The Twelfth Enchantment

31

MR. BLAKE WAS A REMARKABLE MAN. THERE WAS NO DENYING that. He saw things and knew things that no ordinary man could see or know, but he was old and eccentric and, Lucy believed, somewhat unpredictable. She would hate to ask a man of his age to accompany her on a dangerous adventure, and all the more so when she could not know if she might rely upon him. All of which meant that she now did not know how to proceed. Mr. Blake said Lucy’s father wanted her to seek pages of the Mutus Liber at Harrington, her childhood home, but she could not go alone. She had not the money to travel, and she could not ask Mr. Blake, who was poor, to help her in that regard.

That night, after Lucy had picked at her dinner of roast chicken and parsnips, she sat by the fire with Mr. Blake. Mrs. Blake had gone to bed, and now Lucy sat with the engraver opposite her, also with his side to the fire. Across the room, Mrs. Emmett sat with her head slumped, snoring noisily.

Lucy stared at the flames while Mr. Blake told her about the curious mythology that spread throughout his many books. He told her stories that seemed dreamlike and allegorical and yet, strangely not, filled with curious names and a pantheon that evoked classical sources as well as the Bible. Lucy could not keep the names or the struggles clear, but the stories were infused with the themes that preoccupied Mr. Blake: the fight of the human spirit against the oppression of cruel and unnatural law and custom, and the struggle of divine truth against satanic reason. Even if the details eluded her, Lucy took pleasure in the enthusiasm in Mr. Blake’s voice, and she admired, even envied, his excitement at his own creation.

It was a testament to Mr. Blake’s comforting presence, not a sign of failure as a storyteller, that Lucy found herself drifting toward slumber in the comfortable armchair by the fire. She was not quite asleep, but in a state where Mr. Blake’s words took on strange and unpredictable meanings, and she drifted slightly away from herself.

Then Mr. Blake was silent, and Lucy snapped awake. There was another person in the room, sitting in a chair once empty, directly across from Lucy and Mr. Blake, and farthest from the fire. Lucy blinked twice, unable to credit what she saw, for it was Ludd himself. She had not before seen him so clearly or so directly. The room was well lit, and he did not seem to twinkle in and out of existence as he had the previous times she’d gazed upon him, and yet he did not seem to be entirely there either. He was not transparent or insubstantial, the way one might suppose a ghost to look. It was more that looking at him was like looking into a fire. She could not look long, for it strained and clouded her eyes, and she found it was most comfortable to look at him from the corners of her eyes.

Mr. Blake appeared to have no such difficulty. Lucy could see that he stared at him directly, and he blinked in wide-eyed astonishment.

Mrs. Emmett was awake now, and she too had no trouble gazing upon him. “Look at that,” she said, as though observing a dog doing a remarkable trick. “How unexpected.”

“All depends upon you,” Ludd said to Lucy.

“Can you think I don’t know it?” she answered. The bitterness of her own voice surprised her.

“I hope you do,” Ludd said in his unaccountable, shifting voice. “I hope you comprehend what happens if you fail. I may fail. You may not.”

“We do not stand for the same cause,” said Lucy. “You arranged for Mr. Perceval’s death. You hoped to cause the death of hundreds more in rebellion and unrest.”

“We thought it necessary,” Ludd said. “We failed. Now your role is even more important.”

“What shall happen if Miss Derrick does not stand with you?” asked Mr. Blake.

“Death,” said Ludd. “Blood. Machines. Enslavement. An end to everything you love. An end to all that tempers Lady Harriett and her kind. An end to England as any of us have understood it.”

“There must be another way,” said Lucy. “A way for the machines and the magic to coexist.” She did not know how strongly she believed this until she spoke it. “That is my cause. Peace and compromise. That is the third way.”

“There can be no peace while Lady Harriett lives,” Ludd said. “You must destroy her for there to be peace, and if you compromise, how can you destroy her?”

“Then what do you suggest I do?” asked Lucy.

She asked it to an empty chair.

Lucy was on her feet in an instant, walking about the room as though Ludd might somehow, absurdly, be hiding somewhere.

“Damn them!” Lucy cried, hardly caring how wanton she sounded. Then, after a moment, she said, “Forgive me, Mr. Blake.”

“No forgiveness is required,” he answered with his customary ease.

“I am so frustrated!” Lucy cried out, feeling like a petulant child. It was the unfairness of it all that drove her mad. “Why can they never speak plainly? Why can they never tell me what must be? Why are they always so opaque and vague and maddening?”

Mr. Blake smiled at her. “You must be patient with them, Lucy. Our world is as difficult for them to see as theirs is for us. That creature did not seek to vex you. It struggled mightily to be clear, but you were just as slippery and evasive to it as it was to you.”

This notion startled Lucy, but it also comforted her. It made her feel better to know that at least Ludd was not toying with her.

“I must go to Harrington. I must go to Mr. Buckles’s home and take possession of whatever it is he has.”

“Yes,” Blake said.

“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Emmett agreed. “Your father does not wish for you to go alone, so why not ask his brother to accompany you?”

Lucy stared at the woman in surprise. “He had no brother. My Uncle Lowell would never do such a thing for me, and in any case, he is no blood relative, but my mother’s sister’s husband.”

“Not that,” she corrected. “Not his brother of blood, but of fellowship. His brother of the Rosy Cross.”

Lucy stared at her in wonder and confusion. She felt as though the very floor upon which she stood bucked and twisted wildly. “What do you say, Mrs. Emmett? My father was a Rosicrucian? He was in the same order as Jonas Morrison?”

“Oh, yes,” said Mrs. Emmett. “Can you not hear him say so? They were fond of each other. Your father regarded Mr. Morrison as though he were his son.”

Lucy sat down heavily in her chair. After all that had happened, after all she had seen, this revelation astonished her more than any of the rest. Everything Lucy knew about her own life, it seemed, was a lie.

Mr. Blake agreed to escort Lucy to Mr. Morrison’s house, but he sensed Lucy’s somber mood, and rode over in complete silence, his hands in his lap, a sympathetic smile on his lips. Lucy did not wish for him to be there, and she regretted the necessity of an escort. She did not want anyone to witness the confusion and abasement she would be certain to undergo. But there was no helping it. She could not sacrifice her duty for her pride.

Lucy had never before been to Mr. Morrison’s town house, had never even seen it, but he was a man of means, and it was never difficult to learn where a rich man lives. She and Mr. Blake called at his house at two in the afternoon and could only hope that he would be home. Whatever Lucy must face, it would be less horrible than her treatment at the hands of Byron. To some degree she knew that Byron had been lashing out, feeling nothing more complicated than frustration. If she had learned anything about him it was that he was childlike in his belief both that his desires ought to be satisfied the moment he felt them, and that he was justified expressing himself in any way he chose. Whatever she had imagined to be her feelings for him now seemed empty and foolish. She had been a fool. She knew that now. Perhaps she had known it all along, and she condemned herself for it.

Lucy was nervous to the point of shaking as she and Mr. Blake were shown into the sitting room. A middle-aged woman of no discernible expression informed them that Mr. Morrison was engaged, but he would be with them when he became available. No doubt he would make Lucy wait longer than necessary. He would wish to punish her, to show that he was not at her disposal, and perhaps even to postpone the unpleasantness of their conversation.

The woman showed them to a pleasant room to endure this waiting. It caught much of the afternoon light, and there were two bookcases filled with innocuous novels, volumes of poetry—mostly of the last century—and some popular history. Upon the walls were paintings of nondescript gentlemen, a landscape of a boy leading a horse across a river, and a ship sailing toward a Mediterranean-looking port. The furnishings were comfortable but unadorned. It was, in short, a room designed to give the impression that Mr. Morrison was a man of mundane taste and an utter lack of imagination.

Mr. Blake took a few moments to examine the contents of one of the bookshelves, and finally settled upon a volume of Milton, which he brought to a chair by the window. He gave every impression of wishing to make himself invisible.

Lucy paced. She attempted to find a book to look at, but as the titles could not hold her attention, she very much doubted an open book would serve as a better distraction. After waiting for half an hour, Lucy heard footsteps outside the door, and when they passed without entering, she breathed a sigh of relief. She would have preferred to wait in that room indefinitely than to start the conversation she came to have. When Mr. Morrison did, after perhaps an hour, enter the room, he appeared flustered and hurried. His hair was messy, as though windblown, and his cravat was soiled, suggesting he had not found time to refresh himself since returning from a journey. Perhaps it was her feelings of guilt for how she had used him, and perhaps it was Mrs. Emmett’s revelation that he and her father had been Rosicrucians together, but for the first time since he had appeared at the Nottingham assembly, Lucy did not feel revulsion when she looked at him.

Mr. Blake rose, and Lucy made the necessary introductions between the two men.

“Mr. Blake,” said Mr. Morrison. “You are very good to look after Miss Derrick.”

“And you, sir,” replied Mr. Blake. “Though it is not well known, your service to this country in the matter of—”

Mr. Morrison clapped the old engraver upon his back. “Those sorts of things are not meant to be generally known. Just as the world does not generally know of your particular talents, though they have come to the attention of my order. I hope you will not object if we call upon you from time to time for some small service.”

“So long as the service is just,” said Mr. Blake.

“Of course. I would not ask otherwise.” He now turned to Lucy. “You must tell me what you want,” he intoned. His face was stony, his eyes distant.

Lucy had not precisely rehearsed what she was going to say, but she knew what points she wished to make. Now that he was here, she could not think of any of them. She could not remember the logic of her arguments or the turns of phrase that, when uttered in her mind, sounded eloquent and masterful, certainly convincing. She rose, clasped her hands together, and forced herself to speak while trying very hard not to weep.

“Mr. Morrison, I cannot blame you for hating me. I cannot, but I beg you to listen to me, to attempt to hear my words without color or prejudice of the wrong I have done you.”

He shook his head. “No, Miss Derrick. You misunderstand me. I mean to say that you must tell me what you want, and I shall do my best for you.”

Lucy was too stunned to answer.

“You are a young lady with no money and no influence,” Mr. Morrison continued. “You have been drawn into events of national and historical significance against your will, and your sister and her child have been made to suffer. I do not like being used as you used me, and my anger when I first discovered it stemmed in no small part from simple humiliation. Nevertheless, I cannot blame you for using what tools you had at your disposal. This is your war as well as mine, and I admire you for your boldness, though I fell victim to it.”

Lucy could have endured his harsh words and held her tears in check, but this was more than she could withstand. The tears fell now freely, and though she removed a handkerchief to wipe them away, she made no other effort to stop them.

Mr. Blake, meanwhile, retreated back to his chair and his volume of Milton. Lucy and Mr. Morrison moved to the far corner of the room. This would have to do for privacy.

“I had not expected such kindness,” she said in a very quiet voice.

“I gave you no reason to expect it,” he said. “For that I am sorry. Now I shall offer you what assistance I can.”

“But why?” Lucy asked. Her tears began to abate, though the effect of his words still reverberated through her. The sense of palpable, overwhelming gratitude was dizzying. “Why would you help me? You must know that we are on different sides of this conflict. I must side with—with Ludd—if I am to save my sister’s child.”

“No,” he said. “Mr. Perceval was a good man, and he led the order as he thought best, but he was wrong in his truce with Lady Harriett. We were prepared to sacrifice too much for expedience, but no longer. The new head of the order believes that there is another way, a compromise position.”

“Who is this man?”

“I am he,” said Mr. Morrison. “The matter has just now been put to a vote, and I have been elected to this position, for which I am unworthy. It is unusual that one as young as myself would be offered this post, but I have an advantage none of the others could claim.”

“And what is that?”

“My friendship with you.”

Lucy could not imagine why that should prove an advantage, but even more shocking was his characterization of what stood between them as friendship.

“What do I …?” Lucy did not know how to finish the question.

“You have the pages,” he said with a half smile. “You had me turn my own pages over to you. Surely you did not think I would not discover your little mesmeric trick, deft though it was. And, again, I do not blame you. You did what you believed right, and now we believe it right as well.”

“I cannot think that your order cares only to save my niece,” said Lucy.

“We care whenever there is an innocent in harm’s way and we are in a position to save him. But our interests are now aligned, I believe. Ludd and Lady Harriett are poised each to destroy the other, but we believe that an absolute victory of the old way or the new need not happen. We believe that a compromise position that will place a check on the new mechanical developments and allow magic to survive is our best option. And we believe you are the key to that approach.”

“In what way?” Lucy asked, not much liking this new burden.

He shook his head. “That is the central mystery, isn’t it? I can tell you that since all of this has begun, Lady Harriett, my order, and”—here he paused—“and Mary Crawford have all understood your centrality. Accordingly, I place myself at your disposal.”

“At my disposal how?” asked Lucy, staring at Mr. Morrison as though he were a stranger she had never seen before, dressed in some curious foreign costume.

“At your disposal to go where you wish and do what you say. I am here to obey your commands, Miss Derrick.”

Lucy continued to stare at him for some minutes, blinking rapidly as she considered his words. “Then let us go to Kent. I believe there is a set of pages in the hands of my sister’s husband, Mr. Buckles.”

“Then we shall go fetch them,” he said.

“There is something else.” Lucy looked out the window as she spoke, unwilling to gaze upon his expression when he heard what she had to say. “Was my father, like you, a Rosicrucian? I would know, if you do not mind, the story of my own life.”

Mr. Morrison sat across from her, slumped forward, his hands dangling between his knees. He appeared utterly defeated by her request. He glanced over at Mr. Blake, and observed that the old engraver sat with the book on his lap, his mouth open, conveniently asleep.

Mr. Morrison spoke in quiet tones. “Your father wished it all kept from you, and after everything that happened, it never seemed the proper moment to reveal those secrets. I suppose it is the right moment now. Yes, your father was a member of the order. He led the order when I joined. He and I were very close. I thought of him as a father.”

Lucy hardly knew how to understand this. “But you chose to corrupt his daughter?”

Mr. Morrison looked away, and then rose, walked to the window, where he adjusted the curtains, and then returned to his seat. “Your father always knew you were special. There were certain card and crystal readings around the time of your birth that alarmed him, and he believed you needed to be sheltered from your own natural talents, which he believed would be too conspicuous. This moment of transition we live in has been long coming, and your father suspected if you were to practice, dark forces would seek you out. That is why he kept you at a distance before Emily died—not because he did not love you, but because he wished to protect you. He wanted that you might live a life free of danger.”

“Then why did you attempt to convince me to run off with you?”

Mr. Morrison let out a long sigh. He shook his head and looked away, and then down. “Your father and I had a disagreement. We received intelligence that there would be an attempt upon your life, but he did not believe it, or he did not believe it was something from which he could not protect you. He was not careless with his daughters—you must never think that—but just the opposite. He was so careful, he believed such wards and spells and precautions that he had taken were impregnable. I was less optimistic. I believed there was danger, particularly to you, for Emily could take care of herself.”

“What do you mean?” asked Lucy, hearing her voice catch.

“You must know what I mean. Emily practiced. She was very skillful. Your father taught her everything he knew, and she was widely regarded as something of a prodigy, though she lacked the raw talent he believed you to possess.”

Lucy could not think of what there was to say. Her father had been a hermeticist, a Rosicrucian, and her sister his apprentice. They had studied magic together, the two of them, locked in his study, as Lucy was later to do—or begin to do. All those books he had her read, the philosophers, the languages, the botany. He had been laying the groundwork for what Lucy would later become. It was all so clear now.

“As the time drew closer,” Mr. Morrison continued, “as the hour of danger approached, I became convinced that you would die if you did not leave. I had to get you away, if only for a little while, until the danger passed.”

Lucy looked at him. His eyes were cast down, his face was red.

“And so you pretended to love me?”

“I needed you to go with me,” he said. “If I told you a tale of magic and spells and curses, you would have laughed at me. I needed you to want to go.”

“Then, what you did—you were not being cruel. All this time I have spent hating you, thinking you horrible, and you said nothing. Why did you say nothing?” Lucy felt herself growing angry again. He had let her hate him when she should have regarded him as her friend. She hardly knew where her anger belonged, but it balled up inside her, threatening to explode.

“Your father never forgave himself for being wrong, but he was, and your sister paid the price for it. The curse meant for you found her, and it killed her.”

Lucy sat still and silent, hearing nothing but the rushing of blood in her ears. It came on her, wave after wave, grief and rage and anger and loathing for herself. “Emily died, when it should have been me.”

“No!” Mr. Morrison jumped to his feet. “No, damn it. Can you not understand? Your father did not want you to know, not because he feared you would blame him. He blamed himself sufficiently that he needed no aid. He never wanted you to know because he feared you would blame yourself. He feared you would see it in that absurd way. You did not know, and you could have done nothing. It should not have been you. It should not have been either of you. She was murdered and it is no one’s fault but the murderer’s.” When Lucy said nothing, he sat down again and took her hands in both of his. “Can you not see that?”

She nodded. “Who was it? Who killed my sister?”

“The leader of the revenants.”

It was Lucy’s turn to rise to her feet. “Lady Harriett killed my sister, and you struck a deal with her?”

He shook his head. “Lady Harriett was not then leader. She took that post after the death of her husband, Sir Reginald. He had led them for centuries before he died. Before I killed him.”

“You?” said Lucy, sitting slowly.

“Out of love for your father, I did what needed doing. They had done the unpardonable, and a message had to be sent. I destroyed him.”

“Then you know how to kill them.”

“My order has known for a long time, and that knowledge had led to our truce.”

“You must tell me,” whispered Lucy.

“I cannot. I have taken an oath to guard the secret. It is a simple thing, a mixture of common elements, but the nature of these elements is something I cannot reveal.”

Lucy’s understanding came into such sharp focus, it was like a slap across her face. “Gold, mercury, and sulfur,” she said.

Mr. Morrison’s eyes went wide. He said nothing, but he did not have to. His closely guarded secret was now Lucy’s.

Lucy kept moving her hands, not quite sure what to do with them, putting them on her knees, winding them together, stroking her chin. There was so much to think about. Mr. Morrison had not been an unrepentant rake all those years ago. He had tried to help her, the only way he could think of. Her father had not suddenly decided he loved her, but he had loved her all along, wanting only to protect her from the terrible dangers posed by her own nature. He had made an error, a terrible, catastrophic error, and Emily had paid the price. So much had gone wrong, and now it was Lucy’s lot to set it right. Everything that she had ever done, or that had been done to her, had happened along the path—the crooked, winding, back-turning path—to her destiny.

“And what of Mary Crawford?” asked Lucy, with some trepidation. She did not wish to alarm Mr. Morrison by again mentioning her name, but she had to know. “Is she my friend? Can I depend upon her?”

“No,” Mr. Morrison said, his face utterly without expression, his voice entirely flat. “She is dead, and she is no one’s friend. She lies. Her kind always lies, Lucy. Never forget it.”

“And what has she lied to me about?”

Mr. Morrison sighed. “I hardly know what she told you, so I cannot inventory it all, but if she sent you to look for the pages of the Mutus Liber, I suspect she neglected to mention that she, herself, knows the location of two of the remaining pages.”

Lucy was on her feet. “What? That cannot be. She would have told me.”

“Only if she wished you to know. You think she is helping you? She is using you. No more.”

“How can you know that she had them?”

“I can’t,” he admitted. “Not for certain, but my order had long suspected that two of them were in her hands.”

Lucy walked to the window and peered out, taking in none of what she saw. She did not know if Mr. Morrison was right. She supposed it hardly mattered now. There was but one course, and she would follow it.

“My niece awaits,” she said. “And so does everything else, I suppose. Mr. Morrison, will you take me to what was once my father’s house? Will you take me to Harrington?”

Mr. Morrison rose and bowed. “You need not ask. You need only command. But you must know that Lady Harriett will suspect that Mr. Perceval’s death means the end of our agreement. She and her kind will come after us. Are you prepared to face them?”

Lucy thought of her sister Emily, whom she had loved so much. She thought of her niece, the child who bore her sister’s name. “Mr. Morrison, I am prepared to kill them.”

It was too late to leave that evening, but Lucy and Mrs. Emmett joined Mr. Morrison in his coach at first light. Mr. Blake awoke early to see Lucy out, and he appeared uncommonly pleased that she was going—not because he wished to be rid of her, but because he sensed that she was doing what she must do.

“Your father must be very proud of you,” he told her. “I have but known you a little, and I certainly am.” He thrust some papers into her hands. “You must take these.”

Lucy looked at the pages. They were engravings like the engravings of the Mutus Liber, full of similar imagery. Even the pages were old, like the pages of the true book, but these were not true pages. They felt light in Lucy’s hand, like dry leaves.

“What are they?”

“They are pages made in the likeness of your own book. I have been practicing against the day that I must make the true pages, even if that day is hundreds of years in the past.” He smiled at her. “It is how I live my life.”

“Thank you, Mr. Blake.”

“They are but a reminder,” he told her, “that we are all works in progress. Even at my age, I strive to improve. You must be kind to yourself, my dear girl.”

He took her hand and smiled upon her, and then led her to the coach where Mr. Morrison and Mrs. Emmett already awaited them.

When Lucy climbed in, she saw that Mr. Morrison found Mrs. Emmett puzzling. He looked at her and then, realizing he was being rude, looked away, only to sneak glances out of the corner of his eye. As the coach began to roll, he looked at Lucy and, in the dim light, raised his eyebrows questioningly. Lucy answered with a shrug, perhaps not the most reassuring answer as they embarked upon a dangerous mission, accompanied by a curious serving woman.

For much of the morning they rode in silence, Lucy only half awake, watching the landscape pass before her, thinking of everything she’d like to ask Mr. Morrison, but daring to ask none of it. More than anything, she wanted to ask about Mary, but she had seen the look of heartbreak upon his face at the mention of that name, and she would not inflict that upon him. And yet, after everything they’d discussed, one question remained above all else. If he had loved Mary as he said, and if she had loved him, then why were they not together? She had died, but she had come back. What kept them apart?

Lucy continued to dwell on such things because she did not want to dwell on one thing in particular—that she would be returning to the house where she had grown up and once lived in happiness with her father and her sisters. She had been there since Martha’s marriage to Mr. Buckles, but not often, and not since her life had altered so drastically. She did not know what to expect now. She did not know what she would see or how she would feel. She did not want to go there and see her sister and the goblin she believed to be her own baby. Most of all, she did not wish to confront Mr. Buckles in front of Martha.

They had been in the coach not an hour when Lucy turned to Mr. Morrison. “What is this great heroic act that people keep attempting to mention?”

He laughed. “There’s always some threat or other, Lucy. I know this must all seem very new to you, but for me this is only one more time I must save the world from destruction.”

She looked at him to see if he made sport of her, but she could see no sign that it was so.

They arrived before noon, turning off the main road to enter the grounds, then, onto the circular drive before the old rectangular house, made of dusty and battered red brick. Lucy had thought it grand as a child, but now she saw it was a rather plain house, somewhat tired-looking. Still, it reminded her of Emily and her father, and that was enough to make her love it.

They had sent no word ahead, and Martha came running out of the house to greet them, and Lucy forced herself to stifle a cry when she looked upon her sister. She looked thinner now, and her eyes tired and lined, her skin brittle and dry. She appeared ten years older.

Lucy hugged Martha until she saw she dampened her sister’s neck with her tears.

“What has happened?” asked Martha, as she watched Mrs. Emmett and Mr. Morrison emerge from the coach. “For you to come here unannounced, and with—good lord, Mr. Morrison. It is he. I did not think you would really come.”

“We have come to see Mr. Buckles,” said Mr. Morrison. “Is he at home? We’d just like a quick chat. Nothing terribly violent.”

Martha looked to Lucy, but when her sister offered no further comment about the nature of their visit, she turned back to Mr. Morrison. “I expect him later today. I am told you must come in.” She cast her eyes down and spoke in a quiet voice. “But you must not come in. There are men who wait for you.”

“That is troubling,” said Mr. Morrison, giving every sign of being entirely untroubled. “How many?”

Martha shook her head. “They told me not to say.”

“There are three of them,” said Mrs. Emmett.

Lucy was about to ask how she could know, but saved herself the trouble. She knew there was no point. Instead she looked at Martha. “We shall have a look.”

“You mustn’t,” said Martha. “These men, they will not be gentle.”

“Neither shall I, and we shan’t make anything better out here,” said Mr. Morrison. “Come, Miss Derrick. Mrs. Emmett, please keep Lucy’s sister out of trouble.”

Martha turned toward him, and then stopped, instead fixing her tired eyes on Lucy. “Do you know what you are doing?”

“A little,” said Lucy.

Mr. Morrison raised his eyebrows and then beckoned Lucy to follow. She had seen him silly and charming and gracious and foolish and in love, but now, Lucy understood, she was seeing him for who he was. She now observed Jonas Morrison fully in his element, with a task to do, unconcerned with the odds or the dangers. This, she understood, was his true nature, and she did not wish to miss seeing it.

They stepped inside the house, and the old front hall filled Lucy with instant melancholy. Things had changed, of course—the paintings upon the walls were different, replaced with new paintings and silhouettes of both Mr. Buckles and Lady Harriett—not one of Martha, Lucy could not but notice. There had been a worn Persian rug in her father’s day, but that was gone, replaced by a new rug of garish blue and red. The statue in the corner of the second Charles was replaced by an oriental vase full of bright spring flowers. And yet, for all these changes, it was her old house, her old front hall, and the memories of those years fell upon her, heavy and warm. The wave of nostalgia felt wonderful, but it was soon enough replaced by anger. This house was never to have been hers, of course. It had been entailed to Mr. Buckles, and nothing could have changed that, but so much else had been stolen from her. Here was the house of her happiness, and it had been transformed to the seat of her misery.

Three men approached from the parlor. They looked to Lucy like soldiers or laborers, dressed up like country gentlemen in trousers and plain waistcoats. They were all of them broad in the shoulder and thick in the arms, with bulging necks and the sort of heavy faces that such muscular men often possess.

One of them stepped forward. “Jonas Morrison. They said you’d be foolish enough to come here, and I’m glad you did, for me and the lads was getting restless. Now, let’s see your hands up high, so I know you don’t mean no tricks.”

Lucy took a step back, but Mr. Morrison did nothing other than raise his empty hands to shoulder height and smile amiably at the men. “Nothing in my hands,” he said, as though about to perform one of his tricks.

And he was. Lucy understood that only an instant before it happened, and when it did happen, things moved so quickly she could not be sure she saw it all, or could believe what she did see. The brute who had spoken took a quick step toward Mr. Morrison, grinning with pleasure, one fist pulled back, ready to deliver a mighty blow, but he never had the chance. Though Mr. Morrison had demonstrated that his hands were empty, they no longer were so. In his right hand he held a cudgel, heavy and black, of about a foot in length. As the brute swung his fist, Mr. Morrison deftly stepped to one side, and struck the man in the side of his head, quick, hard, decisive. The brute toppled liked a felled tree.

With a quick and easy gesture, Mr. Morrison tossed the cudgel to his left hand, and now in his right hand appeared a piece of chalk, snatched as if from the air itself as the cudgel had been. Finding an exposed spot on the floor, he quickly drew a set of symbols on it—two interlocking triangles inside a square inside a circle, and then whispered something over the symbol. It took but a second, and it was done. He then dropped the chalk and made manifest a second cudgel. He rose to face the two remaining brutes who were now upon him.

One lunged, and Morrison struck him upon either side of the head simultaneously, causing the man to stagger backwards and collapse. The remaining man pulled from his pockets two pistols, which he held in each hand.

“I’ll not let you get close enough to use those,” he said.

Morrison dropped a cudgel down his sleeve and took Lucy’s hand. His skin was cool and dry, as though his efforts had cost him nothing. She felt his pulse in his hand, and it was calm and regular.

“I see we’ve upset you,” said Mr. Morrison. “We’ll just be on our way.” He began to back up toward the door, pulling Lucy with him.

“You’re not going anywhere,” said the brute. “Stand still.”

“Oh, you won’t shoot and risk hitting the lady, will you?” asked Mr. Morrison, continuing his slow retreat.

“If you don’t stop moving, I’ll shoot the lady first,” answered the man as he advanced, just as slowly, clearly unwilling to close distance between them. As he finished speaking, Morrison stopped and so did he.

Morrison smiled and cast his eyes to the floor, where the brute stood upon the symbol he’d drawn in chalk. “Oh, dear,” Morrison said. “That’s not good.”

“What do you mean?” said the brute, though he already began to appear distressed. A trickle of blood began to flow from his nose, and his eyes were so bloodshot as to be almost entirely red. “What do you mean?” he said again, and this time a trickle of blood fell from the corner of his mouth. Then he fell to the floor.

Mr. Morrison let go of Lucy’s hand and went to check on the men, feeling the pulses in their necks, lifting their eyelids. “We have two hours, at least.”

Martha came into the house and shrieked. Mrs. Emmett took her hand to steady her.

“I do apologize for the mess,” said Mr. Morrison. “Let us leave them for your husband to tend to, shall we? In the meantime, your sister and I have business.”

“But those men might die here,” said Martha.

“Oh, no,” said Mrs. Emmett. “Those two right there shall hang within the year, and that one with the fair hair, he shall choke to death upon his own vomit. He drinks to excess, you know.”

Martha stood with a hand over her mouth. “What is all this about?” she asked. Her voice was distant and detached. “Why were these men here? Lucy, I do not understand. I don’t understand anything, and I am so afraid.”

Lucy took her sister’s arm. “Martha, you must trust me. You must have faith that I do what I must and what is right. Now, are father’s old books in the library yet?”

“Yes, of course.” Martha looked away from the bondmen. “Father’s books and many of Mr. Buckles’s too.”

“May we look through them?”

Martha nodded. “Yes. I suppose. I mean, I cannot say.”

Martha gave every sign of swooning, so Lucy took her hands. “I know all of this is strange to you. It is strange to me too. Soon, I think, everything will be different, and better. It is what I hope. For now there is much I must do, and I cannot speak of it. I ask only that you trust me.”

Martha began to tear up once more. “You are so altered, Lucy. I hardly know you.”

“These years since father died have been hard on all of us. It must change us.”

Martha nodded. “Yes, we must all change, but we do not all change for the better. We do not all become stronger. I have diminished and you have become… I don’t know how to say it. You have become who you were always meant to be.”

Lucy hugged her once more, and as they all turned their backs upon the bondmen Lucy, Mr. Morrison, and Mrs. Emmett followed Martha to the library.

When they reached the closed door of the library, Mr. Morrison put up a hand before Lucy. “A moment,” he said. He opened the door, and proceeded to run his hand along the doorjamb, moving slowly, as if feeling for something underneath the wood. He did this several times, his face screwed up in concentration, and then he gave a quick nod to himself.

Reaching into the pocket of his coat, he removed a penknife and began to dig into the wood in a spot at about the height of his shoulder. Martha appeared horrified, and he turned to smile at her, and then went back to his work. Finally, he found something embedded in the wood. It was a small pouch, made of stained white linen, about the size of a grape, and—like Byron’s curse—tied with some kind of hair.

Mr. Morrison sniffed at the bag. “Dried spiders, mixed with the ash of unhatched goose egg, if I’m not mistaken. Powerful stuff, designed to interfere with your concentration.” He strode into the library and tossed the pouch in the fire. “But that’s all behind us. Apologies about the door, Mrs. Buckles.”

“How did you know that was there?” Martha asked.

“Lucky guess,” he said, smiling quite happily.

Martha looked at the damage to the door, then at Mr. Morrison, then at Lucy. Apparently she decided there was nothing to be gained by further comments. Instead, she offered them refreshment, which they refused.

“We only need some time,” Lucy said.

In the distance they heard the shrill wail of an angry infant. At least it would sound like an infant to Martha, and perhaps to Mr. Morrison. She did not know.

“I hardly even hear it any longer,” Martha said in response to the unasked question. “I have hired a wet nurse, you know. I hate that I have, but I cannot any longer endure it. My own daughter. I suppose that makes me a horrid mother, but I feared I must lose my mind, but she is so altered.”

“You are a wonderful mother,” said Lucy. “You can never doubt that.”

Martha glanced over at Mrs. Emmett who was standing near the fire, examining the cut pages of a book with her index finger, and humming softly to herself. “Perhaps your woman would care to wait in the servant’s quarters.”

“No,” said Mrs. Emmett. “Not a bit of it. Run along now, girl.”

Martha stood with her mouth open.

“She is odd,” said Lucy softly, “but harmless. We will keep her here.”

Martha nodded and left the library, closing the door behind her.

They were alone. Lucy turned to Mr. Morrison. “How did you do those things—make your cudgels and chalk appear out of nothingness, and that symbol you drew upon the floor? I must know.”

He gestured vaguely. “The cudgels and chalk were but a bit of theater, nothing more than the same sort of misdirection I use to pull eggs out of ears or make coins vanish. I have found that combining my technique with a bit of spectacle gives me but one more advantage in combat. And as for the symbol, well, that’s very dark magic, soul-blackening stuff. I don’t recommend using it, and I only trifle with that sort of thing when the stakes are unusually high.”

“And what is at stake here?” asked Lucy.

Mr. Morrison looked at her directly. “You are.”

She could not bear to hold his gaze, so she began to walk the room, bright and well lit, looking at the tall shelves of books—thick folios, tiny sixteenmos, and everything in between. She ran her fingers along the spines, thinking that this one or that had been a book she had seen in the hands of her father as he sat in that red velvet chair by the window, his glasses perched on his nose, reading away the long afternoon, oblivious to the commotion in the house around him.

Lucy closed her eyes and quieted herself, trying to feel if there were pages in the room, and at once she felt their closeness. Indeed, they were in the library, she had no doubt of it, but she could not tell where, and she did not know how to sort through all the books to find them.

“Mrs. Emmett,” Lucy asked, “can you, by any chance, detect the pages?”

“Me? They are yours, not mine.” She continued her strange humming.

Lucy looked at Mr. Morrison. “Were you ever with my father here in this library?”

“Yes, of course. Many times.”

“Then you must see what I see,” said Lucy. “I did not come in here again after I moved away. When I visited, I avoided the room, for it reminded me too much of him, but here, all around us, is the evidence.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Morrison, as he walked about the room, looking at the various books. “It was said that he had to sell his library to pay his debts, but here is the library, right before us. Either Mr. Buckles bought it himself or bought it back or…” He did not choose to finish.

“He never sold it nor paid for any of it,” said Lucy.

“Of course,” said Mr. Morrison. “He is in possession of your father’s books, but they do not belong to him. This explains why everything comes back to you. Mrs. Emmett—she said as much just a moment ago. I almost didn’t hear it, but now I understand why you are at the center of everything.”