The Twelfth Enchantment: A Novel Read online

  The smile blossomed fully. He bowed one last time and closed the door behind him.

  Sitting on her bed, Lucy listened to the ticking of the tall case clock outside her door, and she heard nothing else. Perhaps ten minutes passed. Perhaps twenty. When it seemed like enough time, she removed from the folds of her skirt the pages she had cut from Lady Harriett’s book. By the strong light of several tapers, she began to unravel their meaning, which came into sharp relief. Persuasion. She could not escape the word, just as with the first set of pages she could not escape the notion of sacrifice. But Mary was not there to tell her what it meant or how to apply it to her needs, so Lucy had no choice but to discover that for herself.

  Before allowing herself to sleep, Lucy had opened her curtains so she would awaken at first light. Nevertheless, she remained in deep slumber perhaps later than she wished, not rising until an hour or so after dawn. She refreshed herself as best she could with water from the basin, dressed, and began to go through her materials that she had collected the night before, organizing her notes and charms. She had fallen asleep before finishing, too exhausted to go on, so she finished her work now, writing for as long as she dared. When the clock struck eight o’clock, she knew she could wait no longer. She had perhaps four hours to escape Lady Harriett’s estate.

  Though she had slept only a few hours, her mind was much clearer, sharper, focused by anger and desperation. Lucy opened up the bag she kept hidden in her gown and examined once more the herbs, the tools, and the ingredients. What she hoped to do was possible. From memory, she made a talisman of vulnerability. She would not be surprised again by Lady Harriett’s strength.

  Placing her bag within the secret compartment in her gown, she left her room and knocked upon Byron’s door, and found him dressed and ready to attend to her.

  “Let us then see if Lady Harriett will offer us breakfast,” she said.

  Here they had a bit of good fortune, perhaps the only good fortune upon which they ought to depend, so Lucy embraced it most gratefully. Breakfast was, indeed, set out—a series of chafing dishes with eggs, toast, bacon, porridge, and meats. There was salt, which Lucy required, and she saw a parsley garnish, which she quickly pocketed. Upon the table was a vase containing a variety of wildflowers, including, Lucy noted, bluebells. Lady Harriett was careless to leave such things lying about.

  They were not to dine alone, for sitting at the table, enjoying a plate piled high with sausage and bacon, was none other than Mr. Buckles. His tall frame was stooped over his plate while he worked his knife and fork with determined fury, slicing and smothering. His face was slick with perspiration, as though the act of cutting and eating taxed him to his limits.

  He looked upon Lucy, took a bite of sausage, and then spoke while he chewed. “I hear I am to wish you, as they say, joy, Miss Derrick. To become Mrs. Olson after all. It is very grand, and more than you deserve, if I may be so bold. But it is Lady Harriett’s will.”

  “Where is Lady Harriett?” asked Byron, touching his cheek. It had begun to bruise, disrupting his beauty like paint spilled upon a portrait.

  “Lady Harriett and her associates have departed,” said Mr. Buckles. “Something happened with that John Bellingham fellow—some disaster that she blamed upon you, Miss Derrick. I am hardly surprised you would have something to do with that madman. A twitching sort of person, and always off upon what he is owed.”

  “When shall Lady Harriett return?” asked Byron.

  “Her ladyship did not, ah, shall we say, trouble herself to tell me what is surely none of my concern. She has instructed me to marry you to Mr. Olson upon his arrival, whether she is here or no.”

  Byron looked at the food and then at Lucy, and she nodded. She did not much feel like eating, but she required strength and did not wish to find herself in a dire situation too depleted to do what she must.

  Lucy served herself a healthy portion of eggs and toast—the meat did not appeal to her today—and sat at the table as far from Mr. Buckles as she could while still able to conduct a conversation. Byron, for his part, put but little food on his plate—some sausage and porridge. Lucy sensed that, for a man of great appetites, he was an abstemious eater.

  “How does my sister?” Lucy asked Mr. Buckles.

  Mr. Buckles put a large piece of bacon into his mouth. “She is well.”

  “And your daughter?”

  He paused for but a second. “She is also well.”

  “You know that for certain?” asked Lucy.

  He smiled in his simpering way. “How should I not, ah, know?”

  “How indeed?” asked Lucy. She drank a glass of water. She wanted neither hunger nor thirst to inhibit her in the time ahead.

  “I must tell you,” Mr. Buckles said, “how, let us say—I believe the word is mortified—yes, how mortified I am that you would treat Lady Harriett Dyer in this fashion. In light of the attention she had condescended to show you, both in offering advice in your affairs and in permitting her servant to marry into your family. Now, you break open her house. I hardly know how I shall look at my wife again given what her own flesh and blood has done.”

  He went on in this manner for some time, permitting neither his chewing nor the repetitive nature of his subject to interfere with his discourses. As this conversation required not a word from anyone else, Lucy allowed him to proceed as he pleased until she was done eating. She then set down her utensils, pushed back her chair, and walked over to Mr. Buckles. Taking a deep breath, she raised up her hand and struck him across the cheek as hard as she could. She had not the power of Lady Harriett, and Mr. Buckles did not fly from his chair as he might have done in her imagination, but even so, the sound rang out with a reverberating crack, and Lucy could not be dissatisfied. Her own hand stung from the force of it, but she cared nothing for that.

  Mr. Buckles remained motionless, tears in his eyes. He looked utterly bewildered, like a little boy who has discovered his father kissing the kitchen maid, and suddenly sees that the world is not what he has always believed it.

  Lucy turned to Byron. “Be so good as to restrain this man.”

  He rose and did as she asked. He stood behind Mr. Buckles, holding his arms so that they were pinned behind the chair. “If Lady Harriett’s creatures should choose to interfere,” Byron said, “I may not be able to do as you ask.”

  “Lady Harriett said we have freedom of the house,” said Lucy. “Let us use it.”

  Mr. Buckles was beginning to find his voice. “How dare you!” he thundered. “How dare you lay hands upon me and restrain me. Do not think that Lady Harriett Dyer will not punish you most severely.”

  Lucy struck him again. It hurt her far more this time, for her hand was now quite tender. What ought she to feel in striking her sister’s husband, the man who had cheated her out of her inheritance, out of the life that should have been hers? Shame? Rage? Revenge? She felt none of these things, only a hard resolve.

  “Mr. Buckles,” she said, “be so good as to remain quiet until I ask you to speak. You are in the service of a monster, but you are far worse, for you would sacrifice your own child for your mistress. You disgust me, sir, and I have not the time to visit upon you the punishment you deserve for defrauding me of my inheritance. For now, I wish to know where I can find my niece.”

  “I am instructed to tell you nothing, and I will tell you nothing,” he answered.

  Lucy reached forward and began to unknot Mr. Buckles’s cravat. He look at her in shock, and Byron cocked an eyebrow in curiosity, but she would not pause to explain. Once the cravat was gone, she unbuttoned his vest, took the top of his shirt in each hand and ripped it open, exposing his pale, flabby chest, hairless and slick with perspiration.

  “Stop this!” cried Mr. Buckles.

  Lucy felt as though she stood outside herself. Never before had she done anything so audacious. Never before had she violated the bounds of decency with such determination and disregard. In this place, at this time, propriety did not matter. Lu
cy would do what she must, would do what she liked, to save her niece, and she would take the consequences as they came.

  She reached over to the center of the table and pulled from the vase a single bluebell, just as she had seen in the pages of the Mutus Liber. Those pages were meant for her. The flower was meant for her. All came together with ease and precision, like pieces of a broken dish. “Lean the chair back, if you would, Lord Byron.”

  Byron leaned back the chair and Lucy showed Mr. Buckles the object in her hand.

  “What do you do with that flower?” he asked with a horror perhaps inconsistent with Lucy’s instrument.

  “It is a bluebell,” she said. “They grow near graves, you know. My father taught me that. And there is no greater truth than death. The bluebell, when used properly, will render you incapable of lying or withholding what I ask of you. The only difficulty is that it must be held over your heart, and I am not altogether certain you have one.”

  “How did you learn such things?” Mr. Buckles demanded.

  “I learned them from the Mutus Liber,” she said.

  Mr. Buckles let out a shriek, like a frightened child. Then he swallowed hard and attempted to blink the moisture from his eyes. “I’ll tell you nothing,” he croaked.

  “Let us find out.” She slapped the flower upon his chest and, losing herself in the process, moved the bluebell in a circle until the petals began to crumple and ball. She absented herself, muttering she hardly knew what, but words the pages of the Mutus Liber seemed to hint at. She pressed the flower into his breast until his skin ringed red from pressure.

  At last, she came back to herself. “Now will you tell me what I wish to know?”

  He opened his mouth and moved it back and forth. His jaw vibrated, his lips quivered. Then he spoke, his voice low and forced. “Yes.”

  She smiled. “Much better, Mr. Buckles. Let us discover all your secrets.”

  27

  BYRON CONTINUED TO BALANCE THE CHAIR BACKWARDS WHILE holding Buckles still with one arm. “I realize you are enjoying yourself,” he said, “but we cannot know how much time we have before Lady Harriett returns. Besides which, holding the chair this way is rather uncomfortable. I suggest you ask what you must so we might depart.”

  There was not much time, Byron was certainly correct in that, and there were so many questions that needed asking, but only one that mattered. “You may lower the chair, Lord Byron.” When he had done so, she looked at Mr. Buckles. “Where is your daughter?”

  He did not hesitate before responding. “I do not know.”

  “Then Lady Harriett did not take her, has nothing to do with her disappearance?”

  “No.”

  “But you knew she was gone, that she had been replaced?”

  He paused for a moment. “Yes, of course I knew.”

  “Does Martha know?”

  “No.”

  Lucy sucked in her breath.

  “Do you know who took Emily?”

  “One of Lady Harriett’s rivals. That is all I know.”

  “And why? What did this rival want?”

  “To keep Lady Harriett from doing what she wished with the child.”

  “And what did she wish to do?”

  Mr. Buckles worked his jaw for a moment. “She wished to kill her.”

  Lucy could no longer control her anger. She could no longer pretend this was a logic puzzle. “Your own daughter. Why did you not stop her?”

  “It is not my place,” said Mr. Buckles. “She is a great lady, who condescends to let me serve her. How could I refuse her such a thing? It was not a boy.”

  “Do you know how I can find your daughter?” Lucy asked.

  “If I knew, Lady Harriett would have her by now.”

  “But why does she want your daughter dead?”

  “Because talent runs crossways through families, particularly from aunt to niece. There was too great a likelihood that she would have the same sort of inclinations you do, and Lady Harriett could not endure having another such as you to contend with.”

  “Another such as me,” Lucy repeated. “I would be nothing to her if she had not condescended to interfere with my life and abuse my niece.”

  Buckles snorted. “Even Lady Harriett can meet her destiny while running from it.”

  “We should go,” said Byron, his voice strained.

  “Yes, one moment,” said Lucy. “What is Lady Harriett? Who is she that she can do such things as she does? I must know.”

  Mr. Buckles barked out a cynical laugh. “There has never been a more ignorant girl. You would never have dared to meddle with her if you understood who she is.”

  “Then enlighten me,” said Lucy.

  “There is no time for this,” blurted Byron. “We must run while we can. Ask him how we circumvent the guards upon the doors.”

  “I need none of his help for that. Who is Lady Harriett?”

  “If you don’t need his help,” said Byron, “then let us go.”

  “Not yet,” snapped Lucy. “Tell me, Buckles. What is Lady Harriett?”

  “She is my mistress,” he said with a grin.

  “What is she,” repeated Lucy. “What is the nature of her power?”

  “You poor, silly girl,” said Mr. Buckles. “You really don’t know. Lady Harriett is of that order of beings you are foolish enough to call fairies. These are not the tiny imps in children’s tales, I assure you. They are the dead, Miss Derrick. They are the glorious dead, the triumphant dead, returned to earth with timeless flesh. Lady Harriett has walked this island, governed this island, for centuries. There are not many of her kind, but they are powerful, and they will not stand to see all they have built brought down by a rogue who thinks himself wiser than they.”

  “Ludd?” asked Lucy.

  “Yes, Ludd. Lady Harriett and her kind have always maintained their power with a gentle hand, bending rather than breaking. Ludd and his followers do not understand this, and so they must endure abject defeat. Just as you shall be destroyed for what you have done here.”

  “I am sure there are circumstances in which your threats are more effective,” Lucy replied. Then to Byron, she said, “Tie him up, and we shall go.” Looking around the room, Lucy found a window sash, yanked it from the curtain, and tossed it to Byron. He quickly tied Mr. Buckles to the chair, and then used a table linen to gag him.

  “It won’t hold him long, but it will do for now,” he said. “You must understand that you have made an enemy of someone very deadly.”

  “It is she who has made an enemy of me,” Lucy said, not believing her own bravado, but enjoying the sound of it all the same.

  They approached the front door with a certain trepidation. Lucy reached into her bag and retrieved a small pouch, which she held at the ready. She held back and turned to Byron. “Try the door.”

  He bowed and put his hand on the doorknob. Nothing. He waited a moment, startled as the clock struck ten. Then, catching his breath, he turned.

  At once he shouted in surprise and pulled his hand back in pain. Four rivulets of blood were trickling across the back of his hand, looking like slashes inflicted by invisible claws.

  Byron turned to Lucy in horror and confusion. “What do I do?”

  “Try again,” she said as she tossed at the door a handful of herbs that she’d assembled, using the ingredients she’d had upon her, as well as what she’d been able to find in the house. As the mixture struck, Lucy felt a shrinking, a movement in the air as though what had been there was there no longer. “Try again,” she repeated more forcefully. With evident reluctance, Byron took the handle and turned. This time the door opened and the light of a gloomy, cold, and overcast day struck them as the most beautiful thing they had ever seen.

  Lucy tossed another handful of herbs in their path and they exited the house. They went perhaps ten feet forward along the walkway and turned around.

  “Will those creatures follow us?” Byron asked.

  “I think they have been orde
red to keep us in, not retrieve us if we get out. Besides, they will not want to cross the line of herbs upon the threshold. Beings of that nature don’t like thresholds to begin with, and I’ve made it that much more unpleasant.”

  “What precisely did you toss?” he asked.

  “Dried fennel, dill, salt, sage, and garlic.”

  “After you are done defeating the evil spirits,” Byron said, “perhaps we might pickle some cucumbers.”

  Lucy could not help but laugh. “Let us find your coach and get back to London.”

  They turned to walk down the path, but Lucy then froze and grabbed Byron’s arm. It took all her will not to scream. Something ran toward them, hard and fast. It was black and foul and terrifying, a great mastiff, obscenely and almost absurdly oversized. It was the largest dog she had ever seen, near as large as a pony and all over a glossy, total black. Its mouth was open, baring its sharp, glistening fangs, slick with saliva, and in the gloom of the day they could see its eyes bright, almost luminescent.

  “Back to the house!” Byron cried. He grabbed her hand and they ran toward the open door. Lucy hesitated, but only for a second. She did not want to return to that prison, but she did not want to be devoured by a monstrous dog either, and if they had escaped once, they could escape again. When Byron pulled her hand a second time, Lucy allowed him to lead her back to the house.

  They’d covered half the distance when the door slammed shut, and Lucy felt a ripple in the air that she was certain was silent, malicious laughter. The house stretched out in either direction for hundreds of yards, but there was nowhere to hide. If they ran, it would extend their lives by a few extra seconds of terror.

  Lucy struggled to think of a way out. The dog appeared physical enough, but that did not mean it was not a thing of spirit. She had heard of legends of the black dog, the barguest, that was said to be like a ghost or a demon. She had no choice but to treat it as though it were precisely that and hope for the best.

  Lucy drew out another handful of her herbs. “We had better hope this works. It is all we have.” She poured what remained into Byron’s hand, and they both readied their fists, planted their legs, and sucked in their breath. Lucy had seen many wondrous and fantastic things, but she never quite believed her spells or talismans or herbs would work until she saw it happen, and never quite believed it had worked even seconds after. Before they’d seen the dog she was already beginning to doubt that she had freed them from the guard of evil spirits. As she stood there, shoulder cocked back, uncovered hair blowing in the growing wind, Lucy did not expect the herbs to defend them. She believed she was about to die, cruelly and painfully. There would be no one left to rescue Emily, and the sadness, the disappointment, and the anger at that outweighed the fear, as mighty as that was.