The Twelfth Enchantment: A Novel (41 page)

It looked like nonsense, and yet, she knew it was not. The pages felt alive to her, vibrant and warm in her hands. If she held one between her thumb and finger, she could feel the thrum of a pulse, and she heard something, a faint whisper of distant words. She thought of how the pages had called to her in Lady Harriett’s library in a way the pages had not when Mary had shown her the book with so many false pages. Did the possession of some pages make the discovering and understanding of the rest easier? Would she know how to interpret the pages when she had them all? Would the possession of the entire book give her the terrible knowledge of how to bestow and destroy eternal life?

She had rushed through these pages before, but she knew there was more to be gleaned, more to learn about the mechanisms of persuasion, and given the difficulties in which she now found herself, she would need what advantages she might find. And she found much. When she quieted herself, when she allowed herself to follow the patterns and folds and flow of the images, she saw things in her mind, made connections with the world, opened doors locked within her. She felt as though the pages were hers, that they told her secrets once known but long forgotten, and the secrets were wonderful indeed. What she had, what she
believed she could do, would give her new strength, new advantages. Whatever happened, she would be equal to it. She felt near certain.

In the morning she found Mrs. Emmett busy making preparations for their departure. She smiled as she packed, as though she understood nothing of her mistress’s disgrace. Lucy said nothing, asked her nothing. Instead, she went down to breakfast, going late that she might avoid the discomfort of sitting with Mr. and Mrs. Gilley. Norah, however, came in to sit with her, and her long, thin mouth was twisted into the most ironic of smiles.

“What a disaster,” she said excitedly. “But it is a delicious disaster, you must acknowledge. People are talking everywhere, Lucy. I have taken a stroll about the park this morning, and you would not credit how many inquiries I’ve received. They say it is Lord Byron. Did you know he has a new book of poetry out this week? It is said to be the most charmingly scandalous thing in the world, and everyone talks of it. They say you ran off with Lord Byron and secretly married him.” She leaned in closer. “Or not.”

The first volume of his new poem, the book of which he was so proud, was to be put out that week, and yet he had made the time to take Lucy upon her mission. Despite her humiliation, and her fury with Norah, Lucy felt the warm tug of something deeper, something warmer. Byron had done those things for her, placed her quest above his vanity, rescued her from ruin. Oh, he was a terrible man, it was true, but such a good one at the same time. He lived by his own law, and it made her blush to think of it, but in matters other than love, it was clear there was no doubting his honor.

“The rumors could not be more mistaken,” Lucy told Norah.

“Then where were you?” Norah demanded. “You must tell me. I shall keep it to myself, I swear it. Only please tell me.”

Lucy swallowed. “If you must know, I was held captive by a fairy.”

Norah turned around in stage disgust.

Lucy left the house as little as she could in the next two days. She did not want to endure the looks, the whispers, the cruelty. Let them think what
they wished, she decided, though there was no choice, really. Soon she would return to Nottinghamshire, and she would be marked there as a whore as well. Her uncle would refuse to give her shelter, and then what? She would have to find the means to live on her own. That ought not to be too difficult, she decided. A cunning woman could always find the means to live, surely. It was not the life she would have chosen for herself, but it was the life she had, and it would surely prove better than most. But these were all worries to trouble her mind after she had defeated Lady Harriett.

When Friday came, and it was time for her to depart, Lucy sought out Norah to say her good-byes. Norah, for her part, was cold. Once it became clear that Lucy would not reveal any secrets, Lucy’s worth as a friend had expired. It was one thing if she could provide salacious gossip, but quite another if she was only an outcast slut with nothing to offer the very friend who had brought her the opportunity of becoming an outcast slut.

“I hope,” said Norah by way of farewell, “that you acquit yourself with more dignity in Nottingham than you have done here as my guest.”

“It is my greatest wish to do so,” Lucy said.

She turned and went down the stairs, where she informed the coachman that she was ready to be taken to the inn where she would depart London. The chests had already been loaded, so the serving man gave her a saucy look—one that said he anticipated he knew not what might happen with a young woman of her nature once they were together—and opened the door. Inside, Mrs. Emmett already sat, knitting in her lap. She patted the seat next to her. “This has been quite an adventure,” she said absently.

Then Lucy heard someone call her name.

She turned around, and saw Jonas Morrison walking toward her. His cheeks were flushed, and he was out of breath. “Thank God you are well,” he said in a panting voice. “Of course, I knew you would be. How could you not be? You are Lucy Derrick, and you can do anything. I know that, and yet I worry.”

His manic mode of talking meant nothing. Lucy felt her old anger
toward him kindle anew, but even so she was also curious, and she was searching for some respite from her difficulties. Could this man, tricked into believing he loved her, offer what she needed? “Mr. Morrison,” she said in a convincingly cheerful voice, “what has happened?”

“The revolution has begun,” he said. “I bring terrible news of the prime minister, the leader of my order, Spencer Perceval. He has been murdered.”

Lucy was welcomed back into the house only because she was acquainted with a gentleman who brought such shocking news. It was not to be wondered at that a woman such as Miss Derrick would know all sorts of gentlemen, Mr. Gilley observed to his daughter, who returned a smile for his wit. They were now very happy with each other.

“The prime minister has been shot, and he is dead. We know little more than that, but it is suspected that this is the work of the Luddites. Already there is unrest spreading across the city. Anyone of any standing in government is going into hiding now. No one knows who could be next. We fear that this could be the first step toward a bloodbath, much like the revolution in Paris. My people”—and here he looked meaningfully at Lucy, so she would understand he meant the Rosicrucians—“even now do much to calm the people’s mood. I pray it will be enough.”

“Surely there is something to be done,” said Mr. Gilley. “Cannot the Prince Regent or the army beat back the ruffians?”

“Soldiers now patrol the streets, looking to suppress unrest. The murderer himself is in custody, and I am assured that no means will be spared to discover his name and motivation, but until we learn more, I can only advise that you all keep yourselves safe. I presume you have your own conveyance, sir.”

“Of course,” said Mr. Gilley.

“Then you must depart at once and bring your daughter and Miss Derrick back to Nottinghamshire.”

“I shall take my daughter of course. That young woman shall have to find her own way.”

Mr. Morrison stared at him. “I beg your pardon, sir. You would abandon
a guest, a helpless young
lady
, in a time of crisis? Did I mistake you for a gentleman?”

Mr. Gilley rose now. “I beg your pardon, sir, but who are you precisely that I must obey your commands or listen to your insults?”

“My name is Jonas Morrison,” he said with a bow.

Mr. Gilley’s eyes went wide. “Jonas Morrison! Surely not the hero of—”

Mr. Morrison held up his hand. “Sir, your position with the Navy Office may make you privy to certain state secrets, but they are not to be repeated.”

Lucy watched this exchange in wonder. First Mrs. Quince had fled in panic at the mention of Mr. Morrison’s name, and now Mr. Gilley could not conceal his astonishment. Who exactly was this man, and what had he done to evoke these responses? Clearly he was more than a cad who liked to toy with the affections of young ladies, though he was certainly that.

“You are quite right,” conceded Mr. Gilley. “It is … it is just such an honor to meet you. But as you are a man of some import, it behooves me to be direct with you. May I speak to you for a moment in private?”

The two gentlemen went off to a corner for a moment and spoke in quiet tones. They then returned, and Mr. Morrison turned to Lucy. “Miss Derrick, I am sorry to inform you that your host is not nearly the gentleman you thought, and he presumes to judge that which he cannot understand. If your duty required you to travel unexpectedly, even in the company of a scoundrel such as Byron, I applaud your sacrifice. I would never suspect, even for a moment, any improper behavior on your part.” He bowed to her.

Though this expression of confidence was no doubt motivated by the spell she had cast upon him, Lucy could not help but be touched by so unexpected a kindness. “Thank you, sir.”

“Men will excuse anything in a woman if there is the hope of a sufficient reward,” said Mr. Gilley to his daughter.

Norah took her father by his arm. “Let us give them a moment to talk, Papa,” she said, and led her father out of the room.

When they were alone, Lucy turned to Mr. Morrison. “Where have you been? While you were off doing I know not what, I was taken prisoner by Lady Harriett and then Mr. Olson, and I had to fire a pistol upon one of the revenants.
That
is where I was.” That she had broken into Lady Harriett’s estate and stolen three pages of the
Mutus Liber
was beside the point; Lucy was angry now, though some part of her knew she had no business being angry with Mr. Morrison. Nevertheless, she wished to be angry with him. He was supposed to love her (again, her role in this was not relevant at the moment), and he had abandoned her to such misery. She was being irrational, but she wished to take shelter in her own irrationality

“Good God!” he cried out, his distress evident. “Lucy, I did not know. I could not have known. But if I had, I would have moved heaven and earth to come to your aid. I have done everything I can for you. You must believe that. And there is nothing in my power that I would not do.”

His reference to what he had already done for her filled her with a new wave of anger. “Fortunately, I had Lord Byron to help.”

Mr. Morrison’s eyes widened as though slapped. “It is well if you wish to make use of him, but it is only a matter of time before he turns on you.”

“He did not turn on me. He rescued me more than once in those two days.” She turned to look out the window, affecting an airy disregard for his feelings, but suddenly she turned back to Mr. Morrison. She wanted to look at him. She wanted to be near him, very near him. She stepped back in fright. Was he working some kind of love magic on her?

Then she understood. It was not he who entranced her. It was something he had with him, something strange and familiar and wonderful and intoxicating. She took a tentative step forward, trying to make sense of it, as though trying to identify a flavor she’d tried once, long ago.

He had pages of the book on him. She knew it. She could sense them. Lucy took another step toward him. “Where have you been?” she asked again.

“I could not have known. I have only now returned from Cardiff.”

The name of that city summoned an unexpected pang of sadness. Her sister Emily had returned from a sojourn there with friends only weeks before her death. Lucy pushed the memories aside. “Why were you in Wales?”

“Searching for pages of the book, which I found. Two of them.”

“Really?” said Lucy, trying to disguise her interest. “Where are they?”

“Upon my person. I was to bring them to Mr. Perceval, but then I heard the news, and I could think of no place safe enough to put them when any part of the metropolis might at any moment burst into flames.”

Lucy needed magic, strong, compelling magic, but she had no time to prepare anything. She had no time to fetch herbs and ingredients or make charms and draw out talismans. She needed something now.