The Twelfth Enchantment: A Novel Page 27

  The dog leapt into the air to attack, and Byron shouted, “Now!” as he hurled his herbs. Lucy needed no prodding, and she tossed but an instant later, wanting the dog to be but a little closer. The herbs spread out into the air, lingering like a cloud, and the dog, mouth open wide, impossibly wide—its tongue wagging like a grotesque wave—seemed to flinch its massive head just slightly as it passed through.

  Lucy braced herself for agony and oblivion, but instead there was a loud cracking sound as beast and cloud met, and the dog let out a yelp and bucked in the air, turning sideways, and now suddenly coming toward them like a massive projectile. Lucy grabbed Byron’s hand and pulled him out of the way while the dog, which must have weighed thirty stone, slammed into the door, cracking the wood. It fell to the ground with a sickening wet noise, still and lifeless and bloody.

  “My God,” said Byron. “I hoped for something, but surely even you did not expect so definitive a result.”

  Lucy stared at the dog, confused and uncertain, for it did not appear to be a thing of spirit at all, but flesh and blood—and a great deal of the latter. The animal’s abdomen was torn open, and blood pooled around its lifeless body. Then Lucy noticed an acrid scent, like that of a gun just fired. She turned and looked down the path where a woman stood holding a long-barreled hunting weapon. She was just now lowering it. She was perhaps two hundred feet away, but there was no mistaking her tall form, elegant shape, pale complexion, and the ethereal white hair that hung free, billowing in the wind. It was Mary Crawford.

  28

  LUCY HARDLY KNEW WHAT TO SAY OR WHAT TO DO. THERE WAS Mary Crawford, who had vanished, who had left her, who had perhaps taken Emily and replaced her with a monster. She had also just saved Lucy’s life. There could be no doubt about that.

  Her legs felt unnatural, not her own, unsteady and heavy at once, but she forced herself to walk to Mary, who stood with a grim smile upon her face.

  “We must hurry,” Mary said. “I know not when Lady Harriett will return.”

  “Who are you?” said Lucy, her voice now sharp. “What are you? Was it you who took Emily?”

  Mary took Lucy’s hand. “There will be time for answers, Lucy. I swear it to you, but if we do not go—now—it may be too late.”

  “Mary is right,” said Byron. “We must go.”

  Lucy spun in astonishment. “You are already acquainted?”

  “I know not what you mean,” Mary said. “I perceive that you are alone here. I saw no pathetic excuse for a man cowering while you attempted to rescue him.”

  “Mary,” Byron said in his most soothing voice, “this is no time for recriminations.”

  “If you think,” Mary snapped back, “that I will not put a bullet through your knee rather than let you follow, it proves how little you understand me. I care nothing if you suffer. I care only for my friend, whom I love—an emotion you do not understand but as it pertains to yourself.”

  Lucy pivoted her head between the two of them. More than ever, she felt like some child being dragged about by adults she neither knew nor understood. It seemed now that Mary too was familiar with Byron, and not happy in the acquaintance, though she had betrayed none of that when they had first met before his unconscious form at her uncle’s house. It took no great leap of the imagination to suppose what Byron had done to Mary to incur this anger, nor why she would keep such a familiarity a secret. He was the man he was, and he made little pretense of being otherwise, but he was also beautiful and charming, and more than once Lucy had known the temptation he could inspire.

  “I won’t leave him,” said Lucy. “I asked him to take me here, and he aided me when I needed it. I will not turn my back upon him.”

  “Damn it!” Mary spat. “I will take him off the grounds—to the inn. No more than that. Let him say but one wrong thing, and I shall give him a second bruise to match his first.”

  They rode in Mary’s coach for the twenty or so minutes it took to return to the inn. No one spoke, and Lucy spent much of the time stealing glances at both Mary and Byron. The lady did nothing more than look out the window, her face hard and stony. Byron, for his part, appeared chastened, and looked to Lucy like nothing so much as a child who had been caught doing something naughty.

  Lucy wanted to speak, to try to mend things between these two friends, these two people who, above all, had made her feel important and special and powerful—these people she liked, possibly loved, and whom she could not trust.

  When they reached the inn, Mary opened the door herself. “Get out,” she said.

  Byron did not look at her. Instead, he turned to Lucy. “You need not stay with her. I will see you back.”

  “Too many times,” cut in Mary, “have I had you in my power and spared your life. You must think me softhearted, but I promise you are mistaken. Leave now if you value your flesh.”

  Byron spared a glance for Lucy, and a sort of sheepish half smile, and then departed, gently closing the door behind him.

  “You do not know him if you would put your trust in him,” said Mary.

  “I know what he would have of me,” Lucy said, “but I do not offer it.”

  “You know nothing,” Mary said. “He will take what he desires, do so without remorse or regret, and think himself mighty for indulging his appetites.”

  Lucy gasped. “Is that what he did to you? Did he force himself upon you?”

  “It does not matter. If he can be of use to you, then use him, but never put yourself in his power. He is weak and vile, but he is dangerous because he is beautiful and believes himself exempt from the law of men. In truth, he is a capricious madman. I shall say no more of him, so do not ask.”

  Lucy did not recognize in Byron the man Mary described, but she understood there was no point in arguing. “If you will not speak of Lord Byron, then speak of my niece. Do you know where she is? Did you take her, Mary, and replace her with that creature?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I did that, and I did so out of love for you.”

  “Because Lady Harriett would have killed her?”

  “Yes.” Mary made an effort at a sad smile. “I cannot guess how you learned as much, but I have no doubt it involved an impressive application of cunning craft.”

  “Lord Byron held Mr. Buckles still while I used the knowledge of persuasion from the Mutus Liber to force him to speak the truth.”

  Mary took Lucy’s hand. “You make me proud, my sweet girl. You must know that. I could not have put my faith in anyone better.”

  Lucy yanked her hand away. “You did not put any faith in me. You stole my niece and told me nothing.”

  “I had no choice, Lucy, just as I had no choice but to go into hiding. Lady Harriett would destroy me if she had the chance, and you must not doubt that she has the power. You have seen only the smallest fraction of what she has at her command. I risked everything—far more than myself—in coming to your aid today. It was only a coincidence that you happened to be there when I came to liberate a man she held prisoner in her home.”

  “That madman, Mr. Bellingham?”

  Mary nodded. “He is a madman, but he is of use to our cause. Lady Harriett knew that, which is why she tried to keep him hidden, and that is why I freed him. He has a purpose yet. Now her plans are thwarted, and she will be very angry with both of us. Perhaps you think she is a foolish and vain old woman, and at heart she is those things, but she is much more than that.”

  “A revenant,” said Lucy. “A fairy.”

  “Yes, but these are just words. Most people have no real knowledge of what they are, of what they do.”

  “I shall relish the history lesson,” said Lucy, “when I have my niece safe.”

  “Your niece is safe nowhere that you could get her,” said Mary. “Nor are you safe, but you can defend yourself. Emily is helpless, and you must endure being separated from her while these troubles rage, because that is the only way to keep her alive.”

  “Can I see her?”

  “You cannot go th
ere.”

  “Go where?”

  “I shall not tell you.”

  “This is all nonsense. What is that creature that torments my sister? Will it harm her?”

  “No,” Mary said. “It cannot help being what it is. It is monstrous, I suppose, but not deadly, and it is loyal to me. It will do as I have bid it, and it will keep my secrets, and though it will feed off your sister—for its kind is voracious—it will not hurt her.”

  Lucy shook her head. “That is not good enough. I don’t want Martha to suckle a monster. I want to know why she must. I don’t believe Mr. Buckles’s story that Lady Harriett fears Emily. She fears me, though I don’t know why.”

  “Perhaps she does not believe she can kill you,” said Mary, “but what Buckles told you is nonsense. No doubt he believes it, that it is what she told him, but the truth is far more elemental than that. His wife, his child, have power over Buckles and Lady Harriett resents it. She would kill Emily as a sacrifice, because of the power contained in her most loyal servant willingly surrendering his own child. It is no more than that. While the child lives, she will seek her. You cannot imagine what sort of monster she is.”

  “Then tell me,” said Lucy. “But tell me as we drive to London, and quickly too. I must be back by sundown.”

  Mary did not ask why, did not request the details. She understood it mattered to Lucy, and that was enough. She spoke to the driver, and they were on their way.

  “To understand what you face, what your enemy is, and why I act against her, you must understand her nature,” began Mary. “I have told you a little, and you must forget all you know of fairies. Disregard fairy tales and Shakespeare and Spenser and all the poets and romances. They are but lies and superstitions and silly stories meant to make sense of something strange and unknowable. What the ancients first called fairies are creatures that stand between two worlds, spirits of the dead, brought back, given new flesh, and made immortal.”

  “With the Mutus Liber?”

  “With alchemy, and by use of the philosopher’s stone, yes. The Mutus Liber contains the description of that method, a method so elusive—elusive, I say, and not complex, for it is both natural and easy—that it cannot be contained in one’s mind. It is a myth that the philosopher’s stone can bring eternal life to a living man. It can return a dead man to flesh, and he shall remain in that form for eternity. But there is a price.”

  “What price is that?”

  “Eternity itself,” said Mary. “No one, not even the revenants themselves who have been dead, know what lies beyond death. There is something—we know that—for otherwise there would be no soul to call back. But we also know that once the soul is attached to this immortal flesh, the world beyond is forever barred to it. If the revenant dies here in this world, its soul is blasted out of existence. If there is a hell or a heaven or communion with a great and loving deity, those things are lost. The eternal life of the Mutus Liber is a terrible curse. It robs these beings of their humanity and makes them truly vulnerable, for they can be unmade, and in their unmaking is true destruction. You may fear the unknown beyond life, but that fear is colored with hope. For the revenant, there is no hope, only terror.”

  “And Ludd? Is he one of them?”

  Mary shook her head. “No, he is something different. Long ago there was a king named Lud—with one d. He lived during the Roman period. Very little is known about him, but Geoffrey of Monmouth writes that he built a series of fortifications upon the Thames, one of which, his favorite, was Caer Lud, or ‘Lud’s Fort.’ You know, of course, what that fort became over time.”

  Lucy swallowed. “London.”

  “Yes. In fact, Ludgate is named for him. But that king was more than a man, he was something else, the manifestation of a Celtic deity worshipped as Lug or Lud.”

  “You mean to say that the man I met, whom I spoke to, is a god?”

  “He is a creature worshipped as one, which is a different thing. But he is the embodiment of the spirit of this land, and he has been summoned many times during periods of danger and crisis to lead his people to victory.”

  Lucy studied her friend’s face. “It was you, wasn’t it? You summoned Ludd.”

  “I did,” said Mary. “I used dark and dangerous magic, the kind I have asked you to avoid. The summoning of spirits is a fool’s game, and it could destroy you, but I had a purpose beyond myself to serve. The revenants have long walked among men. They have used their power sometimes for good and sometimes for ill, and sometimes the judgment of such things depended upon your politics or which claimant to the throne you favored. Their influence has always been over what must be viewed in the great scheme of things, as petty politics—a powerful faction in a system that must be called an oligarchy.”

  “How many of these beings are there?”

  “Not many,” Mary said. “Perhaps a dozen in positions of power. There are a few more who have separated themselves from this group, who exist as they choose.”

  “And Lady Harriett leads these beings?”

  “Lady Harriett may seem like an old woman, but she is the youngest of them, and so the most vigorous. It is why she is their leader. The others have lived so long, they are disconnected from their own lives, from the world around them. They depend upon Lady Harriett to guide and protect them. Do not underestimate her. We have risked much by setting ourselves against her.”

  Lucy did not doubt it. “And our own nation sides with them,” she said, thinking of her conversation with the prime minister.

  “It does, because the men who make these decisions do not understand the bargain they make,” said Mary. “They believe an era of machines will bring prosperity and security, but they don’t understand what so cold a world would look like. They don’t understand that the revenants want to usher in this era of machines because it will, necessarily, put all but an end to the age of magic. In standing against Ludd, these men do not do evil knowingly, but they do evil just the same. Once the ways of magic are stifled, the revenants will have nothing to fear. There can be no threat of alchemy to unmake them, and they will be safe in their eternal flesh. They care only for their security. Their dark minds will not be disquieted while machine replaces man, while craftsmen are turned into beasts of burden, while children starve and beg. They see not how the world they usher in will be a kind of hell. Their lungs will be choked by the soot and ash of production; their minds themselves will be lost to indolence and laziness. I was willing to risk myself, my life, to try to stop this nightmare they would bring upon mankind, and so yes, I summoned Ludd.”

  “But why does all of this involve me?”

  Mary shook her head. “I don’t know, and I am sorry for it. I know only that all roads on this journey begin and end with Lucy Derrick. You are everything in this. You do not want to be, and I cannot blame you, but you are. And if you wish for your niece to return in safety, you must defeat Lady Harriett.”

  “By finding the Mutus Liber.”

  “Yes. You have already done a great deal by stealing pages out from under her nose.”

  Lucy thought about the pages. “She said her house was warded, and magic would not work there, and yet it did work. Was that because of the Mutus Liber?”

  “In part, yes. The pages called to you, did they not?”

  Lucy nodded.

  “You’ve already discovered that they come in groups, and each of those groups conveys an important component of the whole of the book’s teachings. But each page is separately enchanted, drawn to the others, and drawn to the person who possesses them. Twelve pages and twelve enchantments. Simply to hold them in your hand and to know what they are will make you both powerful and dangerous. Possessing only some of them is less desirable than possessing the whole, but you will still benefit from these enchantments. You will have more power and more luck.”

  “Would not Lady Harriett know that?” asked Lucy. “Would she not make every effort to protect herself accordingly?”

  “As old as she i
s,” said Mary, “she still does not understand magic. Not really. Lucy, when you were a child, did you know someone who was a very fast runner?”

  “Of course,” she said. “We had a friend, Eliza, who would always win when we raced.”

  “Always? Did she never lose?”

  “Well, sometimes, of course. What has this to do with the wards?”

  “Eliza may have been fastest,” said Mary, “and she may have been reliably so, but that did not mean she would always win. You might depend on her to win against one of your friends, or even a stranger, and most of the time she would. But sometimes someone could be faster, or perhaps her legs would be tired or she would be hungry.”

  “Wards get tired?”

  “They grow strained and frayed, like old rope, or stronger and weaker, like winds. Her wards will work most of the time, but they did not work this time, because you are powerful and she is old. She is strong, Lucy. Very strong. She is stronger than you can imagine, but not as strong as she thinks, and that is our only advantage.”

  “The journey continues,” said Lucy as she looked out the window. Suddenly, she felt a sharp terror. “Where are we? I do not recognize this road. Is this the way to London?”

  “No,” said Mary. “We are returning to Nottinghamshire.”

  Lucy gripped the side of her seat in panic. “No! Did you not hear me? I must return to London. If I am not back by sunset, I will be discovered missing. They will know how long I have been gone. Why have you tricked me?”