The Twelfth Enchantment

3

WITH THE DULL MOTIONS OF A SOMNAMBULIST, LUCY PUT ON HER gloves, a warm bonnet, and a plain muslin pelisse. She stepped out of the house with Mrs. Quince, and they both walked in silence for a brief while. It was cool and crisp, and the Nottingham streets were lightly trafficked. Lucy believed it unlikely the rough men who caused so much trouble in the country would dare molest two such as they, walking upon the fashionable lanes in the shadow of the castle, but in the spring of the year 1812, it was difficult not to be frightened. These once-placid streets were now haunted by luckless men, hulking and impoverished and starving, skulking about with their shovels and hammers and spades. They sought to destroy, to beat back into its proper shape a world that had betrayed them with war and famine and rising prices. Twice before Lucy had seen bands of these Luddites, though only at a distance, and they had shocked her with their sunken eyes and animal desperation.

After several minutes of silence, Mrs. Quince finally spoke without bothering to turn to Lucy. “Shall I presume you are the cause of that man’s difficulties?”

Lucy could not help but laugh. “You know far more of these matters than I.”

“Now you would call me a witch?” snapped Mrs. Quince.

“I only suggest that what little I know I have learned from you.”

“I hardly know anything myself. Perhaps you have studied elsewhere,” said Mrs. Quince.

“Of course not,” answered Lucy, and this was mostly true—certainly true for all practical effect. Lucy had once secretly purchased a book, The Magus by Francis Barrett, with money from her meager annuity, but this volume had proved utterly unilluminating. In any case, she could not quite make herself believe in the seriousness of these things. Did Mrs. Quince truly suspect Lucy cooked up hexes and spells like a witch in a fairy tale? What they had done together those years before now seemed silly, no more than a girls’ game, and they had not attempted anything so implausible as a curse. Yet Lucy knew learned men had believed in such things for millennia. Her father had directed her to read about the lives of Paracelsus and Cornelius Agrippa and Isaac Newton—great thinkers and natural philosophers who also delved into magic and alchemy and the summoning of spirits. Only in the modern world had the educated begun to reject such beliefs. Yet, here she was, walking the streets of Nottingham at night to find a mysterious woman who might help lift the curse off a handsome stranger.

Three years ago, it was Mrs. Quince, then her friend, who wished to explore such matters, who said it would be fun, who laughed with her about the secrets they might discover. Now that business was being thrown in her face, as though Lucy were to blame.

The doctor had informed them that the woman they sought, Miss Mary Crawford, lived on High Pavement, which was among the most desirable streets in Nottingham, but her house was modest, very narrow and lower in height than those surrounding it. They walked up the steps, and Mrs. Quince turned to Lucy. “I shall speak. Pray do not trouble the lady.”

Within moments of their knocking, the door opened, and a curious sort of woman greeted them. She grinned widely and absurdly, showing a mouth of perfectly white and even teeth. She was plump and of indeterminate age, with a dingy complexion, narrow eyes, and a round face that would conceal many wrinkles, assuming she was old enough to possess them. This woman might have been thirty or she might have been fifty. She wore a shapeless, mouse-colored frock, and her bonnet was so low upon her forehead that it rested just above her eyebrows, and its odd placement gave the woman the look of a simpleton.

“It is Miss Lucy Derrick!” the woman cried out with evident joy, and grabbed Lucy by the hand. “Oh, you must come in. Miss Crawford will be so happy to hear of your arrival.”

Lucy did not try to escape the woman’s firm grip, but her mind raced in confusion. She did not often forget faces, and she believed she must recognize the woman if they had previously met. Now, with her accusation only minutes old, Mrs. Quince stared at Lucy with cold fury.

“I am very sorry,” Lucy said, “but I do not believe I know you.”

The woman waved a plump hand dismissively. “Do not trouble your mind, my dear. We’ve not met, but how could I not know a young lady as sweet as Lucy Derrick?”

Lucy had no answer to this question, and for entirely different reasons, neither did Mrs. Quince, but they allowed the peculiar woman to lead them into the sitting room, which was a small but comfortable space.

“I am Mrs. Emmett,” the woman said to Lucy, ignoring Mrs. Quince entirely. She reached out and took Lucy’s hand in both of hers. Her skin was warm, almost hot, and as soft as a baby’s. “Mrs. Emmett.” She pronounced each syllable with much exaggeration. “You’ll recollect it, I hope, Miss Derrick. You’ll not forget me now.”

“Indeed, I shall not,” said Lucy.

“I am so happy.” She released Lucy’s hand. “I shall fetch Miss Crawford at once.”

She then hurried out of the room, muttering to herself and waving her hands excitedly.

Mrs. Quince, who did not love to be slighted, turned hard to Lucy. “You claim to have no knowledge of curses, and yet the cunning woman’s servant knows you.”

“She does appear to, but you heard that she did not expect me to know her. Perhaps she foresaw my arrival in the cards,” Lucy said, enjoying the moment of sauciness.

Mrs. Quince snorted and turned to examine the gilt wallpaper, which she said she thought rather shabby for a gentlewoman’s.

After a few moments, they heard the approach of feminine footsteps, and in walked a strikingly pretty woman of perhaps five-and-twenty, tall and graceful, with fair skin, hair so blond it was nearly white, and extraordinarily pale green eyes. She wore a fine tunic of green and gold, cut square in the front, and cut low, as was also the London fashion, and it showed her shape to great advantage. She dressed as though she were entertaining or prepared to go out, though Lucy could see no signs that either case was true.

She did not hesitate to take Lucy’s hand. “Miss Derrick, I am Mary Crawford. I hope my woman’s excitement did not trouble you. She has seen you about town and admired you. Mrs. Emmett has her peculiarities, but she is a good woman and means no harm.” There was something about her—not her appearance certainly, but some elusive quality—that made Lucy think at once of her late sister, Emily. It may have been the way she tilted her head when she spoke, or in the kindness of her words. Perhaps it was the hint of cleverness that revealed itself in even the most banal statements.

That had been the essence of Emily—not merely her remarkable, if unusual, beauty, with her nose slightly too large, her lips too thin, her chin too long—not merely her wit or charm or winning conversation. Emily always gave the impression of being thoughtful and clever. She projected warmth and friendliness, and at the same time she had seemed superior, yet she appeared utterly insensible of her superiority. This remarkable confluence of appearance, demeanor, and ease had made her loved by virtually all who knew her. Some friend or other was forever inviting her to travel, and she spent nearly half the year, every year, away from home, off to London, York, Bath, Brighton, even Edinburgh and Cardiff. Everyone had wanted to be near Emily, and Mary Crawford had, if not precisely the same charm, something very like it.

“I assure you, I took no offense.” Lucy made the deliberate decision not to introduce Mrs. Quince, in part because it felt quite pleasant to slight her, but also because she could not help but feel that she wanted this lady all to herself. “I come upon truly unusual business, Miss Crawford, and I hope you will forgive me.”

“I am certain whatever you have to say will require no forgiveness. Please, sit down. Perhaps your woman will wait in the kitchen? Mrs. Emmett can fetch her a pot of small beer.”

“I am content where I am.” Mrs. Quince met Miss Crawford’s eye, but she was not so bold as to sit herself.

“Of course,” said Miss Crawford, who gave Mrs. Quince a sidelong glance that, to Lucy, suggested she understood everything.

Mrs. Quince had said she wished to do the speaking, but now Lucy believed it fell to her to explain her situation as best she could. “I hardly even know how to state this business, but there has been a strange incident at my uncle’s house, and we have been advised to seek your aid.” She went on to provide a summary of the evening’s events, beginning with the arrival of the stranger and concluding with Mr. Snyder’s recommendations.

“I have not the pleasure of knowing Mr. Snyder well,” said Miss Crawford, “and I met him only briefly, so I fear he misunderstood the nature of my experience with the old knowledge. While I am something of a student of the hidden arts, I have no skill as a practitioner.”

Lucy leaned forward, fascinated. “But you believe in magic? You think it real?”

Miss Crawford laughed, not unkindly. “If you had seen all I have seen, you would understand that it is not a matter of belief. From what you describe, you have seen remarkable things this night as well.”

“What we saw was indeed remarkable,” admitted Lucy, “but I am convinced there must be some manner of explanation.”

“Certainly there is,” agreed Miss Crawford. “Most likely, this man is cursed.”

“What we have thus learned,” said Mrs. Quince as she airily looked out the window, “is that you claim this man is bewitched, but you can do nothing about it. If that is so, I see no reason we should trouble your quiet any longer.”

Lucy felt herself flush with shame, but Miss Crawford’s smile remained fixed and kind and entirely directed at Lucy.

“I do not know that I shall be able to help this man, though I shall be able to tell you if he suffers a bewitchment or no with a high degree of certainty. Once we establish that, well… then we shall see.”

Miss Crawford had a carriage at her disposal, which she insisted they take the short distance to Uncle Lowell’s house. They rode in uneasy silence, and Lucy could not help but suspect that Mrs. Quince, with her glowering mood, was the cause of it. Even in the dark, Lucy saw Miss Crawford cast her the occasional kind and conspiratorial smile, as though they were allies together against Mrs. Quince, and Lucy had the strangest feeling that she and this lady were friends, and that they had been for a great while. She knew it was but a flight of fancy, but she clung to the idea of having such a friend.

Upon their arrival, Lucy introduced Miss Crawford, believing her uncle must be charmed. He was, however, unimpressed. “Pretty for a witch, I’ll warrant, but pretty don’t signify,” he said, apparently oblivious to Miss Crawford’s presence or his unpardonable rudeness. “I’ll not pay a farthing for gypsy tricks.”

Lucy felt her face burn. “Miss Crawford wants no money” she said, using her most soothing voice. “Only to help if she can.”

“It is what they say,” replied Uncle Lowell. “If there is a bill to be delivered in the end, present it to the vomiting vagabond. I promise to pay nothing.”

Lucy took a candle, and the four of them ascended to the guest room, which was cold for want of a fire, and was lit by only two small oil lamps. There, in the gloom, they gazed upon the shadowy form of the stranger, who lay on the bed, curled up like a kitten on top of the counterpane, breathing in uneven rasps. Lucy took the opportunity to observe his uncovered misshapen foot—hooked and twisted like a beast’s wounded claw. It was awkward to be so close to so handsome a man in a state of undress, and Lucy turned away.

Miss Crawford took the candle from Lucy’s hand and crept forward to examine the stranger. She came within a few feet of him, held out the light, and then nearly dropped the taper. She stepped backwards, and her face twisted with surprise or perhaps fear.

Lucy ran forward to take her elbow. “Are you unwell?”

Straightening out and affecting a calm demeanor, Miss Crawford shook her head. “It is nothing, thank you. It is only that… I cannot say. There is something very wrong here.”

“And it is now, I suppose, that you say you shall make everything right for a guinea!” cried Uncle Lowell. “You must think me the greatest fool who ever lived.”

“I shall show her to the door,” offered Mrs. Quince.

Lucy knew better than to apologize for her uncle. Instead she relied upon the tools she had always used to survive in his and the serving woman’s company, which is to say, she ignored them as best she could. “What must we do, Miss Crawford?”

Even in the dark of the room, Lucy could see the concern upon the lady’s face. “I cannot say what there is to be done. I can—I can try to do something. I must have some quiet. I beg you all to leave the room. All but Miss Derrick. You will stay with me, won’t you?”

Lucy wanted to stay with Miss Crawford, certainly, though she did not know how she felt about staying with this undressed stranger.

“I shall remain too,” announced Mrs. Quince, “to protect the interests of the household.”

“I must request otherwise,” said Miss Crawford to Lucy, ignoring Mrs. Quince entirely. “I do not think your woman’s proximity will aid my concentration.”

Mrs. Quince turned to Miss Crawford, and something hot and angry burned in her eyes, but she swept from the room, and Lucy indulged in a little thrill of triumph. It was childish, yes, but she did not care. She was the favored one now, and she watched with pleasure as Uncle Lowell and Mrs. Quince stepped away, so that only the two young ladies remained in the dimly lit room with the door closed.

Miss Crawford sighed as she set her candle down upon a little table near the fireplace. “Now I must do what I do not love. I must attempt to practice.”

“Does it hurt you?” asked Lucy.

Miss Crawford laughed good-naturedly. “No, it is simply something for which I have no talent. I also hate to play at the pianoforte, for I am very bad at it, and the attempt makes me feel useless. I understand the principles of magic, just as I understand those of music, but I was not formed to excel at either. Even so, for the sake of your household, I will try.”

Miss Crawford closed her eyes and stilled her breathing.

“You quiet yourself.” Lucy had not intended to say anything, and she regretted the words the instant she spoke them. She hated when words escaped against her will. It was a feeling she knew too well. With Mrs. Quince, the consequence for a slip of this kind might be a pinch or a slap or a public scolding, and Lucy winced out of reflex.

Miss Crawford turned to her, the surprise visible upon her face even in the feeble light, but there was nothing dark or angry. “You know more of the cunning woman’s craft than you admit.”

“Only… only a little,” she answered. “I attempted to learn to read the cards once, but I was not very good at it and—and it ended in a quarrel.”

“With whom?” asked Miss Crawford.

Lucy surprised herself by telling the truth, though she had never before spoken of how Mrs. Quince treated her. She hated that the world would know how helpless she was, but now she found she wanted to tell Miss Crawford. “Mrs. Quince. She was kind to me once, long ago, but since that quarrel, she has not been my friend.”

Miss Crawford clucked her tongue. “I don’t believe I much care for your Mrs. Quince, so we may safely forget about her. I would like you to look for the source of this man’s curse.”

Lucy felt cold fear grip her. It was a near-blinding panic. Was it fear of Mrs. Quince or something else? She did not know why, but she did not want anything to do with helping this man. “I can’t,” she sputtered. “I know nothing of these things.”

“You know how to quiet yourself,” said Miss Crawford. “I cannot do it. At least I cannot do it well, for I have not the concentration. You must simply grow quiet and then, with your mind rather than your eyes, have a look about.”

Lucy shook her head like a child. She had not attempted to enter this state of concentration, not since that afternoon, the last time she’d tried to read the cards with Mrs. Quince. She recalled it now in a jumble of images—Mrs. Quince’s freckled complexion turning bright red, cards flying across the table, a crystal pitcher shattering. Mrs. Quince accusing Lucy of plotting against her. A slap across the face, shocking in its force and suddenness. Lucy had been unable to comprehend. She’d only known magic as something silly and trivial, something for street performers, or a kind of parlor trick practiced by wags like Jonas Morrison. She’d never understood why Mrs. Quince had taken the matter so seriously.

The thought of quieting herself filled her with a terrible anxiety, but she knew it was Mrs. Quince who made her feel this way, not the act itself, and certainly not Miss Crawford. As much as Lucy wanted nothing more than to step back and recede into the wallpaper, she was determined not to disappoint this lady. She bit her lip and squeezed her eyes shut for a moment. “I shall try.”

Lucy took a deep breath and let it out slowly, and then repeated this action several times, slowing her breathing, trying to slow her heartbeat though it pounded loud and quick. She tried to silence the chatter in her mind. She felt the light of the candle. The proximity of Miss Crawford, and the strange man on the bed who radiated a dangerous warmth.

Then there was something else. Something red and black and angry. It burned, and yet, in her mind it seemed both cold and wet. On some deep level Lucy understood that if she paused to consider the contradictions of what she experienced, the sensation would vanish, like a vivid dream that dissolves into a jumble of images only seconds after waking. She held on to this experience by the thinnest strand of gossamer, and it nearly eluded her entirely. It was a glimpse of something that flickered like a candle and that she could only understand by putting together fragments. She had no knowledge of what it was, but she knew precisely where it was.

Breaking her concentration, Lucy strode forward. She opened the stranger’s coat and, gripping the lining in both hands, she tore it, and there, tucked in the folds of the cloth, was a little package of white linen, no bigger than a crab apple, tied with what appeared for all the world to be human hair.

She began to reach out toward the bag when there was at once something between her and the bundle. It was dark and ill-defined and empty, and yet, for all its shapelessness, it seemed to Lucy to have a face—not composed of features precisely, but points within its blankness that stood in for features. It turned to Lucy and gazed upon her with its indistinct eyes and opened its absent mouth to reveal an even more black and undulating abyss within. There was something sick and wriggling about it, as swift and jittery as a beetle’s legs as it lies upon its back. It was more terrifying than anything Lucy had ever imagined. It was terror itself, given a cold and shimmering nonform. Lucy’s legs grew weak, and though she did not know it at the time, she would later realize she had nearly passed water where she stood.

If the encounter had lasted longer, Lucy would have been unable to resist the urge to flee, but from the moment she first saw the thing until the moment she acted, only a second or two passed. She had almost no time to feel the full brunt of the terror, and so she reached past the shapeless thing and grabbed the cloth sack and yanked it away.

She looked back and saw that the dark presence had gone, and the stranger was awake, staring at her with glassy eyes, but then he sank back to bed, unconscious once more.

Lucy took the little sack, and realizing she was no longer in the quiet state, she held it out to Miss Crawford.

The lady looked at the bag and then at Lucy. Her sea-green eyes were wide and moist. “Miss Derrick,” she said, “that was most impressive.”

Lucy held the package in her shaking hand. “What was that?” she managed, though her voice cracked as she spoke.

Miss Crawford put her own hand over Lucy’s and smiled. “There are dark things in this world, and you have seen one of them, but it is gone now. Now we must get rid of the instrument that attached it to this man,” she said. “A curse of this kind works upon the principle of sympathy. Whatever has linked the stranger to this bundle must still be in effect, so we must be careful how we destroy it. If we were to burn it, for example, it might cause that man to develop a fever or blisters, or possibly even burst into flame himself.”

Miss Crawford took the package, set it down upon the little bed table, and began to untie it. The cloth unfolded as a square, and within in it, made of the same cloth, was a little effigy of a man, so bland and featureless as to be a model of any living person with four limbs and a head. Around its little cloth neck were tied strands of hair.

“Now we may safely destroy it,” Miss Crawford said, clutching it in her hand. “It is inert. I shall toss it in the fire on my way out.”

Lucy could not cease thinking of the shapeless creature she had thought she had seen or almost seen or sensed or whatever it had been. She opened her mouth to ask about it, but then decided it was better not to know. Already she began to doubt she had seen anything at all, to tell herself that her mind had combined shadow and smoke and fear and created a formless chimera. She liked believing this better than believing that the shape she had encountered was real.

To distract herself, she turned toward the man. “Ought he not to awaken?”

“I expect he will soon enough,” said Miss Crawford. “Though free of the curse, he has been through an ordeal, and he will need time to recover.”

They departed the room, and Miss Crawford put her hand on Lucy’s arm in what felt like a gesture of friendship. Lucy looked up at Miss Crawford and saw her beautiful smile, and though she wished to hear more praise, she understood no words could ever capture the same force as that expression of respect and benevolence. Miss Crawford liked her. She approved of how Lucy had conducted herself. For the first time in as long as she could remember, Lucy felt as though there was a person in the world to whom she mattered.