The Twelfth Enchantment

35

SUMMER WAS NOW COME TO THE HOUSE CALLED HARRINGTON IN Kent, and it was thus far a mild summer, pleasant but not cool enough to worry the farmers who longed for a good harvest. The days were bright and green, and Lucy could not remember ever seeing her sister, Martha, so happy. Little Emily showed no ill effects of her abduction in the spring. She was, as before, a cheerful and robust child, prone to inexplicable bouts of irritation and sadness, as were all babies, but easily soothed by her mother’s kiss or a happy diversion. She was a precocious thing, not yet ten months, already spewing a babble of noises in imitation of words, crawling quite skillfully and making the occasional, if unsuccessful, attempt to walk upon her plump legs.

Lucy was gone from her Uncle Lowell’s house, with no intention ever to return. She was in her old home, and she could not be happier, though her stay there was but temporary. Upon Mr. Buckles’s death, Harrington reverted to an even more distant cousin, a naval captain of no small heroic reputation. He had written a long and blustery letter to Martha, proclaiming that he was in no hurry to take possession of the estate, not when there were so many French prizes yet to be had, and left the house in her care until such time as the war ended and he had the leisure to see to mundane affairs such as farming and household management. She and Martha would have to vacate sometime, but Lucy was grateful for this period of gentle transition.

She went to town but seldom, and only when necessary. Rumor of her shame at the hands of the rake poet Byron had spread quite rapidly to Kent, and Lucy could not appear in public without exposing herself to the upturned noses of women or the lecherous stares of men. The world believed Lucy would lift her skirts without hesitation, and while this infamy saddened her, she could not regret it. Her reputation was a small sacrifice to preserve the people she loved—small indeed in comparison to what Mrs. Emmett and Mary had given.

Mary had given everything to preserve England, to save Lucy and her niece, and to make certain the Mutus Liber did not fall into the wrong hands. Now the book was back with its true owner, and every day Lucy dedicated long hours to decoding the confusing and obscure elements of alchemy. Slowly she came to understand its symbols and how to apply them. Alchemy was change, and change was but an alteration of what was into another shape. Lead into gold, aging into immortality—these were but the low-hanging fruit that had tempted generations of alchemists, but the art was so much more than that, so much more subtle, and Lucy regularly sat up long into the night, her eyes straining by the candlelight, to grasp what was, by its nature, almost too slippery to be contained.

More than once she had almost quit the endeavor and thrown the book aside as incomprehensible madness. Or, if not that, at least too complicated for her mind. Perhaps others might make sense of it, but Lucy would entrust it to no one. In those dark moments she told herself that she need not master the book. Perhaps it was best that she not master it, and enough that she keep the book out of other hands. These moments of despair did not last long, and soon enough, feeling ashamed of her weak will, Lucy returned to the task. Mary had allowed herself to be erased from existence so that Lucy might retain control of the book. Lucy would make certain she honored Mary’s sacrifice.

Lucy could not think of Mary without being struck by melancholy. She had chosen annihilation and oblivion, had elected to be blasted out of existence, with no hope of continuation or resurrection.

Or, Lucy thought, one morning a month or so after the decisive encounter at Newstead, it was what she believed she had done. Could Mary know, truly know, what she would face after her earthly demise? Was she not as ignorant as men are of their own fate? That something lay beyond this life was now a certainty to Lucy. She had seen far too much evidence to doubt it, but Mary could not know that she was barred from such a continuation. It soothed Lucy to think that somewhere, in some state, her friend continued.

It also comforted her to look upon those who had benefited from Mary’s sacrifice. Emily thrived, as did Martha. The loss of her husband had initially been a terrible blow. Lucy had not told her sister the truth, not at first, for there was so much to absorb, but in time Lucy chose to sit Martha down and tell her everything. First she told her about the magic, proved it to her with a dozen demonstrations before Martha could bring herself to anything like belief. Then she unveiled to Martha the truth about Mr. Buckles, and all that had passed between them. It had been a difficult evening, full of tears and horror, but it had been necessary. She would not say it, but Lucy knew that Martha had accepted that if ever a creature deserved destruction, it was Mr. Buckles, a man willing to sacrifice his own child at his mistress’s whim.

Martha’s life was made easier by not wanting for money. Martha immediately gave Lucy the five thousand pounds that should have come to her upon the death of their father. The money itself meant not so much to Lucy, now that she was free of her uncle’s tyranny, as well as any threats of unwanted marriage. She also felt certain she could use her talents to meet any needs. What mattered to her was that her father’s wishes had, at last, been fulfilled, and that somewhere he knew that. Other than the safe return of her niece, nothing she had done in her life gave her more satisfaction.

Lucy had exchanged several letters with Mr. Blake, who accepted her recounting of the events at Newstead without question, finding nothing strange or improbable in anything. He had sent to Lucy copies of his handcrafted books, which were strange and perplexing things, but Lucy treasured them, and believed they might contain important information if only she could figure out how to make sense of them.

As for Mr. Morrison, little was heard of him in the many weeks subsequent to the incident at Newstead. The ball from Byron’s pistol had not done serious harm to his heart or his lungs, but it had shattered a portion of his collarbone, and his recovery had been both long and painful. Lucy had done what she could in those early days when he was too fragile to move and was confined to his room at a Nottingham inn. She showered him with talismans and herbs and poultices. She spent hours each day leafing through her books for formulas and secrets that might speed his recovery. That she did much good was beyond question, for his surgeon, who feared for his life, was amazed at how quickly Mr. Morrison recovered despite the severity of the injury.

Nevertheless, the wound required a long convalescence, and as soon as he was well enough to travel, he took his leave and departed for his family estate in Derbyshire. Lucy had received a few letters from him, in which he discussed very little but his health. He thanked her for all she had done on his behalf and that of the country.

In response, Lucy wrote him long and chatty letters, informing him of the circumstances of her family, whose happiness owed much to his efforts and sacrifices. In one letter she spoke of her opinion about Mary’s fate, about how no one could truly know her ultimate destiny. To this note she had received no answer, and Lucy feared she had overstepped her bounds. It seemed to her that she might never hear from him again.

Then, in midsummer, she received notice from Mr. Morrison that he was much recovered and was now traveling. He wished to call upon Lucy and her sister. He did so, without any further warning, some weeks later.

Lucy watched from the window as he exited his carriage, and the delight she felt upon seeing him took her by surprise. She wanted to see him. She knew that. She had been anticipating his visit each day, feeling disappointed when there was no word from him. And yet, despite all that, she had not expected to feel as though the breath had been struck from her lungs. She had not expected her heart to thunder so alarmingly or her hands to shake. She had begun to suspect that the feelings for him that had come upon her in those dark days were an illusion brought about by the danger of their adventures, but now, seeing him healthy and recovered, she realized that it was far more than that. She knew that she had been living for this moment.

Martha rushed to the door and ushered Mr. Morrison within. Lucy marveled to see him so strong and healthy. A little thinner and more drawn in the face, but his color was good, and he appeared quite cheerful. He wore a handsome light brown suit, and looked so… so, Lucy did not know what. Remarkable, she supposed. He appeared healthy and confident and comfortable. He appeared every bit the man who had so fascinated her four years ago, and every bit the man she had fallen in love with only months past.

When he set eyes upon Lucy, he colored considerably, and rose from his chair in the sitting room to bow to her. Lucy felt herself break into a great smile, and it was all she could to do keep herself from embracing him.

After much fussing about tea and cakes and fruit, the three of them sat together for well over an hour, and little of moment was discussed beyond Mr. Morrison’s health, which he claimed was as good as could be expected. He still experienced some pain and limitations in movement—a result of the ball remaining lodged in his flesh—but his recovery had far exceeded even the most optimistic hopes of the medical men, and he could complain but little.

After a sufficient time had passed, Mr. Morrison cleared his throat and inquired if anyone would care to walk outside on so beautiful a day. Lucy at once expressed her enthusiasm for the notion, but Martha had the good sense to decline. And so it was that the two of them went outside to stroll down the country lane in the general vicinity of town.

“The Luddites continue their insurrection,” said Lucy after a prolonged silence. “I read that they make inroads into Lancashire and Yorkshire.”

“And my own Derbyshire as well,” said Mr. Morrison. His voice was easy and neutral. “Ludd’s power is now one of influence and inclination. He can lead men to destroy what he hates, but little more. They make their statement, and perhaps it is even a statement that needs to be made, but I do not think their insurrection will amount to much.”

“So I failed?”

Mr. Morrison laughed. “They failed to end the world as we know it, certainly, but I do not consider your efforts a failure. Ludd’s vision was as flawed and dangerous as Lady Harriett’s. Neither side has won, and we will find a balance in the end. The world found its third way and did so because of your actions.”

Lucy blushed, but she also smiled.

“I appreciated your words regarding Mary,” he added. “I can hope she still continues somewhere, but I cannot know, and in that I suppose I am like any widower. Perhaps that is some comfort. I loved her excessively, you know.”

“I know you did,” said Lucy, her eyes cast down.

“But that was long ago. You must know I told you the truth when I said I had no pretensions that the woman you knew as Mary Crawford was the woman I loved as Mary Morrison. What she did, destroying herself, was courageous beyond anything I have witnessed. She was a heroine of the first order, but Mary, my Mary, would not have done that. My Mary would not have abandoned hope. This was not a better person, but a different one. I shall honor her sacrifice forever, but I did not lose my wife a second time.”

“I wish I could say I understand,” said Lucy. “I believe you, but it is so hard to comprehend how you can differentiate them so.”

“The rest of the world saw your niece as what she had always been, but you saw a monster.”

“I saw what it truly was.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Morrison.

They were silent for a long time. Then Lucy said, “Will you kill Byron?”

Mr. Morrison laughed and shook his head. “I do value your directness, Lucy. I shall be direct too. I do not know what I shall do. He is revived but much altered, and so not the same man who shot me or killed Mary. I don’t see how I can take my revenge upon him.”

“He is certainly living the life of a libertine poet still,” said Lucy. “The papers are filled with his exploits.”

“Yes, but I shan’t kill him for his libertinism. Or for his poetry, for that matter.”

Lucy could not think of a fitting response. It was not for her to say what Mr. Morrison should do with this new incarnation of Byron. She did not know what Byron was now, but she could not help but think that an immortal Byron—one with unthinkable strength and one free to live outside the laws of men—must be worse than the old one. When she thought of what he had been, Lucy felt nothing but contempt for him and disgust for herself for having been deceived. She could not say if the revived Byron deserved the punishment of his mortal self, but she hoped never again to have to look upon him.

“I am curious,” said Mr. Morrison. “I long to know what you have learned from the Mutus Liber. What shall you do with your new knowledge and power? Do you have plans?”

“Do you ask this on behalf of the Rosicrucians?”

“No, on behalf of myself.”

“I have hardly even begun to decipher its mysteries,” she said, “but what I have learned so far is beyond wonder and astonishment. What I have been able to do staggers the imagination. As to what I shall do next, I should like to end the war with France.”

He studied her. “You believe you can do that?”

Lucy nodded. “I know I can, though it may take some time, and I may require the resources of an organization such as yours.”

“It is at your disposal,” he said, reaching into his coat. He handed Lucy a sealed envelope, thick with documents. “As is much else. I know you need not fear for your sister’s generosity, but it is good to be independent as well. Before she died, Mary Crawford initiated a series of costly legal investigations on your behalf. Apparently she also instructed her solicitor that if anything were to happen to her, I was to take up the cause. Perhaps she feared more funds would be required and knew I would be willing to pay. In any event, the matter has been brought to a close more speedily than anyone had expected, I believe because of documents that have surfaced following Mr. Buckles’s death.”

Lucy took the documents. “What is this?”

“Information relating to your father’s will, and proof that you were cheated. Your father’s library, and your share of your inheritance, is now yours. There will be some trips to London required to sort it all out officially, but the work is largely done.”

“I am so grateful to you,” she said.

He shook his head. “I am but the messenger, though I am happy to deliver such happy intelligence.”

They walked another few moments in silence, and then Mr. Morrison stopped. He took Lucy’s hand in his and gazed directly upon her. “Do you remember Mary’s last words to me, Lucy?”

Lucy nodded. “She said that you must not let the past stop you. I believe she was trying to tell you something important, though I did not understand the message.”

“I understood her, for even in her altered state she knew me well. I required time to recover in body and in spirit. I have done both, and find myself compelled to ask you, Lucy, if you could ever forgive me for what happened between us those years ago? I know deceiving you was inexcusable. I know I made you miserable and you had every right to hate me, but I hope—I have dared to hope—that you might see things differently now.”

Her face felt as though it were on fire. “You withheld the truth from me out of loyalty to my father and because you believed it was best for me to do so. You deprived yourself for my sake. I cannot blame you for doing what you thought was right.”

He fixed her hard with his eyes, as though attempting to take in every detail of her face. “You said shortly before we arrived in Newstead that you had come to hate me less than you had. I have dared to hope, Lucy, that your feelings were something more than a diminished hatred—that they had turned in an entirely new direction.”

She wanted to look away, to dissemble, to pretend that she did not understand him, but that was no longer who she was. She did not play such games. She looked at him and nodded. “They have.”

“I had convinced myself my love for you was gone, something never to be recovered. It was a lie, I told myself, because I could not endure the truth. But your courage and cleverness and beauty and spirit have awoken in me what I have tried so hard to keep dormant. Should you reject me, I must still always be in your debt for rekindling in me a sense of hope and wonder I never again thought I would feel. I pray you will not reject me, however. You are your own woman now and must depend upon no one. You are free to make your own choices without fear of want, and so I may ask you now what I have so wanted to ask, and know your answer will be dictated only by your heart. Lucy, I pray you will agree to be my wife.”

Lucy let go of his hand and stepped away from him. “Perhaps you don’t understand, but as a result of my actions in London, my reputation has suffered, and I could not ask—”

“I don’t give a damn about your reputation. You speak of ending the war with France, and yet you worry what the grocer whispers to the fishmonger? Or worse. You think I might care what gossips say! I care only for you and who you are and what I know you to be. I care for what I have seen with my own eyes and loved with my own heart, and I ask you again if you will marry me.”

Lucy stepped back toward him and took both his hands in her own. “Dear Lord, yes. I love you, and I will marry you.”

He leaned forward and kissed her. It was soft and sweet and tentative, as though he was afraid he might break her, and she loved him even more for his gentleness.

“We must marry soon,” he said.

“Very soon,” she agreed.

A tear formed in Mr. Morrison’s eye, and he turned away, gently released her hand, and then began to walk. However, he stopped at once and moved his neck back and forth in a curious fashion.

“Is something wrong?” asked Lucy, hardly able to conceal a smile.

He continued to move his neck, to twist his shoulders. “It is the ball from Byron’s pistol. The surgeon could not remove it, and I feel it always when I move, but I do not feel it now.”

“No,” said Lucy, grinning quite freely. “I don’t suppose you do.” She held out her fist and then opened it, palm upward, to show Mr. Morrison a compressed piece of metal, a flattened and blasted ball, glittering in the summer sun.

Mr. Morrison stared at it. “But how? How can it be possible?”

She could not suppress a grin. “The Mutus Liber has changed my notion of what is possible and what is not.”

Mr. Morrison opened his mouth to speak, closed it, and then tried again. “But how did you do it? How can it be?”

Lucy began to walk back toward the house. After a moment, she turned around to glance at the still motionless Mr. Morrison. Everything felt right to her, as right as it had in a very long time, and that unfamiliar sensation that washed over her was happiness, and something more. It was the feeling of living a life that was hers, of being herself, of being home. Things felt right, and she liked the sensation very much indeed.

Lucy laughed and then indulged herself a coquettish shrug, before turning away to walk, knowing that it mattered not where she went, for he would follow. “How?” she repeated over her shoulder. “Surely, you know the answer to your own question, Mr. Morrison. It is magic.”