The Twelfth Enchantment: A Novel Read online

  “Except he could.”

  “No, not he. His mind may be able to conjure up silly rhymes, but he does not have the capacity to decipher the Mutus Liber, let alone construct the philosopher’s stone through some other means. Instead, he brought Mary’s body to someone he believed could do these things: Lady Harriett Dyer.”

  “How did he know her or know what she was?”

  “It has always been so on this island, Lucy. Their kind infuse the nobility, and those mortals who hold titles learn the secret. According to what we have learned, Lady Harriett had already sought out Byron, detecting in him a weakness and self-love that could be exploited by her kind. She even sent him on a mission to Greece on behalf of the revenants’ interests.”

  “But why should Lady Harriett agree to help him in this? I can only imagine that others with power and influence have asked for this favor. I know that they do not make these transformations lightly, so why do this for Byron?”

  Mr. Morrison laughed a quiet and bitter laugh. “Byron is not like other men. You’ve seen how women respond to him—as men do toward beautiful women.”

  “Do you mean to say that Lady Harriett is in love with him?”

  “No, of course not, but she understood that a man like that, with the power to enchant, would be an asset. So she did something for him that would put him forever in her power.”

  So here was something yet more astonishing, something that defied imagination. Byron was the man who had killed Morrison’s wife, had turned her immortal soul into a twisted, fragile, vulnerable distortion of the true Mary. A man might console himself with the dream of reuniting with his wife in heaven, but not Mr. Morrison. His beloved Mary was damned forever to this terrestrial sphere because Byron had struck, and then struck again.

  “You told me once,” she said softly, “that what you cared about was revenge. And yet, since these events began, you have been in Byron’s presence. But you did not act.”

  “I have accepted a responsibility far greater than my own desire for revenge,” he answered. His voice was quavering, and Lucy had no doubt that, in the dark, the tears fell freely. “I promised I would not seek revenge until I had settled the matter with Ludd. I promised I would not put my desire to destroy Byron above my duty to my nation. You cannot imagine how I’ve wanted to strangle him each time I have been near him, but I have restrained myself, thinking that the day must come soon.”

  Lucy parted the curtain to look out at the passing blackness. She wished she knew what to say to Mr. Morrison, what response was appropriate to this story of love lost and murder and delayed vengeance. She could think of nothing, so she said, “If I may ask, who was the woman whom you loved before Mary?” Then, at once, she regretted it. She had caused him enough pain, made him recount enough of his losses, so she quickly spoke up again. “I am sorry. I should not have asked that. It is none of my concern.”

  “Of course it is your concern,” he answered. “Can it be that you truly do not know? But I suppose that is what makes you who you are. After Emily died, your father made me promise never to tell you the truth of the circumstances, for your sake, and I agreed. I would have kept that promise until the day I died had not it been necessary to reveal the truth.”

  “But what has that to do with this woman?” asked Lucy, but as soon as she asked the question, understanding dawned on her, and she felt her face burn with embarrassment and her heart flutter with surprise.

  “It has everything to do with her,” said Mr. Morrison, his voice heavy and thick. “The woman I was in love with, with whom I could never be, is you.”

  Lucy could not consider, truly consider, what he said, and what his words meant or how they made her feel. She dared not ask herself the most pressing question of all—had Mary known, when they first met, that Lucy was the woman her own husband had once loved? She would not torture herself with a question to which she could find no answer. She could only think that here was a man who had lost everything, had sacrificed his heart for duty and service and loyalty. Everything Lucy had ever known or thought about Mr. Morrison was wrong. Never in her life had she misjudged anyone to so great a degree, and she could hardly comprehend what this new information meant to her, but even in her numbness she could no longer deny that her feelings for him had undergone the most profound of alterations.

  33

  IN THE MORNING, THEY STOPPED AT AN INN TO BREAKFAST AND refresh themselves. Hardly a word passed between them, for Lucy feared anything she might say would be wrong. Mr. Morrison, for his part, showed no sign of regretting what he had confessed, but he appeared interested in giving Lucy the quiet she desired. Sensing their mood, Mrs. Emmett also kept quiet. She amused herself by humming and playing some sort of counting game on her fingers, while Lucy kept her eyes down in embarrassment.

  Finally she could take it no longer. “If what you said was true,” she began, not willing to speak of his supposed love for her aloud, “why did you not search for me after my father died?”

  “I promised him I would not trouble you. He wanted to protect you from the memory of what happened to Emily, and he was a man, and all men are weak. I think he wanted to protect himself. But he made me give my word, and then I’d heard you had gone to live with a wealthy uncle in Nottingham, and I presumed you were well.”

  “If you’d known I was miserable?” she asked.

  “Then I would have broken my promise to your father for your sake, not because I hold my promises cheap, but because the substance of the vow was to protect you, and I know your father would have preferred anything to your suffering.”

  Jonas Morrison, the man who had taught her that love was a lie meant to turn young women into whores, was showing himself to be the opposite of what she had so long supposed. He was a good man and honorable and romantical.

  Later that morning, as they continued their journey, Lucy said, “When this is over, what will you do to Byron?”

  Mr. Morrison watched her closely for a moment, and then turned slightly away. “Let us see if I am still alive. I don’t know how likely that is. But revenge is a strange thing, Lucy. For so long I have longed to kill Byron, to run him through and be done with it, but part of me fears doing so. Once I have my revenge, what will there be for me? What reason will I have to live?”

  “Your duty?”

  “Let someone else take upon his shoulders the next task. I have done enough.”

  Lucy decided to speak without censoring herself. “If you allow yourself to be killed in some foolish, noble sacrifice, I shall never forgive you.”

  “What a terrifying fate,” he said. “Never to be forgiven by Lucy Derrick.”

  “You and I are in this until the end. I am risking my life as well, and I shall not be happy if you leave me to fend for myself.”

  He laughed. “You are coming to protect me, not the other way around.”

  “Just promise me you will not be reckless,” she said.

  “I am surprised you would not push me off that precipice yourself. Have you come to hate me less?”

  “Yes,” said Lucy, managing to smile. “I have come to hate you very much less indeed.”

  As they arrived in Nottinghamshire, the sun was setting. It had been temperate during the day, and did not much cool off after dusk as dark clouds domed the sky. At the outskirts of town, Mr. Morrison dismissed the driver with compensatory pay for having to find his own way back to London. He did not want any others to face what he, Lucy, and Mrs. Emmett must, and so he prepared to take the reins himself for the final miles.

  “I hate to enter the abbey at night,” he said as he climbed up to take the reins, “but we cannot wait for morning.”

  Though terrified, Lucy affected good cheer. “Whatever we find at Newstead might be less frightening in the light of day, but likely no less dangerous.”

  Mr. Morrison grinned. “Though possibly harder to see.”

  And so they rode on to Newstead. This night was far less well lit than the last time they had come,
but the weather was warmer, and without the chill breeze in the air, the place struck Lucy as less menacing. That was a mistake, of course. She must not let down her guard.

  There was nothing to be gained from secrecy. They could not slip into the abbey unobserved if anyone was there to guard against them, and so Mr. Morrison drove the carriage through the gates toward the main building. It was dark and cool, and not a light shone within.

  Lucy began to collect the trinkets she needed from her bag. She put on her various charms and talismans and herbs of protection. She handed similar items to Mr. Morrison.

  “Our goal,” he said, “is simple. We enter, we find the pages as quickly as we can, and then we flee. If we can do this without conflict or encounter, I shall be very happy.”

  “And then what?” asked Lucy.

  “Once we have secured the pages, we can move against Lady Harriett. After she is destroyed, your sister will have her child returned to her.”

  “You have loftier goals than returning my sister’s child,” Lucy said.

  “I am here to save lives, Miss Derrick. With your niece safely returned, I will depend upon your help to move against Ludd. He and his followers must be restrained. If necessary, we will act against Mary, though I should hate to do so.”

  “And if Lady Harriett tries to stop us before we have the pages?”

  “Then we shall deal with her.”

  Lucy felt a strange thrill. The two of them, working together, she with this new Jonas Morrison, this man who had never been vile, never been evil, but had always been tender and caring and witty and protective. It was strange how quickly she found herself adjusting to this new understanding of a man she had hated for so long.

  Lucy, Mr. Morrison, and Mrs. Emmett disembarked from the coach, and Mr. Morrison began to assemble his things. He brought a heavy leather bag, which he slung over his shoulder. He placed pistols in his pockets, and strapped to his back two shotguns. He looked like a man preparing to attempt a prison break.

  Lucy tended to her own preparations, making certain she had what she needed and could reach her various talismans and ingredients when she needed them. She had so much upon her—herbs and dried flowers and other elements. She had talismans she’d made so long ago, and some she’d made recently. She was as prepared as she could be, but she did not feel nearly prepared enough.

  After checking the contents of his bag one last time, Mr. Morrison looked up at Lucy and grinned. “Let us go make our enemies hate us more, shall we?”

  They began to walk toward the main building. Despite her pelisse and the relative warmth of the night, Lucy felt cold, and she wrapped her arms together across her chest. Her heart bounded, and her breath came deep and heavy. To one side stood Mr. Morrison, his grim expression visible in the near perfect darkness. On the other stood Mrs. Emmett, her hair and bonnet nearly to her eyes, smiling with her usual lack of concern. This is real, Lucy thought. This was her life and it was happening, and they were about to do something likely dangerous and possibly fantastic. Whatever it was, there was no turning back.

  From the shrubbery off to the left of the main door they heard a rustle of leaves and then soft footsteps. Mr. Morrison reached into his coat for one of his pistols, but did not pull it out. It might have been an animal or a person or some terrible creature none of them could imagine, but the form soon took shape as a woman—slight and unthreatening. It was the deaf girl, Sophie Hyatt.

  Lucy let out a breath in relief. Mr. Morrison let go of his pistol. For her part, Sophie began to scratch out some words on her slate, and Mr. Morrison took out the lantern from the coach. Sophie showed the slate to Lucy.

  Go back. Something is here.

  “What is here, Sophie?” Lucy asked.

  Something bad.

  “Is it Byron?” Mr. Morrison asked.

  Was here. Came, took some things, left. Then something else came. I am frightened.

  “He knows I am after the pages,” said Lucy. “He has attempted to please both me and Lady Harriett for too long. Now that we are down to the end of it, he has made his choice.”

  “Damn it!” Mr. Morrison cried. “If that is so, then there is no guessing where the pages could be now.”

  “No,” said Mrs. Emmett in a tone unusually forceful. “You are meant to be here. Maybe the pages are here and maybe they are not, but you must go inside.”

  Lucy closed her eyes and reached out, feeling the pages that were upon them, wanting to sense their link to their brothers. They were hers. They belonged to her, they belonged to each other, and they wanted to be found by their owner, they wanted to be reunited. If she could but feel their yearning, Lucy would surely be able to sense, if nothing else, at least a direction.

  Then it seemed the ground opened up under her, and she grabbed on to Mr. Morrison’s arm lest she fall. “Whatever he took, is wasn’t the pages,” she said. “They are still inside the house.”

  Mr. Morrison smiled without humor. “That is two pieces of good news. The pages are here, and Byron is not. Perhaps this will be easier than we imagined.”

  “Yes, so long as we are polite to the dark things, all will be well.” Lucy turned to Sophie and held the girl’s shoulders so her lips would be easier to read. “Go home, Sophie. Mr. Morrison and I must do this, but I would have you safe. Will you go and be safe?”

  She nodded.

  Lucy turned to Mr. Morrison. “Then let us find the pages.”

  They made it only halfway to the front entrance of the abbey before Lucy halted in her tracks. She could feel it, the dark thing Sophie had spoken of. She was not overwhelmed by fear, but there was an energy here, a force of something building, the way the air crackles with electricity before a storm.

  “Oh, my dear,” said Mrs. Emmett. “I am so sorry.”

  “Sorry for what?” asked Lucy.

  Mrs. Emmett shook her head.

  Mr. Morrison turned to her. “I must say, I grow weary of your opaque observations. If you know something, tell us.”

  “I know only that I wish I had played no part in Miss Derrick’s being here. Better I should never have come to be than lead her to this, and yet she must go on.”

  Mr. Morrison held the lantern up to her heavy face. She seemed not to react at all to the light. She stared at it, her eyes wide below the heavy curls upon her forehead.

  “What will happen in there? Is Miss Derrick in danger?”

  “I don’t know what will happen, but Miss Derrick has always been in danger. You know that, Mr. Morrison. There is nowhere to go where the danger shan’t find her. There is nothing to do but forge ahead. I don’t know very much, sir, but I can tell you this: There shall never be a better time to strike. This is the moment, danger or no, that she must act.”

  Mr. Morrison nodded. “That may be, but things have been stirred up. We will be made to earn those pages.”

  “Then you feel it too,” Lucy said in a whisper, for as soon as he spoke the words, Lucy knew it was true.

  He shook his head. “No, I am not so sensitive as you, but if things were not stirred up, we would not see something like that quite so clearly.” He gestured with his hand slowly, as though afraid to disturb the air with his movements.

  Sitting upon the steps leading to the entrance of Newstead Abbey, white and milky and translucent, was the spectral image of a Newfoundland dog. It seemed not to notice them, but instead pointed its muzzle to something far off in the distance.

  “I think it’s Boatswain,” said Mr. Morrison. “Byron loved that dog.”

  “Only Byron would have a ghost dog,” muttered Lucy. “What do we do about it?”

  “We ignore it,” said Mr. Morrison. “We have amethysts upon us. I am surprised it even manifested before us while we are so protected, but it certainly will not approach us. Likely it will not notice us.”

  They took another few steps toward the door, and the dog’s head turned sharply toward them. It began to bark, distant and hollow, as though they had plugged their ears with w
ax.

  “It’s noticing us,” said Lucy.

  “Yes,” said Mr. Morrison, clearly irritated. “We may have a problem.”

  “I don’t think the ghost dog can actually bite us.”

  “The dog will not harm us,” he said, “but it should not be here at all. All our charms and protections and wards ought to keep such things at a distance, but they are not doing so.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means many of the charms and wards shan’t work,” said Mrs. Emmett. “It means that the defenses you have been depending upon will fail.”

  “And what do we do?” asked Lucy.

  Mr. Morrison adjusted the bag upon his shoulder and took hold of the coach lantern. “We go and have a look.”

  The dog, as he predicted, was no danger. They walked past it, and the creature offered nothing more than a ghostly bark or two, and then they were inside the cold and cryptlike entrance to the abbey.

  “Have you a sense of where the pages are?” Mr. Morrison asked, keeping his voice low.

  Lucy closed her eyes and reached out, as she had done before. Immediately she gasped and staggered backwards. There was something there, blocking her. It was dark and ugly and forbidding—alive. It was like the creature she had seen surrounding Byron when they first met, a creature of void and vastness, featureless and yet grotesque in its features.

  “What is it?” Mr. Morrison asked, taking her arm.

  “There is something there, in my path. It is … terrible.”

  “It is well we are terrible too,” said Mr. Morrison.

  Lucy looked at him. “Mr. Morrison, you appear extraordinarily cheerful under the circumstances. Do you know some advantage offered to us with which I am unfamiliar?”

  “Let us say that I have confidence in the both of us.”

  Lucy would have responded, no doubt saying something cautious and uncertain, but the words never left her lips because that was when Mr. Morrison was struck down by a tortoise.