The Twelfth Enchantment

13

THINGS DID NOT HAPPEN ALL AT ONCE. LUCY COULD FIND FEW enough quiet hours to take her book out of its secret hiding place and look it over, and perhaps she did not want to find the time. The mere thought of Miss Crawford’s pale and pretty face was enough to fill Lucy with a kind of unrestrained happiness, but other times she would push the image away, not daring to hope that her life could be something more than what it was.

In the end, it was a feeling of responsibility toward Miss Crawford that drove Lucy forward. If that lady called upon her and asked how she had done, Lucy wanted to be able to report success, or, at the very least, report an honest and honorable failure. When she did examine the talismans, however, she found herself growing quickly frustrated. They all appeared equally plausible or implausible. They were mostly squares, subdivided into smaller squares, in which were written letters of Roman, Greek, or Hebrew, and occasionally some more mysterious runic symbols. Outside a square was often more writing, sometimes within a circle that surrounded the square. Many of the talismans were merely to be worn about the neck or placed upon the person one wished to affect. Others required more elaborate execution—combining the charm with particular plants or actions or items. She practiced copying them out, just to be sure that her hand could replicate the images, though she never produced a complete talisman, and always destroyed what she had made.

She sat in the one comfortable chair in her room, the light to her back, flipping through the pages for perhaps the fifth or sixth time, unable to see how she could determine a true talisman from a false. They were all different, all had their own characteristics, and nothing made some stand out and some fade away. Each was as opaque in its meaning as the next.

Perhaps because she was tired and not troubling herself with her feelings of hope or her unwillingness to feel hope, Lucy was able to clear her mind. She began to drift away from herself, something like the act of quieting herself she had learned, so many years ago, from Mrs. Quince. So it was in this half-quieted state that she turned the pages until she stopped hard. Her heart felt as though it would explode in her chest, for the charm upon which she gazed stood out as different—as powerful, as vibrant, as unmistakable. The charm upon which she looked was magic.

It was like an image in a book of trompe l’oeil etchings she had once leafed through with her sisters. These were pictures that, when looked at in a particular way, or with a particular disposition, would reveal a second picture hidden within. The means of uncovering these hidden images was beyond her ability to explain. When her sister Martha had begged Lucy to show her how to see it, Lucy could think of no way to instruct her. She could only say that Martha must look in different ways until she found it.

Now Lucy rapidly flipped through the volume, seeing the talismans for what they were, seeing which charms jumped off the page announcing their efficacy, and which lay flat and lifeless. She heard herself laugh aloud as she found one, and then she snapped the book shut and hugged it to her chest. What Miss Crawford said was true. And if there was magic, if it was real and Lucy could do it, what did it mean for her life?

In the end there were fewer true spells than Miss Crawford had said, only thirty-six. Many of these were to coerce love or loyalty or compliance—a few were so vile, Lucy could not imagine attempting to use them. There were a handful that would be worth trying, if only to see if the charms could be used effectively. Now Lucy wanted only an opportunity to try one, and so she determined to keep the book close at hand, waiting for the proper situation to present itself.

Some days later, the Nottingham assembly was upon her. Uncle Lowell did not wish to be put to the expense of preparing for an assembly when Lucy had already found a husband, but it was Mrs. Quince who argued for Lucy’s attendance. Mr. Olson would be there, and he’d written to say he wished to dance with Lucy. Mrs. Quince observed that it would be unwise to allow so desired a bachelor to present himself before so many young ladies without Lucy present to maintain her claim. This argument won the day, and Uncle Lowell consented that Lucy might have a new ribbon for her hat, though the extravagance of this gift pained him immensely.

Lucy had no wish to go. She once loved the monthly assemblies, where she could see her friends and make idle chatter and pretend, for a few hours, to be happy. Now she had too much upon her mind, but as she had not the option to stay home, she would make the best of it.

The assembly hall on Low Pavement, but a short walk from Uncle Lowell’s house, was a handsome building, inside and out, and very much grander than fashionable life in Nottingham, such as it was, required. Lucy did not mind, however, for it was bright and open and agreeable, and it always lightened her mood to be in a place so unlike her uncle’s house. When she walked into the room—her entry was slightly delayed by a row concerning an attorney’s clerk who attempted to gain entry to the hall, despite the rules forbidding such drudges from attending—Lucy was delighted to hear a competent trio of musicians were in the middle of a sprightly tune that had been enormously popular that year. Mrs. Quince inspected the people about her, making certain there were no conspicuous absences or presences worthy of gossip, and when she had exhausted such comments as she could muster, she retired with the other matrons to the card room. She would have remained with the younger people to keep an eye upon Lucy, but to do so would have been considered ill-mannered, and would have brought unwanted scrutiny on Lucy when it was to Mrs. Quince’s advantage that Lucy look well.

Taking advantage of her freedom, Lucy soon found her little group of acquaintances—all of about her age, unmarried, and though she liked most of them well enough, none was a particular friend without whom she could not endure. Her position in Nottingham had always been one of a young lady of no prospects, and this had made particular friendships difficult. Lucy managed as best she could with these ladies, for they approximated true friends well enough in situations such as these, when necessity required such an approximation.

This little group was led, with unanimous and unspoken consent, by a young lady called Norah Gilley, slightly taller than Lucy, thinner, with a narrow face, a sharp nose pointed down, and an unusually long mouth designed for sneering. Though not traditionally pretty, Norah had one of those plastic sort of faces that, had her disposition been sweet, her face must have seemed so too. She was, however, of a rather acidic nature. She was a lover of gossip, of finding fault, of being the first and the most eager to remark caustically upon another’s defect. As a result, her countenance had a slightly unseemly cast, less ugly than alarmingly sensuous. She was a young lady whom gentlemen often wished to know, to dance with, to take to coffeehouses. Norah believed this must mean her destined to receive a very favorable offer of marriage, but Lucy understood the world well enough to know she misinterpreted attentions.

Norah stood now in the midst of the other girls, but also present was her father, a gentleman of about sixty years of age, with closely cut, thick white hair, the weathered remnants of a handsome face, and eyes so blue they almost astonished Lucy the first time she’d seen them. Mr. Gilley was an unusual sort of man for his age, because he enjoyed the company of people far younger than he, including his daughter and her friends.

Lucy’s father had always made a great show of finding his daughters generally silly, and their friends even more so. In his study, however, when they talked of botany or astronomy or he reviewed her Latin, Papa became patient, understanding, sympathetic, and very interested in what Lucy had to say. Mr. Gilley, Lucy imagined, must be the opposite—pretending in public to find everyone of interest, whereas, she suspected, he scorned them all in private.

Now Mr. Gilley stood with his daughter and a dozen or so young ladies of her age, all of whom were laughing at a witty comment he’d made. Fans were out, covering mouths, and then, all at once, fluttering like a cloud of startled butterflies. Several of these young ladies, Lucy knew, had secret fancies for Mr. Gilley—a safe diversion, since Mrs. Gilley, while less social, was very much alive. For her part, Lucy had considered fancying the gentleman once or twice, if only as a means to relieve her boredom, but she could never quite summon the will. Mr. Gilley enjoyed the attentions of young ladies too much, and that ruined the effect.

Seeing her approach, he bowed deeply to her. “It is Miss Derrick,” he said. “I had hoped to have the pleasure of greeting you here tonight. I should not have come out otherwise, for fear of catching cold. The weather is not yet sufficiently warm for me to feel entirely comfortable.” According to local lore, Mr. Gilley had been deeply affected when, as a youth, he’d witnessed his older brother wake one morning with a slight cold and then die before noon. He now avoided cold weather, damp weather, and even cloudy days whenever he could. “An old man such as myself must take precautions.”

Several of the young ladies protested that he was not so very old at all, and he raised his hand, waving away their objections, though it was impossible not to see how he relished them. That Lucy did not protest was not lost on him. He studied her very closely and attempted a different approach. “Certainly you are a sight worth making a man risk his health for, even a very old man such as myself.”

Lucy wore a gown of ivory with gold French work in the front. It was not her best gown, for she had not wished to wear her best for this occasion, but she believed it did her no great disservice. Certainly the way Mr. Gilley looked at her suggested as much.

“We have the most wonderful news,” said Norah, attempting to reestablish herself at the center of things. “One of the undersecretaries of the navy has died!”

“I congratulate you,” said Lucy, who did not see how this could be good news, but she knew an opportunity for irony when one came along.

The other ladies giggled, and Norah affected appearing cross. “You goose. My father is to take his place. We are to remove to London within the month.”

This truly was a reason for Norah to rejoice. Lucy had never been to London, had never been presented at court—which Norah had, of course—and a removal to London was what all country girls dreamed of. Now Mr. Gilley had received the patronage that he had long sought, and he was elevating his daughter along with him.

As was natural for any young lady, Lucy resented Norah’s good fortune, but she knew it was small of her, and she knew what was proper. She hugged Norah and wished her joy and told her what her friend most wanted to hear—that she, Lucy, was green with envy.

“You will visit us, of course,” said Mr. Gilley with the magnanimity befitting the station he would soon inhabit. “The city air is thick with coal in the winter months, and that is very dangerous to the lungs, but in life we must take risks if we wish to experience pleasures.”

“Of course,” said Sarah Nolin, one of the other girls. “We all must visit.”

Mr. Gilley turned his full attention to Lucy, gazing at her with those incongruously youthful eyes. “I know Norah would welcome your company most particularly, Miss Derrick. Now, ladies, I know better than to impose myself upon you at any length. You will excuse me as I shall go sit nearer to the fire to warm my lungs.”

When he was gone, Lucy hugged Norah once more. “You must be so happy. Of course we must miss you terribly, but you will not care for us any longer. You will have balls and routs and assemblies and all the company of very fine people.”

“Must I not also congratulate you? I have heard that soon you are to be called by another name.”

All the young ladies gathered around Lucy, eager for her answer. They pressed in, like pampered dogs surrounding a generous master with table scraps at the ready.

“I cannot understand your meaning,” said Lucy. Her marriage to Mr. Olson was too painful a subject for her to feign joy, and so she chose to be coy rather than confirm or deny the report.

“Oh, come,” said Norah. “We would never be so evasive with you, Lucy. Are you to marry Mr. Olson or no?”

Lucy did not want to say. The words would taste too bitter, so she only laughed and said, “You know better than to believe idle gossip.”

“So then, he is yet available, and any of us may dance with him if we choose? He is not terribly handsome, of course, but he is available, and they say soon to be rich. In Nottingham, that must be good enough.” As Norah spoke she twisted her mouth into an attitude that was no doubt meant to seem ironic, but appeared to Lucy to be wanton. It was the sort of expression that led Uncle Lowell to call Norah that girl who will, in time enough, turn whore.

“You may do as you like,” said Lucy, “though for a young lady about to remove to London, I should think Mr. Olson now too provincial for your tastes.”

“London is weeks away,” answered Norah, “and I should like to be diverted now. However, I would not trample upon what is yours.”

“If you can win his favor, even if only for a month, I shall not resent it.”

“I think she is being too clever,” said another lady, Miss Bastenville. “She wants him for herself, but will not say, lest she be disappointed.”

Lucy did not answer, for at that moment Mr. Olson himself walked into the room, and was immediately remarked by every unmarried woman there. Though his suit was unfashionable by London standards, it answered in Nottingham, and it was well cut and flattering to his squat form. He walked with a confidence that bordered upon grace, and he even bowed with a courtly air at the ladies he passed. As he did so, his eyes cast about here and there, searching the room, and Lucy knew he searched for her.

She felt cold, animal panic spread through her. She would not marry him. She would be a governess, or a serving woman. She would be like those characters in the novels who chose to do what is right and noble rather than what is expedient, and it was not because she was righteous, but because she now understood the easy thing is not easy at all. It is horrid.

She had been carrying Miss Crawford’s tiny book of talismans with her everywhere she went—tonight she had left it in her pelisse—and now, Lucy thought, was the time for her to make the attempt. It occurred to her that she might make Mr. Olson fall in love with Norah, but she quickly dismissed the notion. Miss Crawford’s words had affected her, and forcing two people to think themselves in love seemed to Lucy a cruel thing. Besides, that spell required hair and personal effects from both people, and obtaining these was not practicable. No, Lucy realized which charm she must use now. It would not solve her troubles forever, but if it worked, it would relieve her from the discomfort of dancing with Mr. Olson tonight. After this, she could throw herself on Miss Crawford’s mercy, beg that lady for some means by which she could save herself from both frying pan and fire.

She saw Mr. Olson look her way, and Lucy felt her legs turn weak. Their eyes met, so she understood she was committing herself now to a path from which there could be no retreat. So be it. This was her life, and she would live it her way. If she had to choose between Mr. Olson and Miss Crawford, there could be but one decision. Lucy turned and fled.

First she went to the card room, from which she sent one of the attendants to fetch her pelisse. While she waited, she found a pen, a little bottle of ink, and a fresh piece of paper. This task was made more difficult because she needed to avoid Mrs. Quince, but that lady was much engaged in a card came, and by keeping to her back, Lucy managed to escape her notice.

Once she had retrieved the book, Lucy proceeded to the kitchen. The work in preparing the refreshments had long since been completed, so there was only a pair of serving girls standing about and speaking to each other in animated whispers. Lucy smiled at the girls and then walked to a far corner and set her items upon a cutting block.

Lucy consulted her book to make sure she recalled correctly what she needed, and saw that she required a lemon. She found one deemed too shriveled and moldy to be fit for the punch, but Lucy could not believe its poor state would affect her purposes. She took the lemon and a knife, and returned to the cutting block.

Setting out the book, Lucy began to copy the talisman precisely, as she had practiced in her room. This one was made of five rows of five Greek letters each, and long ago, under her father’s tutelage, Lucy had learned to draw these letters, as well as Hebrew. Next came a circle containing a few words of Latin, and this surrounded the talisman.

On the surface, the writing out of a talisman was a simple thing—merely a set of symbols copied from one piece of paper to another. The reality was something else entirely. She intuitively understood it must all be copied precisely, the lines drawn in the correct order, this part before that, this word before that flourish. One way felt right, the others wrong. When she looked at the image in the book, she saw the natural process of the strokes of her pen. She used both hands, tilting the paper as she worked, keeping multiple things in her mind at once, solving and resolving puzzles, as though the talisman she copied were in perpetual motion, and she had to hurry to catch up to it before it escaped her.

Both Mrs. Quince and Miss Crawford had compared magic to music, and though the idea had made sense, only now did Lucy truly understand. She lost herself in the process, and yet, at the same time, she was focused, intense, thinking of the present as well as her next move, ideas moving together, yet independently, like hands upon the pianoforte.

The process took perhaps ten minutes. The resulting drawing seemed tensed and coiled with energy, almost pulsing like a wounded fly that vibrated its wings at impossible speeds but went nowhere. The talisman extended out from the page, pierced the air around itself, sharp as a blade. She’d written very carefully and lightly, so she did not need to blot, only wait a few minutes for the ink to dry. Now, holding the knife in one hand, the lemon in the other, she began to quiet herself, blocking out the images around her, blocking out the two serving girls and the noise from the card room, and the more distant music and muted conversation from the dance hall. All disappeared but the knife and the lemon and Lucy’s intent. Without commanding herself, but when the moment was right, Lucy cut the lemon in half, whispering, “Walter Olson,” saying it only once, but with intent and force and perhaps even malice.

A sensation passed through her, like her stomach lurching in a dream where she was falling. She felt something cold, or maybe hot, but jarring and strange and familiar. She raised one half of the lemon and squeezed the fruit gently, allowing three drops of juice to spill upon the paper, and she understood the charm was made.

Lucy drifted off from her quiet place and glanced down at her work, pleased with herself. Then she looked up and was startled to see a man in the doorway looking at her. As soon as she raised her eyes, he was gone, but there was something familiar about him that struck her. She had seen only a flash of him, but though she could not say how, she was sure she knew him. And she was sure of something else as well, something unmistakable she’d seen in his eyes. It had been only an instant, but it was long enough to see that. Whoever he was, he knew she was working some kind of magic.