The Twelfth Enchantment: A Novel Page 19

  “Not I,” said Mrs. Emmett. “I know nothing of alchemy.”

  Lucy stepped forward. “It is alchemy?”

  “Of the most powerful kind, yes. If a spirit creature chooses to replace a human child itself, that is another matter, but to effect such a change requires the most powerful of alchemical knowledge. One must create a kind of spiritual doorway, and make it strong enough to last. Anyone who could build such a thing could create the philosopher’s stone itself.”

  Lucy took hold of Mrs. Emmett’s shoulders. “Then if I were to possess the Mutus Liber, I could retrieve my niece?”

  “I daresay yes,” agreed Mrs. Emmett.

  Lucy let go of Mrs. Emmett and collapsed into her chair. The Mutus Liber was the key to everything. Her enemies wanted it, but she must want it more, and she must have it first. The course she was already on was the course she must continue to follow, only now with greater urgency and determination.

  She looked down at the piece of paper on which she had drawn the complex Enochian circle, which she still clutched in her hand. “And what of this? Do I simply burn this? Is that a safe way to destroy it?”

  “Do not destroy it,” said Mrs. Emmett. “Keep it. Keep it with you always.”

  “Why? It is corrupt and dangerous. You said so yourself.”

  “Because sometimes you can use danger and corruption for good ends,” she said. Mrs. Emmett then leaned down to give Lucy a hug and departed the house, as unseen and unheard as she arrived.

  She at last fell asleep in the predawn hours, and awoke late in the morning. By the time she emerged, the house was in disarray. In her room, Martha’s nurse was busily packing her trunk, while downstairs Mr. Buckles was giving Ungston loud and utterly unnecessary orders—“Do not muddy my linens!” Martha sat in a felt armchair of faded green near the window, and the sun glowed against the white curtain at her back, making the wispy strands of Martha’s black hair shine as though she were an angel. And yet, how unlike an angel was the creature that crawled up her shoulder. Its back was to Lucy, but she could see its scaly white skin and the strands of greasy, brittle hair that escaped the tiny bonnet, which did not quite conceal its pointed ears.

  “What do you do?” cried Lucy. “You are not leaving.”

  “We are.” Martha’s voice cracked, and the bags under her eyes were dark and heavy. She appeared to have aged years in but a single night. “Uncle has said he cannot endure Emily’s wailing, and though his doctor can find no ill with her, I should much like if our own man could look her over. She has no fever, and she thrives, yet she must eat all the time and will not settle.”

  The creature turned to Lucy and leered at her with its narrow eyes. Its mouth opened to show sharp teeth, which it licked with its flat and leathery tongue.

  Martha rose to her feet. “Oh, here. Hold her for a moment.”

  She thrust out the baby, and Lucy had no choice but to take it. It clung to her shoulder, and its claws thrust into her flesh. Lucy felt a sharp jolt of pain and the faint moisture of blood trickling down her back. The creature nuzzled close to her ear and emitted a burst of staccato breaths—something like laughter. Its body, cold as ice and strangely loose, like a bladder of wine only half full, pressed against her. The urge, powerful and demanding, to pull the thing from her body and fling it to the floor shot through her with the force of a sudden and irresistible blow. Holding a rat or a venomous serpent to her breast would have been no more unnatural than this. Yet Lucy mastered herself. She could not attempt to tell Martha the truth, for she understood her sister would not be able to accept it.

  “I thought you would want her,” said Martha, sensing her discomfort.

  “I am tired today.” Lucy pried the creature loose and handed it to Martha. Its tiny claws were wet with Lucy’s blood. “I slept poorly last night, and now I am distracted. Oh, Martha. You must stay here.” Lucy’s plan to summon a creature to help her cast out the changeling was obviously finished, but she could not allow Martha to leave. As long as she could keep an eye upon the creature she could hope to do something about it, but Lucy could not bear the thought of Martha going off with it, having no idea what it was, that it was not her Emily.

  Martha shook her head. “For Emily’s sake, I cannot stay. I wish you could visit with us. Oh, how pleasant that would be if only …” She did not finish her sentence. She did not need to. Mr. Buckles had forbidden any further visits from her family until the baby was older. He believed Martha’s relations would distract her from her duty.

  In two hours, Lucy stood outside her uncle’s house while Martha and the creature entered the loaded carriage. Before stepping through the door, Mr. Buckles paused and approached Lucy, gently leading her aside by taking hold of her arm in one of his long-fingered hands. His skin was so wet with perspiration, it was as though he’d just withdrawn it from a bucket of water.

  “You’ve been, ah, shall we say, a terrible—let us say it direct—a terrible disappointment to your sister, and, if I may add, to Lady Harriett,” he said. “All very shameful. I trust there will be no more difficulty—difficulty or trouble, to be sure—with your marriage to Mr. Olson.”

  Lucy could not stand to have him speak to her in that tone, to treat her as though she were a fool and a child. Most of all, she could not endure that he would attempt to manipulate her powerlessness when it was he who had rendered her so.

  “Mr. Buckles,” she said, keeping her voice calm, “I have seen the original of my father’s will. I am not a fool, and I know the difficulties in righting this injustice, but I will not be dissuaded. Ere I am done, I shall see you dangle from the hangman’s noose.”

  Mr. Buckles blanched. He raised a wet hand to his cheek as though she had actually slapped him. “You would not dare,” he said, his voice hoarse.

  “I would not dare what?” asked Lucy, emboldened. “Seek justice? I would not dare to reclaim what is mine?”

  “Such unnatural feeling!” he exclaimed. “I am your sister’s husband.”

  “And I am your wife’s sister,” Lucy answered in return.

  “I shall speak of this to Lady Harriett,” said Mr. Buckles. “Would you oppose her?”

  “I believe she and I are already opposed,” said Lucy.

  At this, he laughed. “I can tell that it is not so. Shall I tell you how? Because you are yet alive.” Mr. Buckles bowed, and then entered his carriage, leaving Lucy feeling as though she had made a terrible mistake.

  Martha was gone, and so was the changeling. Each tick of the clock, each chime of the hour, was like a blow to Lucy, and so it would be until she had rescued her niece. She tried not to feel it, to dull the anxiety that boiled in her stomach, for she knew there could be no easy or quick resolution. She would live this way for days, perhaps weeks and months; she would have to endure it, for there was no one to do the work but she.

  Lucy sat in her room at her secretary with her books, making notes and marking pages, working until the last of the sunlight was gone, and then, working late into the night by rushlight. So she strained her eyes as she copied out runes and magic squares, as she made lists of herbs, as she memorized Latin for spells. At last, when the clock struck one in the morning, she could do no more, but she did not believe more was required, and she believed it would serve. Lucy dressed for bed, extinguished the rush, crawled under the warmth of her heavy counterpane, and let exhaustion take her.

  The next morning she awoke early and took from the pantry a small quantity of dill and rosemary, as well as an apple, of which she needed only a bit of the juice. She found also some dried flowers that Ungston used to make a sweet-smelling potpourri, which he put into bowls and set about the house. There she found rose and violet, as she required for the two spells she intended to cast. The first would be easier, for it involved the placement of a talisman, and she had grown quite adept at the creation and deployment of the cunning little engines. The second would be far more dangerous, and ethically problematic, but she could not scruple over safety and
ethics now.

  With her work done, Lucy traveled to visit Norah Gilley. The house was all in disarray as they prepared to travel to London. Lucy had believed they were not due to depart for several weeks, but it seemed that the schedule had been accelerated, for servants were busy running up and down the stairs with folded clothing and packages of household goods. Much of the house was being closed up, and in every room but the parlor, the furnishings were draped with sheets.

  Norah greeted Lucy with a kind of cold imperiousness, as though her impending relocation to London were something of a coronation. An extended hand would not do for what Lucy had in mind, so she pulled her friend into a hug. This provided the opportunity to slip a tiny piece of paper into the folds of her gown.

  Soon they sat. Norah asked at once if Lucy would like tea and cakes. Lucy almost answered, but then caught herself. It would be the first request she made, and so if she asked for refreshments, the charm would guarantee that Norah did not rest until they were delivered, but it would do no more than that. Instead, she turned to Norah and smiled.

  “You leave for London in a few weeks’ time, is that not so?” said Lucy.

  “The precise day has not been determined, but I believe it will be sooner than I had supposed,” said Norah. “We await only the final word from the ministry.”

  “Would not London be so much grander if you brought a friend with you, and would not you be best served if I were that friend? You must ask your father if I may come with you.”

  Norah appeared struck by this. The impending move to the capital was what elevated her above her friends, and to share that elevation would be unthinkable, and yet she now considered the matter seriously. “I cannot doubt that I shall make friends without delay, in particular with Papa’s important office and his connections, but even so, how much more lovely it would be to share my joy with you. I shall ask him at once.” She leapt to her feet.

  Lucy remained alone in the parlor, her body almost shivering with nerves. Only now did it occur to her that she ought to have used a charm upon Mr. Gilley as well, for what if he did not want his daughter to bring a friend? But not five minutes passed before Norah rushed into the room, bright with glee. “He says he thinks it a marvelous idea,” she said, and hugged Lucy. “He only tells you that you will have to be careful of your lungs.” Both young ladies giggled at Mr. Gilley’s fear of catching cold. It was as though they were little girls. Then they called for cakes, and then ate far too much as they talked of the thousand things they would do together. Lucy cared for none of it; she had no interest in balls and milliner’s shops and grand houses and pleasure gardens. Perhaps a few months ago these would have seemed the finest things in the world to her, but now they seemed to her only to facilitate a small step toward a larger goal. She only spoke of them to keep Norah excited and happy. It was the least she could do after so deceiving her friend.

  The next phase of her scheme required that Lucy do something she would once have considered unthinkable. She directed a note to the inn at which Mr. Morrison was lodged, and invited him to meet her at a chocolate house off the market square. Lucy had to steal a glass of wine from the kitchen in order to sufficiently steady her nerve, so much did her hand shake upon her first attempt to write the note. The kind words, the implication of forgiveness, even of admiration, made her sick in her soul, but Mr. Morrison had important information, and if Lucy were to succeed, she would need as much information as she could find.

  As she prepared to leave the house for this rendezvous, Mrs. Quince hurried from the sitting room to bar her way from the door.

  “Where do you think you go?”

  “I have business,” Lucy answered. “It is none of your concern.”

  “Is it with that vile Mary Crawford?”

  “I shan’t answer your questions, so stand aside. I am soon to leave for London with Miss Gilley, and you have no further power over me.”

  “Leave for London,” repeated Mrs. Quince. “Does your uncle know?”

  “What does it matter? Both of you have wanted me from this house, and I shall be gone.”

  Mrs. Quince took hold of Lucy’s wrist in a tight grip. “What of Mr. Olson? You are to marry him.”

  “It’s time you ceased to trouble yourself about my affairs,” Lucy said, feeling the anger take hold. She was Lucy Derrick, a cunning woman, collector of the lost leaves of the Mutus Liber, and she would not be treated like a street urchin. “If you do not take your hand off me, I swear I shall make you bleed. Do not doubt me.”

  Mrs. Quince let go but did not step away. “You will regret having crossed me.”

  “Thus far,” said Lucy, as she shoved the woman aside, “I’m rather enjoying it.” She opened the front door and stepped out into the street without troubling to look back, though she very much wished to.

  Lucy was not certain Mr. Morrison would obey the summons, and could not have said how she would respond if he did not, but he arrived on time, his face betraying his curiosity. It was crowded at that time of day, the room’s bigger tables filled with large parties ranging from smiling elders to screaming infants. There were a variety of smaller tables, meant for couples, and Lucy had taken one of these in the back. She knew her presence there with a young man was a risk. People might talk. They probably would, but Lucy had more important things to consider, and she would be gone from Nottingham soon enough.

  Finding Lucy at her table with two steaming bowls of chocolate before her, Mr. Morrison bowed and told her formally that he stood ready to obey her commands. If he were surprised by her invitation, he did not show it.

  “Please sit,” said Lucy. “I have taken the liberty of ordering for you.”

  “And you are thoughtful to have done so,” he said, rubbing his hands together before he took his seat. “I’ve always loved chocolate. Very good of you to recollect that.”

  “I did indeed,” said Lucy, “and since I did not know how willing you would be to accept my invitation, I thought it best to provide an incentive.”

  “I confess I am surprised at all this,” he said. “Pleasantly surprised, to be sure, but after our last encounter, you did not appear to wish to say more to me. But I am glad you summoned me, for I am to leave soon, and I did not wish us to part on such poor terms.”

  “Where do you go?” His pronouncement had now caught her by surprise, and she did not know how or if it would affect her intentions.

  “I await my orders. All I can tell you, really. These things are best kept secret.”

  Lucy did not reply, and Mr. Morrison took a sip of his chocolate.

  Lucy watched him, making certain he swallowed. She thought about what she was doing. This spell would make him love her, and that love would last until she broke the spell or until something happened to stagger him free of the spell’s influence. She would be manipulating another human being, which was a terrible thing to do. But this was Mr. Morrison, and so she told herself that if she could make him an unwitting agent in her service, it was the least he owed her. Accordingly she said quietly, “Thus you are bound to me, Jonas Morrison.”

  Mr. Morrison set down his own cup and put his hand to his temple. “My God, Lucy. Did you just now—?” He looked away, out the window, then back to her. “I beg your pardon. I don’t recall what I was saying.”

  “You spoke of your orders,” said Lucy, as she watched his face for some sign that the spell had taken effect.

  “Yes, I must go soon,” he said, “and I do not want to. You must know that I do not want to leave you. Do I shock you? I am sorry, I cannot help it. You cannot doubt that I am in love with you. I know that I used you falsely in the past, and you are right not to trust me. Only you must trust me this time. You must.”

  Lucy swallowed hard, suddenly aware of all the ambient noises that surrounded her—the other conversations, the rolling of carriages upon the street, the ticking of the clock, the birds, the cries of vendors, and the thundering of her own heart. She hated Jonas Morrison, but to toy with him
this way was monstrous. She humiliated him and herself, and the consequences of her actions would likely prove disastrous. She understood that, but even as the waves of regret washed over her, she also knew she had no choice. She needed to know what he knew, and everything else would wait until her niece was safe. That is what mattered. Emily was missing, and her sister cared for a horrible creature, and no one anywhere knew or was prepared to do anything about it. No one but Lucy, and she would do what she must. She would crush and humiliate and deceive a thousand Jonas Morrisons if she had to.

  Lucy rose to her feet. “Do not say such things,” she managed. When she had imagined casting this spell upon him, she had not considered how she would respond to such a declaration.

  “I know you resent what happened between us, but I am ready to make amends, to show you my true self. I ask only that you allow me the opportunity to prove myself.”

  Lucy turned to him, steeling herself for the bitterness of the words she must speak. “If you love me, you will trust me, and if you trust me, you will tell me what you know. I must understand what is happening, Mr. Morrison. I must understand everything. If you love me, you will not leave me in the darkness of ignorance.”

  Mr. Morrison considered what she said, and seemed to measure her words for their reason. Then he reached forward and gently took her hand, wrapping her fingers in his as though she were made of something brittle, and he feared to break her. They both sat down again.

  “I can deny you nothing that is in my power to grant,” he said. “There are dark matters of great importance of which I cannot speak, which I have sworn to withhold from all but other initiates, but what is within my power to tell you, I will.”

  His touch disgusted her. No matter how she might regret manipulating him, she could not help but despise him for what he had done to her. Nevertheless, she did not pull away. “What are you doing here, Mr. Morrison? Why have you come to Nottingham?”