The Twelfth Enchantment: A Novel (21 page)

“This is the
Mutus Liber,
” Mary said, sitting at last across from her. “The wordless book. It was published in La Rochelle in the seventeenth century, and it is said to be the most precise book ever printed on the creation of the philosopher’s stone. Do you know what that is?”

“Is it not the key to alchemy?” Lucy asked. “I understand it to be a stone in name only, but I’ve seen it represented as the key both to transmuting base metals to gold and to achieving eternal life.”

“Yes,” said Mary. “The stone is not a stone at all, of course. It is sometimes said to be a powder, sometimes said to be a process with no physical shape—a spell or a set of actions, a state of being, or even the body or mind of the alchemist who understands the workings of these secrets. The
Mutus Liber
dared to set down processes never before committed to print, because it set them down metaphorically. Only someone who is attuned to the hidden arts could understand the instructions embedded within the pictures. And what is more, the pictures make themselves known to those who have the right of understanding. The book is said to favor the wise and the learned, particularly if someone wise and learned is the book’s rightful owner. It is always most powerful in the hands of the person to whom it belongs.”

“Do you mean to say that once I understand these images, I would have the secret?” asked Lucy as she turned the pages, noticing the particulars of each print. Some appeared pregnant with meaning, but others struck her as merely odd. “That I could, with enough study, make the philosopher’s stone, whatever that may be?”

“No,” she said. “Because this book, the one printed at La Rochelle, is
not the true
Mutus Liber
. It is always thus, isn’t it? Secrets within secrets. There are dozens, perhaps hundreds of copies of this book in circulation, but they are all false. The true book contains only twelve prints, not sixteen like this one. It is said that three of those found here are real, but no one is certain which three. That this edition is not the true
Mutus Liber
is a secret possessed by very few, and even those in possession of that secret cannot say which of these prints are genuine.”

“Prints five, ten, and thirteen are true,” Lucy said, not a little pleased with herself.

Mary stared at Lucy, her face unreadable. “How can you know that?”

“How did I know which spells were real in that book you gave me?” she asked. “It is the same. I cannot prove that I am right, but I know it.”

She did. Those prints
felt
different to her. It was as though they gave off heat, but it was not heat at all. It was as though they sang to her, but there was no sound. It was a kind of energy, almost like the feeling that someone’s eyes are upon you, even though you have not yet turned to see that it is so.

Mary smiled. “I doubt it is the same. What you have done here is far more impressive. These pages are designed to elude detection. And yet, I knew you could solve this riddle, even if I did not believe you could do so with such ease.”

Ease
was not precisely the word Lucy would have chosen, for it had not been easy so much as it had been natural, like struggling to remember something long forgotten. But now that she saw these pages for what they were, she found she wanted to see more. Perhaps she would have done a great deal to see more. “Where is the true book?” she asked. “The complete one.”

Mary shook her head. “I can only tell you what is rumored. There was said to be a whole copy in this kingdom, perhaps the only one in the world, guarded by the Brotherhood of the Rosy Cross—the Rosicrucians. You know who they are?”

“I have heard of them,” Lucy answered, afraid to say more.

“I have heard that the leader of a powerful Rosicrucian lodge had the book, but he believed dark forces would use the book against England, and so, to protect it, he had one of his agents take the book apart and hide its pages. If there is a true
Mutus Liber
left in the world, the pages are separated by great distances.”

Lucy was only half-listening, because as interesting as were Mary’s words, the pages were so absorbing. There was something in the curious etchings, something she could almost see. The first thing she observed was that these pages somehow went together. It was no coincidence that these three were left in the book. They were a set, and someone who perhaps believed he might choose pages at random could choose these three, not seeing how they belonged with one another. But there was something else, too. The patterns, the images, took hold of her thoughts, pulled them, led them like a boat upon a river’s strong current. There was meaning here, clear meaning, though it took her a moment to see it.

At last she looked up at Mary. “There is a principle of magic we have not discussed,” Lucy said. “The principle of sacrifice.”

Lucy understood at once that she had said something significant, for Mary dropped her teacup. It struck the floor and shattered, while the lady herself gripped the sides of her chair as though preparing for a great wind that might rip her from where she sat. Mary said nothing, merely stared at Lucy in wonder. Lucy was afraid to ask what it meant. They sat there, frozen in the moment, until roused by a pounding upon the door. Lucy listened as Mrs. Emmett answered, and then, after a moment, Mrs. Quince rushed in, with Mrs. Emmett behind her. Lucy had only enough time to close the
Mutus Liber
before Mrs. Quince could glance in its direction.

“Miss Derrick must come home at once,” announced Mrs. Quince.

“What is it? Is something wrong?” asked Lucy.

“You will worry about anything,” said Mrs. Quince. “No cause for alarm, except as it affects our peace. Your sister and her family have arrived, and Mr. Lowell does not wish to have them about without you present.”

“Oh,” said Lucy, who was still so intrigued by Mary’s reaction that she momentarily forgot to be thrilled at the news that her sister was there at last. Thus she allowed Mrs. Quince to lead her away without saying a proper good-bye or even understanding precisely what had happened.

A
LL THE STRANGENESS OF HER MOST RECENT ENCOUNTER WITH
Mary was forgotten the moment she walked into her uncle’s house and saw her sister in the front room, holding her baby, little Emily. Lucy rushed over and carefully hugged her sister, so as not to crush the baby, and then peeled back the blanket to afford herself a better look at the child, who was awake but gurgling peacefully, swaddled as she was in a blue blanket embroidered with silver lace.

Lucy looked at her sister and her niece, and hugged them both again. She felt the tears running down her cheeks, but she did not care. She was so happy to see them. This was her only remaining family, and how she loved her sister, and how she loved her niece. “Oh, Martha, she looks just like our Emily. The resemblance is remarkable.”

Emily had clearly brought Martha a full measure of happiness. Prior to having her baby, Martha had looked too thin and drawn and unhappy, but now she appeared plump and rosy and cheerful. She favored
their father more than Lucy did, but she shared Lucy’s dark hair and rosy complexion. Her face was longer, however, more pinched, giving her the studious look she had taken so much to heart before her marriage.

She patted her baby’s back. “I do think she is the very image, though Mr. Buckles believes she favors his side of the family.”

“It matters not for a girl,” said Mr. Buckles, by way of greeting. He had walked in when Lucy was occupied with the infant, and was busy wiping a cloth along his forehead. “Were it a boy, it would be preferable that he favor his father.”

Lucy looked at Martha, for an instant forgetting that Martha did not know about her husband’s treachery. She expected that they would share a look of disdain or disgust, but Martha only looked away, appearing grave. She clutched her child closer to her breast. Lucy understood at once that Martha had come to hate her husband. It was there upon her face, and it made Lucy unspeakably sad. Even though such hatred was only just—even if Martha did not know that Mr. Buckles had altered their father’s will—Lucy did not want Martha to suffer.

She looked over at Mr. Buckles, who simpered foolishly at Uncle Lowell, and Lucy felt her face redden with rage. He had stolen what was hers, what was Martha’s, what was her father’s, and paraded about as though it were nothing. He made his insipid observations and commanded Lucy’s sister as though he were not a villain. She swore to herself that he would pay for his crimes. And then, because his hand was outstretched, she took it and welcomed him back to Nottingham.

Lucy spent the next morning in seclusion with her sister and niece. Often her thoughts turned to the aborted conversation with Mary the previous day. She had obviously said or done something to alarm her friend, and she wished more than anything else to know what it was before seeing her again.

So Lucy was relieved when she received a message from Mary asking her to meet her in the marketplace that afternoon. Martha appeared insulted
when Lucy excused herself, observing that it must be a very particular friend who would call her away from her sister and niece, whom she sees so seldom. Lucy assured her she was, and that Lucy only needed a little time to assist her friend in purchasing a new hat for dinner that night. Martha clearly wished to be invited along, and Lucy dreaded that she would speak her desire aloud, but she did not, and Lucy comforted herself that she would have plenty of time to spend with her sister.

Lucy met her friend in the crowded marketplace at noon, and Mary took both of her hands somewhat awkwardly, for she held a little leather bag by a string in one hand.

“I know you have not much time,” said Mary, “but we were interrupted at such an awkward moment yesterday, and I wished to speak with you before more time passed.”

“I have longed for the opportunity,” said Lucy. “If I said something to offend you, Mary, I am so very sorry.”

Mary laughed and then hugged Lucy. “Offend me indeed. Hardly. You astonished me, that is all. I have never met anyone, heard of anyone, so perceptive as you.”

“But I hardly knew what I was seeing or what it meant.”

“I know,” said Mary, walking Lucy over to a little bench where they could sit. “You must understand that the pages of the
Mutus Liber
contain certain truths about the magic of the philosopher’s stone, about the principles that make it function. The pages, though in various locations, always seem to be grouped according to one of these important principles. It is almost as though the pages will not allow themselves to be separated. Perhaps it is not so surprising. We talk about the most powerful magic in the universe, for it is the ability to transform one thing into another thing. Most of the magic that even the most skilled cunning women or hermeticists practice is no more than the natural push and pull of the universe. But this is something different.”

“Is it dangerous?” asked Lucy.

“Oh, yes.”

Mary opened her leather bag and removed a piece of paper, an ink
pot, a quill, a flat piece of wood, which Lucy divined was for her to write upon, a book, and a plump red rose. She then took the small volume and leafed through it briefly, looking for a page, which she soon found.

“This is a charm to kill plants,” said Mary. “It is dangerous magic, traditionally used for evil, and it involves changing the nature of something. Plants are made up largely of water, and this spell works by moving the water from one location to another. If you would make the attempt, please.”

Lucy examined the image in the book. It was a very simple square of seven boxes across, each containing a single Roman letter, the top line spelling out “KONOVON.” In form, it would be an easy charm, but she sensed there were tricks and hidden pitfalls. There were flares in the letters, and she understood almost immediately, purely as intuition, that the letters could not be written in order. Feeling almost certain she was copying it correctly, Lucy took several minutes to duplicate the charm. She then looked up at Mary, for there were no instructions upon the page.

“Toss it upon the rose,” said Mary.

Lucy looked around the marketplace. People hurried about their business, and no one paused to consider a pair of young ladies huddled in conversation. So, in that public setting, Lucy did as she was told. Nothing happened. She sat there for a moment, waiting for instructions.

“You copied the charm perfectly,” said Mary. “Have no fear upon that score. You have a wonderful hand and excellent instincts. The charm did not work because it is not powerful enough to work upon its own. It needs some added force, like a mule that requires a push to begin its labors. And that added force can be provided by a sacrifice.”

Lucy felt uneasy. She had images of mad Picts slitting the throats of lowing cows. “I do not know that I wish to perform a sacrifice of any kind.”

“I will not ask you to sacrifice living creatures,” said Mary, her voice soft. “I have no interest in causing any living thing distress, but there are other kinds of sacrifice. Your choices can constitute a sacrifice. Denying
yourself something, or taking on tasks you would choose not to. For now, I will show you a more direct, simpler kind.”