The Twelfth Enchantment: A Novel (22 page)

She picked up Lucy’s charm and handed it back to her. “I want you to try again, but this time, pick that flower, and focus on converting its energy to the charm.”

Mary pointed to a dandelion that grew between the stones at their feet. It was a bright yellow and the weight of the flower burdened the stem so that it bent over slightly. Lucy knew from her reading that a tea made from the dandelion could be used as a diuretic, and the juice of the crushed plant was good for removing warts.

Lucy had never before hesitated to pick a flower, but thinking of it as a sacrifice made her uneasy. Picking it seemed suddenly brutal, barbaric.

“You wish me to sacrifice one flower to destroy another.”

Mary smiled. “It does seem a little tasteless.”

Tasteless indeed, but Lucy had a strong wish to see if there was anything to what Mary said, so holding the charm in her right hand, she picked the dandelion with her left, concentrating, as Mary had said, on its energy. The moment she picked the flower, she tossed the charm upon the rose.

There was no sign that anything had happened, but when she lifted the charm, she saw the rose had been reduced nearly to powder, and that it lay in a little pool of dampness. The water in the plant had been leeched out entirely.

Lucy stared, hardly able to speak. Every bit of magic she had done until now had been vague and general, hard to prove, and leaving no physical result, but here was something else entirely. She had, using magic, physically altered something in the world. Even after all she had seen and done, this struck her as difficult to believe.

“I think you understand now,” said Mary. “The information contained in the
Mutus Liber
is dangerous, and if it should fall into the wrong hands, it would be very bad indeed. And that is why we must hope it falls into your hands. You see, that was but a minor charm, and your sacrifice was but a small one, but it was enough to push the energy
far enough to work. With a powerful sacrifice, almost anything is possible.”

“Well, I shan’t go around destroying life for power,” said Lucy. “I won’t.”

“No, you will not,” agreed Mary. “I would not trust you with this information if I thought you should, but as I have shown you, there are many kinds of sacrifices, including the sacrifices others make for you. Those can be the most powerful kind, and you would be well to remember that. If a friend sacrifices something of value out of love, it can render powerful the most impotent spell, it can break the strongest ward, change powerful enemies. To understand the principles of sacrifice is to understand when the time is right to act, when others have made you something better than yourself.”

After putting her items back in the leather pouch, Mary began to walk Lucy back to her uncle’s house. “I don’t wish to keep you from your sister long,” she said. “But you need to understand what is happening. There is no book on earth so dangerous as the
Mutus Liber
. Its secrets are devastating.”

“But you said it contains the secret of eternal life. Surely eternal life is not a terrible thing.”

Mary adjusted her wide-brimmed hat to keep the sun off her pale face. “Alchemy is transformation, Lucy, not addition. Man is born to die, and mortality defines man’s nature. To possess eternal life is to be human no longer. Those who have pursued this secret must undergo a terrible alteration. They lose their souls and so become vile creatures, evil, mere shadows of themselves. They feel no regret. Murder, theft, violence, destruction—none of these things give them pause. Whatever terrible, monstrous person you can imagine—that is nothing compared to one who has become immortal. These transformed creatures may do the most horrendous things and think about them no more than you would think of the grass upon which you trod as you go on your way. They live for nothing but to continue, to indulge their pleasures, and to remain hidden.”

Lucy felt a chill, and drew her cloak around her. “Do you believe that there are such people? That what you speak of has truly been done?”

“I have seen it,” said Mary. “I have seen more than you could credit unless you’d seen it yourself. That is why I brought you to the fairy barrow, for it was such a fit place for our first discussion of these things. Do you know what those mounds truly are?”

Lucy shook her head. First immortal people, and now fairies. She did not know what to think.

“They are ancient graves, tombs of people from so long in the past that their bones are likely nothing but dust. They tell us that the ancients knew what we have forgotten. Stories of fairies are as old as this island, but their nature in our stories has changed over time. However, I assure you, such creatures are real, but they are not what you imagine. I do not speak of silly, sprightly, mischief-makers. What the ancients called fairies are the dead, returned to life. They are revenants, given existence with the most ancient of alchemy.”

Lucy looked upon her friend with unabashed incredulity. She had seen things, done things, that most people would have thought impossible, but what Mary spoke of now was beyond her ability to accept. “In asking me to believe this, you ask too much.”

“I know these beings are real as much as I know you are. These fairies—these revenants, if you prefer—have long wielded their influence over this kingdom, but their influence has been waning. They fear to increase their numbers, because they fear the power and vigor of those who are young, and yet the old ones, powerful as they are, grow torpid, weary of life and fearful of death. But in their limited influence they have funded and supported the rise of mills. Clothing mills and iron mills and pottery mills. Mills that make everything once made with the careful eye and hand of the artisan. These revenants have lost their humanity, and now they seek to rob the rest of us of ours.”

Lucy felt her breath catch. Had not her father used nearly the same words to speak of the mills themselves? “But if they are creatures of magic, why should they wish to see magic banished, as you say it must if these mills rise?”

They now stood outside Uncle Lowell’s house.

“I know you must go, and there will be plenty of time to discuss these matters further, though perhaps not tonight.” At this she smiled. “For now, what you must know is that they are indeed creatures of magic, Lucy, but magic alone can unmake them. They fear nothing else, for they cannot be destroyed by any weapon, by any disease or any accident.”

“Then nothing can stop them?”

Mary shook her head. “I heard a story once of one of these creatures that contained itself in an elemental circle—something far more powerful than a magic circle. The nature of the elements is a guarded secret, but once inside, it took its own life as a means of destroying the life of another of its kind. And there are other rumors of powerful elemental magic that can be used against some of them, but these secrets are closed to us.”

“Then what would you have me do?” asked Lucy.

“Continue to read and learn and hope you are ready. Ludd has sought you out, and I believe these revenants will seek you out as well. It is only a matter of time, and I don’t know that you can ever be prepared, but you must try your best. I fear to think what will happen otherwise.”

T
HE NEXT DAY WAS WARM AND BEAUTIFUL, AND LUCY DID NOT WISH
to remain in the house with Mr. Buckles and her uncle. An excursion was just the thing, and she believed she knew the perfect place.

Like many country estates, both the grand and the ancient, Newstead Abbey was open to visitors certain days, particularly when its master was not on the premises. At Newstead, only the grounds were open, as the main building itself was largely in a state of disrepair, unfit for visitors or even, some said, inhabitants. Locals knew that Lord Byron could afford to restore only a minimal number of rooms, and so he kept the building closed to outsiders out of embarrassment and concern for their safety.

Ludd had told her to gather the leaves in Newstead, whatever that meant, but Lucy had no plans to do any leaf gathering. She had no plans to enter the house, only to look around, get a sense of things, to see if she could gain any insight into what Ludd wanted, and perhaps to gain
some insight into Byron himself. She had to admit that visiting his estate offered a special thrill. He would not be there, of course, but it was his home, and she liked the idea of seeing it.

Martha was certainly curious about Byron, having heard a heavily redacted, and so somewhat nonsensical, version of his visit to Uncle Lowell’s house. In the end, she understood only that a dashing, perhaps slightly dangerous, baron toyed with the idea of pursuing Lucy, and
that
was the reason Lucy did not wish to marry Mr. Olson. It was certainly only part of the truth, but it was a story that clearly pleased Martha, so Lucy allowed her sister to believe it.

While she did not anticipate anything unusual might happen, Lucy still preferred to limit the excursion to the two of them, and so she was quite relieved when Mr. Buckles demonstrated no interest in attending. “I have seen Lady Harriett’s estate,” he told Lucy. “I have been a guest there many times, and so have no need to see the estate of some minor baron.”

They packed a basket and hired a coach to take them the ten miles or so to Newstead. The two sisters were so delighted to be alone, truly alone, in each other’s company. Little Emily was with the nurse, and while Martha missed her child, as new mothers are inclined to do, she also relished the luxury of a few hours to herself.

That she also enjoyed being away from her husband was painfully obvious to Lucy, but she would not press this matter. Martha had sacrificed herself because she believed it was the only way to keep her sister from poverty. It had not worked, and now she was shackled to him until one of them was dead. It was too horrible to think of. It was no wonder that Martha loved her little baby to distraction, for Emily must be the only thing in the world to give her pleasure.

Had they not received directions, they would never have found the abbey, for its only indication from the High North Road was a white gate and a small post house. Once through the gate, they traveled for perhaps half a mile through thick woods, some of the last remnants of the long-since destroyed Sherwood Forest. Once the turrets and parapets of the ancient gothic structure began to appear above the trees, Lucy
could not help but think how appropriate so imposing a ruin should be housed in a wood that was, itself, a remnant of the past.

Newstead Abbey was massive and imposing and beautiful and in a state of unspeakable disrepair. Walls crumbled, roofs were collapsed. It looked unfit for habitation, and yet, for all that, it was breathtaking. A decayed wall enclosed a wild garden to the north and east. To the west lay a massive lake that sparkled in the sunlight. Lucy had never seen anything so simultaneously magnificent and gloomy.

Martha too appeared momentarily transfixed. After gazing upon the main building with wonder, she took Lucy’s hand. “I think that to be mistress of Newstead might be something.”

Lucy smiled at her sister. “Certainly something I shall never know.”

The grounds were reasonably orderly—and massive—and the two sisters wandered from fountain to pond to topiary to well to crumbling statuary, giggling and pulling each other by the hand as though they were girls again. Some heavy clouds passed before the sun, and the air turned moderately colder. Their cheeks became apple red, and their breath puffed into the air with their laughter. Lucy could not recall a time when she had been happier. She forgot about magic and dark beings and leaf gathering. For this one day, she was determined, she would be but a young lady, thinking young-lady thoughts, visiting with her sister and diverting herself.

They wandered the grounds for two hours, ate their lunch, and walked until they were quite fatigued. They saw no other people and no animals of consequence—the rumors of Byron’s menagerie thus far being unproved, for they saw no bears or wolves or giant tortoises, and certainly not the ghostly dog said by locals to haunt the grounds. Lucy had wanted to gain some sense of what Ludd had meant by sending her to Newstead, but when Martha suggested they return home, Lucy began to feel that the excursion had been a wonderful failure. She had learned nothing. There were no clues or hints or cryptic messages.

As she considered these matters, Lucy noticed a stranger approaching. He was an older man, in his sixties at least, and dressed like a tradesman in plain woolens. He walked with a stick, and wore an expression
upon his rounded face of such kindness that it never occurred to Lucy to be cautious. He grew closer, and his grin widened, and when he was close enough he paused and removed his hat.

He bowed to Martha, but then turned his attention to Lucy. “Are you the young lady for whom I am looking?”

“I cannot know,” said Lucy, who suspected that she must be precisely the young lady for whom he was looking, though she hated even to wonder why.

Martha tugged on her arm, perhaps alarmed by something in the man’s appearance, or, more likely, his mode of address. Lucy, however, ignored her sister. She could not know who the man was or what he wanted, but she felt certain she had nothing to fear from him.