The Twelfth Enchantment: A Novel (40 page)

“I can’t remember what I am doing here,” he said to Lucy. He sounded amused, not at all upset. “Do you think that odd?”

“You are supposed to be protecting me, blockhead,” said Mr. Olson, still unable to get up from the floor, but now dragging himself toward Lucy, like a desperate soldier upon the battlefield.

“From which one?” asked Mr. Whitestone.

“From the man, you dolt.”

“Oh, yes. That is what Lady Harriett said.”

Quickly, impossibly quickly, he closed the distance between the door and Byron, and lifted Byron in the air, holding him under his arms the way a parent might lift a beloved child. Then Mr. Whitestone tossed Byron hard against the wall. His body struck upon the shoulder, and Byron cried out as he bounced off. Something fell from his pocket, landing upon the dirt floor with a thud. An instant later, Byron landed himself, hard upon his shoulder. He cried out again. His teeth were now covered with blood, and his eyes looked wild, desperate, and enraged.

“Like that?” asked Mr. Whitestone.

“It is a start,” snarled Mr. Olson, panting heavily, taking a break from crawling toward Lucy. “Now, rip his head from his neck.”

“Oh,” said Mr. Whitestone. “Are you certain? I don’t love to kill.”

“It is what Lady Harriett said,” answered Mr. Olson. He winced and snapped his teeth together, fighting off a wave of pain. “In her name, in the name of her late husband, Sir Reginald, I command you to pull Byron’s head from his shoulders.”

“No,” said Lucy, stepping forward, placing herself between Mr. Whitestone and Byron. “You will not hurt him.”

“He did mention Sir Reginald,” said Mr. Whitestone. “We take that very seriously.”

“But you do not love to kill,” said Lucy.

“Do I kill the lady as well?” Mr. Whitestone asked Mr. Olson.

“No, not kill. You may strike her, though not in the face. Nor the breasts. I do not want her breasts bruised.”

“Oh,” said Mr. Whitestone.

Lucy had no time to think. No time to consider. She saw that the object that had fallen from Byron’s coat was his pistol. Darting forward she grabbed it, and not taking a moment to think—for she dared not hesitate, dared not consider—she pointed it at Mr. Whitestone’s chest, cocked the hammer, and pulled the trigger.

The pan flashed and the gun blasted forth its ball, bucking in Lucy’s hand and jerking her wrist back so hard that at first she feared she had broken it. The pain lasted but a second, however, and she reached back and pulled Byron to his feet. He staggered, but he seemed more disordered than wounded.

“Dear Christ!” he cried out.

Lucy followed his gaze and looked at Mr. Whitestone, and she came close to swooning. She had missed his chest by quite a bit, and the ball had struck his face. Almost everything above his mouth—nose, eyes, most of the forehead—had been blasted away or crushed. Nothing remained but a mass of bone and blood, oozing freely, and yet Mr. Whitestone remained standing.

“Oh,” said the bloodied but unharmed mouth. And then Lucy saw something else. The skin around the wound began to repair itself, to grow. She saw the skin moving, stretching, increasing, so that it appeared as though his face crawled with a thousand ants.

She yanked on Byron’s arm. “Can you run?”

He nodded.

They ran.

They had but a single horse, and she sat behind Byron, clutching him tight. Riding on horseback was both faster and less comfortable, and given all her bruises and injuries, Lucy felt each step of the journey, but she willed the horse to run faster. She tried to think of nothing but the journey. There would be time later to think of the horrible spell cast
over Mr. Olson and monstrous Mr. Whitestone, clearly an immortal revenant, whom she had shot in the face. She shook the image from her mind. Instead, she managed to pry her watch from her bag, and what she saw there filled her with hope. It was only just before noon. They could make it in four hours. She looked wretched, inexplicably filthy, but she would worry about that later. She only needed to get to Mr. Gilley’s house in time.

The sky remained steel gray and dark, so she could not chart the passage of time, but she felt they must be covering a great deal of ground, and though she hurt and the cold cut through her, she told herself all would be well. Her wounds would heal, a fire would warm her. Little else mattered. Not now. The things she had seen, the things she had done, they would all wait. That is what she told herself as they rode and time collapsed into itself and minutes became hours or perhaps the other way around. They could only ride. Thinking and worrying and wondering accomplished nothing.

As they turned at a crossroads, Byron slowed sufficiently that she was able to remove her watch and observe the time again. A quarter after two. “How much longer?” she called.

“Not an hour and a half,” he answered.

She would be at Mr. Gilley’s house by five o’clock. The sun would set likely about an hour after that, so she would have half an hour or so to spare—closer than she would have liked, but that did not matter. She would be there.

They crossed into London and Lucy found that a reckless man on a horse could move about the city far more readily than could a carriage. Soon they arrived at Mr. Gilley’s street. Byron dismounted and helped Lucy to the ground.

“I cannot thank you enough,” she said to him.

He was bruised and beaten and disordered from the road. His teeth were still stained with his own blood. Nevertheless, when he bowed he looked as regal as any king could wish. “The tables turned soon enough, and you did save me as well,” he allowed. “Yet, I think we can agree that mine was the more impressive rescue.”

“There is much I would know,” she said. “Mary would not explain her disposition toward you, and I feel you conceal things about Lady Harriett and her kind as well. We saw things today—impossible things—and yet I do not think you were as surprised as you should have been. I know you have secrets, Lord Byron, and yet I owe you more than I have ever owed any man save my father.”

He bowed again. “The secrets I keep are not my own. That is all I may say as a gentleman. As for the other matter, I have tried to impress upon you that there is nothing I would not do for you, Lucy. Perhaps now you believe me.”

“I do indeed.” Lucy laughed. She was perhaps vaguely giddy from the thrill of having survived what she had, of having escaped Lady Harriett and Mr. Whitestone and ridden all this way. Only a few weeks before, she had felt herself helpless in her life, and now look what she had accomplished! She had seen and done and learned so much, and she now possessed three more pages of the missing book. Along with the original two from the false
Mutus Liber
, that meant she had five of the twelve. Perhaps she truly was mighty.

Byron, however, turned quite serious. “I will not speak ill of Mary Crawford, Lucy. I can only say that lady’s heart can lead her to make judgments neither wise nor warranted. She may be a good friend to you, but in this matter, I would ask you not to heed her overmuch. And then there is the business of her abducting you.”

“She claims that something terrible is going to happen in London, that I am not safe.”

“I have not observed you to be safe anywhere but with me.”

Lucy felt herself blush. “Good afternoon, Lord Byron, and I thank you once more.”

He bowed. “I hope you will someday value me as you value my services.”

Lucy’s face felt hot, but she yet spoke what she felt. “Our disagreement is not regarding your worth.”

Byron stepped forward and reached out to touch her, but then withdrew. They were upon a public street. “Then come to me,” he said in an
urgent whisper. “Come to me soon, or I shall die from this torment. I know what is in your heart, and you know what is in mine. What else matters? I beg you to come to me.” With this, he turned, mounted his horse, and rode off.

Lucy remained still for a moment, thinking of Byron, his beauty and valor and all he had done for her. Could she love a man such as he? She did not know, but she knew she wanted to be with him, and she did not know that she could risk being alone with him.

This was hardly the time to dwell on such things, however. Lucy turned and entered the house. She knew she looked terrible, and wished she had yet upon her tools that she might craft one last charm, something to help her get to her room unnoticed that she might wash and change and appear before all as clean and poised as they must expect. If they saw her now, she must tell some story of being knocked down in the street, and it would engender a great deal of fuss, and perhaps even make it more difficult to move freely, but she would meet that challenge when she came to it.

When she walked through the door, however, she understood something was wrong. Mr. Gilley, Mrs. Gilley, and Norah all stared at her as she entered the house. Only Mrs. Emmett appeared happy. Beneath her low bonnet and curling hair, her obscured eyes were wide with pleasure. “Welcome back, my dear,” she said. “Oh, there has been a fuss.”

“Miss Derrick,” boomed Mr. Gilley. “Where have you been?”

“I was knocked down in the street,” she said. “It is not so bad as it appears.”

“Where have you been these two days?” demanded Mr. Gilley.

Lucy could think of nothing to say. She looked at the tall case clock in the corner, and it confirmed her suspicions. It was not yet four. So how could it be that they had discovered her absence? Lucy thought over the charm she had constructed, racking her brain to recall some misstep or error. Understanding her mistake would not help her now, but she was numb with surprise and fear, and it was all she could think to do.

Then she heard a familiar, high-pitched voice speak her name. Lucy
turned to see Mrs. Quince walk into the parlor. She held in her hand a piece of paper, torn in two, and from across the room, Lucy had no trouble recognizing it. It was her talisman.

“Miss Derrick, our mutual friend Lady Harriett asked me to look in upon you and make certain all was well. She will be quite disappointed to discover you have shamed yourself and your family.” She walked over to Lucy and handed her the ripped talisman. “Some trash of yours, I believe. I found it upon the floor.”

“I am sorry your visit could not have been more pleasant,” said Mr.

Gilley.

“No fault of yours, I am sure,” answered Mrs. Quince. She folded her arms across her breasts and smiled.

Lucy locked eyes with Mrs. Quince, making an effort to keep her own expression cold and dangerous. “There will come a reckoning,” she said.

“No doubt,” answered Mrs. Quince. She curtsied and moved toward the door. “As I said, I cannot stay, Mr. Gilley, but I thank you for listening to me.”

“I am grateful for your intelligence,” he answered, and then turned to Lucy. “An excellent woman.”

Lucy said nothing, though Mr. Gilley’s expression suggested he anticipated she would have much to say, perhaps on the topic of Mrs. Quince’s excellence. When she did not speak, he coughed theatrically and straightened his posture.

“This is very serious, Miss Derrick,” he said. “I cannot expose myself to this sort of chaos. It shall render me vulnerable to a cold, and I do not wish a cold. I hate a cold above everything. For that reason, I shall write to your uncle at once. You have three days to vacate my house.”

L
UCY 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.