The Twelfth Enchantment: A Novel (43 page)

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.”

T
HERE WERE MORE QUESTIONS THAN SHE HAD TIME TO ASK, LET
alone to hear answered. For now, Lucy’s chief concern was to vacate Mr. Gilley’s house. Though the news that this odd man was in communication with her father came as a surprise, it did not occur to her to doubt it. What struck Lucy above all things was that her father, though three years dead, still looked after her, still cared enough to attempt to help her, though the effort, according to Mr. Blake, of breaking through to our world was a great one.

Mr. Blake, however, conveyed information with an easy familiarity, and while he seemed to understand that most people did not regularly hold congress with the dead, he gave every impression of having grown complacently comfortable with such communication. He explained her father’s words not with the deep intoning of a charlatan, but rather with the dull patience of a parent expressing the intentions of a child too shy to speak.

In the Gilleys’ parlor, as Mr. Blake told Lucy of his conversations with her father, it became apparent that Mr. Blake considered a third person involved in their conversation. After some minutes, Lucy deduced this presence was the spirit of his brother, of whom Blake was clearly very fond. “Yes, Bob,” he snapped. “I won’t forget to tell her, but you must wait.”

After hearing that her father wished her to accompany the old engraver to his home, Lucy concocted a plausible tale and went out of the room to find Mr. Gilley, who was conveniently nearby, posed as a man who had not been attempting to listen through the door.

“Mr. Blake is my late father’s half brother,” lied Lucy. “He has offered to provide shelter for me, as doing so for you either is too uncomfortable or comes for me at too high a cost. I would be most grateful if you could have my trunk sent to his address.”

“You would be so bold as to walk out of my house?” asked Mr. Gilley.

“You have demanded I leave,” answered Lucy.

To this Mr. Gilley had no easy answer, and it was while he stammered in want of a reply that Lucy slipped a talisman into his coat, one meant to make him susceptible to things he most feared. Lucy decided it was high time for Mr. Gilley to catch cold.

Mr. Blake lived on South Molton Street in a less fashionable part of town than where Mr. Gilley resided. The streets there were filthy with rubbish and animal waste, and crowded with workingmen and haggard women, but these were not the desperate streets of the worst parts of the city. These were the laboring poor, people with enough bread, if only just, and so while all was crowded and noisy and dirty, there was also a vibrancy in the air, as though everyone at every time had just been delivered from the terrible fate of being worse off than they were.

Blake’s house was above his printing and engraving shop, which appeared a respectable if not entirely profitable enterprise. Lucy had arranged with Mrs. Emmett to arrive later with her things, and so she traveled to the house alone with the old man, a decision she wondered
about during the whole of the journey. It ought to have seemed more dangerous and radical than she felt it to be, but the only trepidation and doubt she knew came from her head, not her heart.

When they arrived at his house, Lucy began at once to feel uneasy for Mr. Blake’s peace. She had accepted the engraver’s offer because she believed he meant her no harm and because he appeared, in all truth, to have been in communication with her father. Only as they arrived at the little house did it occur to her that she would be imposing upon a family.

“Are you married, Mr. Blake? Have you children?”

“My Catherine and I have not been blessed with children,” he answered.

“Will your wife not object to your bringing home a stranger to live with you?”

“Should she?”

“No, only I mean, it is an unusual thing, is it not, to bring home a woman because a spirit asked you to do so?”

“Catherine and I have been together for almost thirty years. I hope she is accustomed to me by now.”

Lucy need not have worried. Mrs. Blake had not been warned that there would be a houseguest, but nevertheless welcomed Lucy warmly. She was a sweet, plump woman, not at all tall, perhaps once pretty, but now well ravaged by age and the demands of a middling life in London. It took only a minute for Lucy to discern that she was absolutely devoted to her husband, and it would not occur to her to deny him anything. A strange young woman was no burden if it was Mr. Blake who asked that she take a place in their home.

Lucy’s accommodations were not nearly what they had been at Mr. Gilley’s house. She had but a garret with a broadly sloping roof—clean, but small and narrow, and inclined to be drafty. Yet, she loved it, and when she sat upon her low, rather lumpy mattress, Lucy let out a breath of relief. The Blakes were not affluent—they appeared almost poor—but here, at last, she was in the company of people with whom she did not have to pretend. She could say anything to them, for nothing would sound so strange as what they said to her.

Within two hours, Mrs. Emmett arrived with her luggage. When Lucy introduced her to Mr. Blake, the engraver examined her with a peculiar expression. “I’ve never seen one such as you,” he said.

“Nor I one such as you,” answered Mrs. Emmett.

“We shall have to talk, I think,” he said.

“We shall mean to do so,” said Mrs. Emmett, “and yet never will.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Blake. “That
is
true, isn’t it?”

And with that, the two peculiar people seemed at ease with each other.

Once Lucy was settled, Mr. Blake invited her for tea alone in his sitting room. She sipped nervously, and took none of the macaroons he offered her, though she was usually very fond of macaroons.

“You must have many questions,” said Mr. Blake.

“Tell me about my father,” she said.

He nodded, and then nodded to someone invisible. “He is not himself with us. It is only Bob, who has been a helpful intermediary in this matter. The dead are difficult to hear, Miss Derrick, though they hear one another better than we hear them. Your father has tried to speak to you, but he cannot reach you. It is much easier for him to speak to Bob, even though Bob inhabits our realm, not theirs.”

Lucy felt the tears build in her eyes. Her father had tried to reach her and she could not hear. She felt as though her heart must break.

“There is no deficiency in you,” said Mr. Blake, who appeared to understand her grief. “Do not think so. It is not a matter of will or love or openness. To hear the dead, even those who dwell near us, you must be … different. I have always been as I am. When I was a boy, my mother had to keep my father from beating me as a liar after I spoke of seeing angels in the trees. I soon learned to keep such observations to myself, for I understood, even at that age, that the things I saw could not be seen by others.”

Lucy nodded. “What does my father tell you?”

“He has almost as much difficulty seeing our world as we have seeing his. There is something you must do, but he cannot yet see what. He wishes you to stay here with me until he can see it. He will then tell me
when he can. He also says things of people in your circle. He says one you must trust entirely, another not at all.”

“He does not say which is which?”

Mr. Blake shook his head and smiled knowingly. “The dead, even when they mean well, can be rather a pain in the arse.”