemy. "Hopkins is asleep in his bed, so and if fortune favors us he will be dead before he wakes. There is a chance, however, that he will raise the alarm, and then we will have a true battle on our hands." She squeezes your hand. "The students are not to be touched at first and nor are the other professors, though if they attack you may of course slaughter them. But it would be better to put the fear of daemons into their veins, to teach them never to oppose us."
  
  You whisper a quick spell, and your window vanishes without a sound. The daemons leap out at once and you follow, commanding the wind to soften your landing. You lead them slowly from the grounds and into the streets of Covingsford, watching for any sign of trouble, but there is none. The town is silent and deserted at this time of night, and only the stars and the vast moon above witness your daemonic army on the march to Dr. Hopkins.
  
  About halfway there, you begin to notice some muttering between two daemons near the back of your column, their voices carrying easily in the quiet. Semkhapu the sphinx seems to be arguing with the raksha Anumun, her voice nearly a hiss. "We follow where he leads and kill his target first. Then, and only then, will we settle all our other unfinished business."
  
  Anumun growls, unable to keep his voice low. "I have waited long enough for my revenge. Bullock must die, I must feel his life petering away as his blood pools at my feet. We hardly need so many to defeat one man, no matter how strong." They go back and forth for a while, oblivious that you are listening. The other daemons can clearly hear them too, and from the looks on many of their faces, they are of the same mind as Anumun. You realize that Seria did not tell the whole truth- these spirits have little interest in Hopkins, at least most of them; they are here for their own private grievances, probably against every professor at the College.
  
  Seria, watching you, leans in close to whisper. "They are strong and rebellious, but you are stronger by far. You can master them, make them fear and respect you. It is the only way to kill Hopkins." You nod, trying to decide how to persuade a band of daemons to follow your orders against their instincts.
  
  > use fear
  You stop and turn to face your horde. They gather around you in a semicircle, their eyes roaming to the houses and shops that line the street, no doubt wondering which you will attack. Taking a deep breath, you speak, your voice admirably confident. "We have a ways to travel yet, but there is something I must say. Some of you, it seems, believe that I am a man to be triffled with, that I am a mere student. You believe my orders can be disobeyed, that my direct command that no one but Hopkins should be harmed does not bind you."
  
  "Anumun," you shout, "step forward and face me." The raksha does so, his yellow eyes gleaming wildly. "You do not think we should all attack Dr. Hopkins, do you? You want to kill Bullock instead?" He simply stares, unblinking. A little disconcerted, you continue. "I have summoned you, Anumun, and I can banish you, any of you, if you are disobedient. And I can do far worse than banish you. I can end your very lives, can make your last minutes a torture so severe that you will beg for death. Now, Anumun, will you obey, or will you be destroyed?"
  
  The raksha keeps staring as the seconds tick by. Eventually you decide that his time is up. "Very well. You others, see what will befall all who disobey, uh." Your voice cuts out when Anumun's tail, lightening fast, strikes against your throat, the cobra's fangs sinking into your skin. You feel them pushing venom into your blood, but through the sudden agony you still manage to choke out a quick spell.
  
  Anumun is aflame in seconds, and the fire burns purple and blue and green. His howls are horrible, and you watch him writhe upon the ground. The other daemons have fighting too, though you cannot tell who is on what side. Desparately you try to think of a spell, a prayer, anything that might help you resist the poison, but it is so hard to think. You begin to twitch and the world falls away. There is only the pain, coursing through every vein in your body, boiling your blood and melting every bit of flesh.
  
  Slowly you stop twitching, and your body becomes immobile, though the pain does not lessen. It would take almost an hour for you to die, but as luck would have it, Seria manages to kill several of the rebellious daemons and fights her way to your side. She gazes down, and though her tears burn your skin, you cannot feel them. She raises a shaking hand and, in her final gift, tears out your throat.