The Twelfth Enchantment: A Novel (49 page)

He shook his head. “I will not discuss it.”

“I do not mean to cause you pain,” she said quietly. “I only wish to understand.” It was so odd, she thought as she looked at him. She had
spent years hating him, thinking him the most vile of men, but he was never that person. He had only been a kind and loyal man serving Lucy’s father—and serving Lucy herself.

To distract herself, she decided it was time to find the pages. Lucy turned slowly about the room, like a sluggish child at absent play. She ran her hand along the shelves as she walked, hoping for some kind of spark or warmth or feeling of nearness. Then, in some noiseless way, she heard its cry. Lucy walked toward a shelf and there she found her father’s copy of
Purchas, his Pilgrimage
, just as she had always remembered it, and she opened it up. Inside its pages, folded and neat, were two more sheets from the
Mutus Liber
.

Lucy looked at them. They were as beautiful and strange and inexplicable as the others. On the pages were trees transmuting into vines and into animals, plant and creature alike twirling and twisting upward and down. It was all about transformation and change and melding. It was about the future and the past. It was about insight, Lucy realized, about seeing the truth behind veils of deception and disguise. There was more than that, however. The philosopher’s stone was the source of transformation and alteration, and such power required wisdom and judgment and patience, and these too were embedded in these images. Lucy stared for a long time, hoping she might become wise and insightful enough to know what to do next.

And then she did.

She turned to Mr. Morrison and Mrs. Emmett. “I need you to keep my sister away from me. I need you to keep her downstairs no matter what.”

“Where do you go?” asked Mr. Morrison.

Lucy swallowed hard, working up the courage to say what would be far more difficult to do. She turned to Mrs. Emmett and straightened herself in a display of determination. “I go to speak to the changeling.”

Perhaps she heard someone upon the stairs, for when Lucy reached the baby’s room, the wet nurse—a plump and pretty fair-haired woman in her early thirties—emerged. Her eyes were red and heavily bagged, and
her posture somewhat slumped. Everything about the woman suggested fatigue and dejection.

“I wish to be alone with the—the infant,” said Lucy. “I am the aunt.”

“I don’t care who you are, mum,” the woman said hurrying down the hall. “If you want to be alone with her, she’s yours as long as you’ll have her.”

Lucy stepped into the room. It was dark, with only a small fire burning. This had once been Lucy’s own room, but it was unfamiliar now, with pictures of animals upon the wall, a new rug of plain weave, and entirely different furnishings. Near the fireplace rested the baby’s crib, but Lucy did not have to approach and peer into it. The creature had already pulled itself up and clutched the railings in its narrow, clawed fingers. Its large, reptilian eyes followed her as she moved into the room, and then, as she drew too close, it hissed in alarm, showing its sharp teeth. Its forked tongue darted out, tasting the air.

Lucy took another step forward. It cocked its head and hissed again. So, it was afraid of her. That was interesting.

“Can you speak?” she asked.

“Can you?” it asked, its voice raspy and low.

“Clearly,” said Lucy as she took another step forward.

The thing hissed again and swiped at the air with its claws. “No further, witch.”

Lucy stopped, but more as an experiment than out of fear. She was surprised to discover she was not afraid of the creature. She found it vile, but not terrifying, perhaps because it was so clearly afraid of her. “Why do you fear me?”

“You would send me back if you knew how,” it said.

“And you do not wish to go back? You enjoy tormenting my sister?”

“I am charged to not let you send me back,” it said. “For the baby’s sake. It is what my mistress has commanded, and I obey her.”

“Your mistress is Mary Crawford?”

“Yes,” it hissed.

“How do I find my niece?” Lucy asked.

It opened its mouth, and then only hissed again.

“You were going to tell me,” Lucy said. “But you did not. Because you were commanded not to tell me?”

“Yes,” it said, evidently unhappy.

“But otherwise you seem inclined to answer my questions honestly. Why?”

The creature turned away from her, rubbing its long hands over the rough skin of its head, as if trying to puzzle something out. It mumbled something Lucy could not understand.

“Speak so I might hear you,” Lucy said.

It turned to her and flashed its teeth. “It is the pages of the book. They compel me to tell the truth.”

Lucy smiled and approached closer. “Is there anything you can tell me to help me get my niece back?”

“No, you cannot force me to speak of that.”

Lucy took a moment to think of what she might ask next. She could not stay here forever. The men downstairs might awaken, or Martha might come in to discover what Lucy did. She needed to hurry. “What must Mary Crawford do to banish you?”

“Even she cannot banish me now, not until certain conditions are fulfilled. Not until your niece is safe.”

There must be something it could tell her, Lucy thought. Some truth she could extract that did not directly involve the rescue of her niece but would help effect that rescue. She made another attempt. “Then what of the pages yet missing? Mr. Morrison said that Mary Crawford knew the location of pages. Though why would she not tell me?”

“All she does, she believes is right,” the changeling said.

Lucy realized it had answered part of her question, but not all of it, so she tried again, asking more precisely this time. “Do you know where I will find the last pages of the book?”

The creature backed up in the crib. It looked this way and that and appeared so desperate that Lucy almost felt sorry for it. But she pressed her case and pointed at the changeling. “Tell me.”

And it did.

Downstairs Mr. Morrison rushed toward her, evidently concerned. “Is all well?”

“No,” said Lucy. “It seems you were right about Mary. She did deceive me. She had pages hidden away all along, and now, unfortunately, I know where.”

“Why is that unfortunate?” he demanded.

Lucy turned to study his face carefully, hoping for some clues, some explanations. “Because it seems we were all along deceived, Mr. Morrison. The remaining pages are to be found where we first looked. They are within Newstead Abbey.”

They found Martha sitting near the fire in the sitting room. She held some sewing, but did not appear to have done much of anything with it.

Lucy approached her and took her hands. “I am sorry, Martha, but we must go at once.”

“What shall I tell my husband when he returns?” asked Martha, now sounding alarmed.

“Tell him the truth,” said Mr. Morrison. “With any luck, it shall not matter.”

Lucy gathered at once that Martha feared Mr. Buckles. “I would take you with me if I could, Martha, but where I go is far more dangerous than here. When … when all this is finished, I shall take you then, if you like. I shall save you.”

Martha laughed. It was a bitter, barking sound. “Save me. How shall you do so? You have no money, Lucy.”

“I have other resources.”

“If you want shelter,” said Mr. Morrison, “or if you want money to go where none may find you, then you need but ask. I shall never again neglect to be a friend of your family.”

Martha stared at them. “You have set yourself against Mr. Buckles, haven’t you?”

“Lady Harriett has made herself my enemy,” answered Lucy. “She has, in ways I cannot begin to explain, inflicted terrible harm upon both of us, and she has used Mr. Buckles as her instrument. I am sorry to say
this. I do not wish to speak ill of your husband, but it is so. I have not set myself against him, but he has chosen to follow a mistress who has declared me her enemy. I hope you will recollect that I act not against him, but to defend myself. To defend all of us.”

Martha shook her head. “I wish you would say what you mean, what you really mean, instead of speaking in riddles all the time.”

Lucy smiled. “When there is more time, I shall tell you all.”

Martha turned away. “I have this terrible idea in my head that Mr. Buckles will not survive what is coming. Am I all but a widow?”

“Is the wife of the condemned man a widow before he hangs?” asked Mrs. Emmett.

Martha let out a gasp.

Lucy gave a harsh glance at Mrs. Emmett, who only smiled in return. She turned back to her sister. “I do not know what is going to happen. I know only that everything I’ve done, everything I will do, is for you and your child. I beg you to believe that.”

Martha rose and hugged Lucy. “I am afraid.”

Lucy returned the hug and stepped back. “For yourself, you have nothing to fear.” She did not know that it was true. But it would all be over soon. Lucy would find those final pages, and then all would be set right.

“You sound so sure of yourself,” Martha said. “What do you have to fear?”

Lucy forced a smile. “Everything.”

It was to be a long and awkward ride to Nottinghamshire. They would necessarily have to travel slowly once it grew dark, and so be vulnerable to highwaymen, but they dared not stop until morning. There was too much at risk. Both Mr. Morrison and the coachman primed pistols, and they began their long and slow trek that would probably not bring them to their destination until after dark the next day.

They were silent for some time. As was her habit in the coach, Mrs. Emmett fell into a deep sleep at once, snoring in a loud, rasping manner. Lucy did not believe she would be able to sleep so easily. She lay awake
and still and frightened she knew not how long. She had presumed Mr. Morrison to be asleep when he, at last, spoke.

“They change,” he said.

“I beg your pardon.” It came out too clipped and formal, for he had surprised her.

“The revenants. They are not what they once were. They are not the people they were before their alteration. It is why I cannot love her, nor she love me. That part of us is lost.”