The Twelfth Enchantment

29

LUCY WAS AWAKE HALF THE NIGHT CONTEMPLATING HER NEW state. There were spells of control, spells of forgetting. There were options, but thinking of these only led to more crying. She could not hope to control the minds and memories of so many people, and even if she could do it successfully, there was a time when the influencing of people and their minds became more than a strategy, it became evil. This moral position was a luxury she could afford only because she knew that the secret was surely out already. No doubt the servants had told their friends, and the news had spread by now to dozens of houses in London. By this time tomorrow, that number would be tenfold.

“It doesn’t matter,” she told herself. Over and over again she said it. It did not matter, because an advantageous match and balls and operas and tea gardens—these were not for her. Her task was to rescue her niece, and now she understood she could do so only by destroying an immortal, evil being, though destroying this being meant obliterating its soul, perhaps the most terrible thing she could imagine. That was not hers to consider, however. Hers was to retrieve the pages, and she had begun that endeavor, and she had kept her success hidden from everyone. That was some consolation for her disgrace.

Her disgrace. Best not to dwell on it, she decided. Best not to dwell on her shame or her challenge or any of the difficulties that lay ahead of her. There was but one thing that mattered, and that was the next piece of the Mutus Liber. She would have to attempt to discover how to find the next piece, and for that she would have to speak to Mary. She’d said she was returning to Nottinghamshire, and now, apparently, so was Lucy.

In the meantime, she examined the pages she had already. Upon them were chaotic images—bearded men in flowing robes who stood upon cliffs or raised books to the moon. A naked woman lay upon a bed of branches, holding a chalice to her breast. A child flew in the air, soon to land in the arms of a strange creature—part woman, part spider.

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.

Mr. Morrison was already somewhat in her power, and might be subject to her persuasion, but that would not be enough. She needed more than simply to make him do what she wished. And then she recalled that she had just recently learned the very thing she needed.

Much to his surprise, Lucy took Mr. Morrison’s hand. She was not entirely certain what she was doing, but she’d done enough, seen enough, to feel that she could manage her way through this on her own, even if she did not follow the instructions precisely. She had a feel for the push and pull of magic’s energies, and the pages of the Mutus Liber had shown her the way. She had wanted to use herbs or talismans or spells. She knew now that she needed only her own hands and her own voice.

“Mr. Morrison,” she said, “I want you to look into my eyes. Yes, just like that. And I want you to listen to me. Are you listening to me?”

He nodded slowly.

It all seemed so natural, like following the currents of a river. She did what she thought she ought to do, and it felt proper, correct, easy. “Very good, sir. I want you to listen to my voice, and as you hear my voice, I want your mind to clear itself of everything but my voice. That’s right. You are listening, just listening, but thinking of nothing but what I say, awaiting my next command. Are you still listening?”

He nodded once more.

“Are you ready to receive my commands?”

He nodded.

Astonishing. What a remarkably useful tool this was. Of course, Lucy had no illusions. She could not so easily compel Mr. Gilley to listen to her and allow her to stay, for, as she understood these things, he did not really want to listen to her or to let her stay. It was likely she would have had no power over Mr. Morrison if she had not already made him love her. Even so, this new hold she had over him seemed remarkable.

“Mr. Morrison, the two pages of the Mutus Liber. You have them with you?”

“I do,” he said.

“I want you to give them to me.”

Mr. Morrison reached into his jacket and retrieved a pocketbook. He opened it, and pulled from it two folded pages, which he gave to her. Lucy quickly concealed them within a hidden pocket in her gown.

“Who else knows you found them?” she asked.

“No one,” he said.

“Mr. Morrison,” she said, finding her way by intuition and sense. “I want you to forget you found these pages. I want you to forget you ever had them and gave them to me. You will recall only that you went to Wales and met with no success. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” he said.

“I shall presently let go of your hand. When I do so, you shall not recall that we have spoken of these pages at all. It shall be to you precisely as it was moments ago.”

“Yes, Lucy,” he said.

Lucy let his hand drop.

Mr. Morrison blinked. “I am very tired suddenly. I forgot what I spoke of.”

“That I must find my own way back to Nottingham. I know not what I shall do then.”

“You will still seek the pages of the book, I imagine. Just as I do.”

“And you’ve had no success?” asked Lucy, testing out her work.

“None,” he said, without hesitation. “My visit to Wales was as unsuccessful as our visit to Newstead. Now that Mr. Perceval is dead”—and here he paused, obviously moved by this loss—“there is no one to stop me from seeking out Lady Harriett and searching for the pages in her library. It will be a great risk to do so, but I know not what else to do.”

“Do be careful,” said Lucy, for despite what he had done to her in the past, she could not let Mr. Morrison venture into Lady Harriett’s estate unprotected.

“Have no worries,” he said. “We’ve had dealings with her before.”

“Then I shall make my own inquiries,” said Lucy. “When I return to Nottingham, I shall speak to my friend, Mary Crawford. I don’t know how much I can trust her. She has done things that are… well, they are complicated, but I believe she may prove to be of assistance.”

Lucy stopped talking because she observed that Mr. Morrison no longer gave any indication of listening to her. Instead, his hands were raised to his face, and he was slouched over slightly. When he, after a moment and some prodding by Lucy, lowered his hands, she observed that his face was red and his eyes were tearing.

“What name did you say?” he asked in a low, rasping sort of voice.

Lucy recalled that she had made it her habit to conceal such things from Mr. Morrison in the past. That she had neglected to do so now ought not to have posed any problems, but surely it did. Was it possible that he, like Byron, knew Mary?

Mr. Morrison took a step forward. “Say her name again!” he demanded, such rage in his voice that Lucy was afraid either to answer or to not answer.

Remaining quiet struck her as the more dangerous of the two options, and so she spoke. She needed to keep him calm at all costs, lest his rage shatter the hold of the love magic she had put upon him. “It is my friend, Mary Crawford.”

He put his hands to his face again and turned away. “My God, I could not have believed it. I would not have believed it. Is it truly possible?”

She took a halting step after him. “What is it Mr. Morrison? What has happened? Who is Miss Crawford to you?”

“Then you truly do not know?” he asked.

“I know nothing of her except what she is to me.”

Jonas Morrison lowered himself gently into an armchair and sat with his head down, wiping away tears without care to conceal them. When he raised his face to her, he appeared hardly recognizable. The stony, reserved face was now soft and moist and bloated with sadness. “Mary. Miss Crawford, as you style her, was my wife. It was she who was murdered, and she for whom I seek revenge.”

There was obviously an error. “I am sorry to have mentioned a name so troubling to you,” Lucy said, choosing her words with great care. “Hers cannot be an unusual name.”

“It is not a name, it is she,” moaned Mr. Morrison. “Why did not I see it? You, Lucy Derrick, grown suddenly into a cunning woman. It was your friend who taught you what you know, wasn’t it? It was she who put you on this path, on my path, was it not?”

“She encouraged me and she was my teacher. But your wife is dead. You said she is dead.”

“She is dead,” he cried, rising from his chair. “Have you not been listening even to your own words? Do you not understand of what we speak? She is a revenant. She is spirit made flesh. She has come back, in a fragile, immortal form, and it is she whom I seek. She is the one who has set Ludd against the future. Can you not understand the horror of my situation? I loved her and I lost her, and now I must destroy her again, forever. I must destroy her soul.”

It was a mistake. It had to be. Mary, dead? Mary, a member of the very race she claimed to fight against? Lucy did not understand it. She could not even make herself think about it. Not now. Not yet. She had to restore some kind of order and meaning to the world.

He turned away from her, but Lucy knew it was her task to comfort him. In the past, he had treated her monstrously, but she had cast a spell so that he would cherish her, and surely in doing so she had inherited some responsibilities. She could not let him suffer like this.

As she approached, however, he spun around. “Dear Lord, how many times must I be humiliated? You cast love magic on me. You have been toying with me since—since Nottingham, the chocolate house. I see it all now.”

He gave her no time to answer, which was for the best. There was nothing to say.

“You would use me so? I must endure this as well?” He paused for a moment, wiped his eyes with a handkerchief, and then looked at her, his expression as hard and cold as any she had ever seen of him. “I know you are angry for what you believed passed between us so many years ago. I know you are angry, and I know you are determined, but never did I think you cruel.”

He left the room. She heard some forced conversation outside, and then the door shut. Beyond the other horrible feelings that swirled in her mind, Lucy understood that, in a capital on the threshold of revolution, she was now truly all alone without friends or protection. And yet, beyond all this, she thought that she had been exposed to Mr. Morrison, and he still did not recall that he had given her the pages of the book. She now possessed eight of the twelve pages, and to that one triumph she tried to cling, lest she collapse now in tears.

Lucy remained in that room, frightened and ashamed, unable to think of what to say or where to go. Mary was a revenant. She had lied to Lucy from their first meeting. She had tricked and manipulated her into ends Lucy could not now imagine. Lucy, who had felt friendless before, now felt utterly alone and without help.

Her coach to Nottingham had already departed, and she hardly knew what to do. She could arrange for another the next day, but would it be safe for her to travel the streets? What happened upon the streets? Was there violence and murder and riot? She did not know, and she hardly dared to ask her unwilling hosts for intelligence.

After perhaps an hour Mr. Gilley entered the room. Lucy now sat by the window, looking out upon the cool spring day. If Mr. Gilley noticed her distress, he did not trouble himself to acknowledge it.

“I trust we shan’t have any more of your gentleman friends trouble us today? All this coming and going brings in chill air, which is very bad for the lungs.”

Lucy did not turn her head. “I expect no more visitors.”

“You will do me the courtesy of looking upon me while you are in my house.”

Lucy turned to him. “I shall endeavor to try. I have missed my coach to Nottingham today. If the streets appear safe, I shall leave tomorrow.”

“You shall leave tomorrow regardless,” said Mr. Gilley. “I said you had three days to depart this house, and so you shall have.”

“And you’ll not trouble yourself if I step out into a riot.”

“You chose to behave without restraint. I cannot answer for the consequences. I have my daughter to think of, and it cannot be to her benefit to see the parade of rakes you bring through our halls, and it could prove detrimental to my constitution as well.” He rose, closed the door, and returned to her, sitting close upon the sofa. “However, as you are now of so generous a disposition as regards the favors of gentlemen, I think it may be possible for me to find a place to stay here in town, provided you are willing to be generous to me.”

Mr. Gilley put his hand on Lucy’s shoulder and smiled showing his very good teeth.

After all that had happened, Mr. Gilley’s proposal filled her with neither fear nor disgust. If anything, she welcomed his blatant expression of desire, his open willingness to state his terms. And what he wanted, what he wished to trade, was of no matter. There were charms she could use to protect her as she walked through the bloody streets. She could make herself safe—she was sure of it. If not, she could alter things otherwise to her liking. Mr. Gilley might desire her now, but it would take relatively little effort to make him love her, and once he did, his demands would be more easily controlled. Or she could make herself invisible to him, or feared by him, or any of a thousand other things. Maybe she was alone and abandoned, but she was not helpless. She had felt helpless her entire life, but she would not feel helpless today.

Lucy looked up at him. “No, I don’t believe I shall accept your offer. You may call me disgraced because my responsibilities demanded I travel from your home without your leave or knowledge, but I have done no wrong. I can assure you, Mr. Gilley, if I could resist Lord Byron’s charms, I shall have no difficulty resisting yours. Now, I beg you, remove your hand from my shoulder. You wish me gone by tomorrow, then all shall be as you wish. I shall tend to the coach, and if I must brave riot and mayhem, then so be it.”

Her words, direct and calm, horrified him. He took a step back. “You are brazen.”

She shook her head. “Shall you tell me so?”

“Perhaps not even another night under my roof is acceptable,” he said.

“As you like,” she responded as she rose to her feet. She would give him no satisfaction. She had nothing to fear. His mind was not his own, but hers to use as she wished. She did not love to use magic to alter people’s inclinations, but in this case, she would do so quite happily.

Just then came a knock upon the door, and Mr. Gilley’s urbane serving man bowed by way of greeting. “Sir, I regret disturbing you, but the young lady has another caller.”

“I can hardly affect surprise,” said Mr. Gilley. “What manner of debauched devil shall we expect this time?”

“He is a rather plain-looking tradesman sort of fellow,” said the servant, “and quite old.”

“I do not think Miss Derrick is so discriminating as a young lady ought to be.”

“What is the man’s name?” Lucy asked.

“He gives his name as Mr. William Blake, an engraver.”

Mr. Gilley made it known that he did not care for her welcoming more men into the house, let alone men of this Mr. Blake’s sort, and that he had no interest in her turning his house into some sort of bagnio, but Lucy nevertheless prevailed upon him—more through silence than through words—to politely withdraw.

Though she had met him but briefly, and under curious conditions, Lucy was nevertheless delighted to see Mr. Blake once again. He was still little more than a stranger, but his was nevertheless a familiar face and a kindly one, and there were few enough of these in London now.

“We met at Newstead, so I would know you when the time came,” Lucy said. “Is this the time?”

“I believe it is,” said Mr. Blake with a great deal of good cheer. “It is very exciting.”

He settled himself into his chair and looked about the room, but not with the wonder of a poor man in a rich man’s abode. No, he gave every impression of watching things that were interesting but not unfamiliar. And his eyes suggested he watched things that moved.

“Miss Derrick, do you know what they are?”

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Blake. Do I know what what are?”

“Those creatures that swarm about you. They are unpleasant to look at. I am used to seeing far more beautiful things. There is no shortage of angels in London, you know, and there are other creatures far less grand. But these things are very unusual.”

Lucy smiled indulgently. “I do not see them myself.”

“No, I suppose not. You give every impression of being a lady who might, otherwise I would not ask. I know others do not see what I see, and I do not expect them to.”

“One must be indulgent when your world is larger than that of those around you.”

He nodded enthusiastically. “That is exactly right.”

“Tell me, Mr. Blake, what can I do for you today? I am told that it is dangerous to travel just now, so something important must have occurred to bring you here. Why is this the time I am to know you?”

“The streets are tense in the wake of the assassination, but my brother Bob assured me I would be safe, and I have come to trust him.”

“Is he in a position to know such things?” Lucy asked.

“He is dead, Miss Derrick, and sees with the eyes of the dead.”

“Oh,” she answered. She had seen too much herself to dismiss anything out of hand, but even so, this man strained her credulity just a little.

“In any event, it is on behalf of the dead that I have come here. There is a very urbane dead gentleman who has been rather insistent that I contact you. Because of my regular congress with Bob, I fear I may have developed a reputation among the dead as a man to whom it is easy to speak. None do so with as much facility as Bob, however, and I have had a hard time understanding what this gentleman wants.”

“He is a ghost, then, this dead gentleman, and not some kind of revenant?”

“What a silly question,” said Mr. Blake. “If he were one of those revenants then he would hardly need my help in speaking to you.”

“You know of them? The revenants?”

“Yes, the fairies. I used to think those little creatures that dance about the flowers were fairies, but it turns out they are a species of angel. The invisible world is very confusing.”

“So is the visible one,” said Lucy.

“Just so,” agreed Mr. Blake. “But, as you say, this gentleman is in the spiritual realm. I do not know if he is a ghost, in the sense that he walks among the living. Rather, he has made his wishes known to me from another place.”

“Well,” said Lucy, in no mood to answer the commands of yet another pushing gentleman, urbane or not, dead or not. “Who is he and what does he wish?”

“He wishes for us to be friends,” said Mr. Blake. “He believes you will need a place to stay, and he wishes that I offer you my modest home. As to who he is, young lady, he tells me his name is Francis Derrick, and that he is your father.”