The Twelfth Enchantment Part 10

18.

ALL 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 justa"even if Martha did not know that Mr. Buckles had altered their father's willa"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 a.s.sured her she was, and that Lucy only needed a little time to a.s.sist 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 pa.s.sed."

"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 const.i.tute 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."

She picked up Lucy's charm and handed it back to her. "I want you to try again, but this time, pick that flower, and focus on converting its energy to the charm."

Mary pointed to a dandelion that grew between the stones at their feet. It was a bright yellow and the weight of the flower burdened the stem so that it bent over slightly. Lucy knew from her reading that a tea made from the dandelion could be used as a diuretic, and the juice of the crushed plant was good for removing warts.

Lucy had never before hesitated to pick a flower, but thinking of it as a sacrifice made her uneasy. Picking it seemed suddenly brutal, barbaric.

"You wish me to sacrifice one flower to destroy another."

Mary smiled. "It does seem a little tasteless."

Tasteless indeed, but Lucy had a strong wish to see if there was anything to what Mary said, so holding the charm in her right hand, she picked the dandelion with her left, concentrating, as Mary had said, on its energy. The moment she picked the flower, she tossed the charm upon the rose.

There was no sign that anything had happened, but when she lifted the charm, she saw the rose had been reduced nearly to powder, and that it lay in a little pool of dampness. The water in the plant had been leeched out entirely.

Lucy stared, hardly able to speak. Every bit of magic she had done until now had been vague and general, hard to prove, and leaving no physical result, but here was something else entirely. She had, using magic, physically altered something in the world. Even after all she had seen and done, this struck her as difficult to believe.

"I think you understand now," said Mary. "The information contained in the Mutus Liber is dangerous, and if it should fall into the wrong hands, it would be very bad indeed. And that is why we must hope it falls into your hands. You see, that was but a minor charm, and your sacrifice was but a small one, but it was enough to push the energy far enough to work. With a powerful sacrifice, almost anything is possible."

"Well, I shan't go around destroying life for power," said Lucy. "I won't."

"No, you will not," agreed Mary. "I would not trust you with this information if I thought you should, but as I have shown you, there are many kinds of sacrifices, including the sacrifices others make for you. Those can be the most powerful kind, and you would be well to remember that. If a friend sacrifices something of value out of love, it can render powerful the most impotent spell, it can break the strongest ward, change powerful enemies. To understand the principles of sacrifice is to understand when the time is right to act, when others have made you something better than yourself."

After putting her items back in the leather pouch, Mary began to walk Lucy back to her uncle's house. "I don't wish to keep you from your sister long," she said. "But you need to understand what is happening. There is no book on earth so dangerous as the Mutus Liber. Its secrets are devastating."

"But you said it contains the secret of eternal life. Surely eternal life is not a terrible thing."

Mary adjusted her wide-brimmed hat to keep the sun off her pale face. "Alchemy is transformation, Lucy, not addition. Man is born to die, and mortality defines man's nature. To possess eternal life is to be human no longer. Those who have pursued this secret must undergo a terrible alteration. They lose their souls and so become vile creatures, evil, mere shadows of themselves. They feel no regret. Murder, theft, violence, destructiona"none of these things give them pause. Whatever terrible, monstrous person you can imaginea"that is nothing compared to one who has become immortal. These transformed creatures may do the most horrendous things and think about them no more than you would think of the gra.s.s upon which you trod as you go on your way. They live for nothing but to continue, to indulge their pleasures, and to remain hidden."

Lucy felt a chill, and drew her cloak around her. "Do you believe that there are such people? That what you speak of has truly been done?"

"I have seen it," said Mary. "I have seen more than you could credit unless you'd seen it yourself. That is why I brought you to the fairy barrow, for it was such a fit place for our first discussion of these things. Do you know what those mounds truly are?"

Lucy shook her head. First immortal people, and now fairies. She did not know what to think.

"They are ancient graves, tombs of people from so long in the past that their bones are likely nothing but dust. They tell us that the ancients knew what we have forgotten. Stories of fairies are as old as this island, but their nature in our stories has changed over time. However, I a.s.sure you, such creatures are real, but they are not what you imagine. I do not speak of silly, sprightly, mischief-makers. What the ancients called fairies are the dead, returned to life. They are revenants, given existence with the most ancient of alchemy."

Lucy looked upon her friend with unabashed incredulity. She had seen things, done things, that most people would have thought impossible, but what Mary spoke of now was beyond her ability to accept. "In asking me to believe this, you ask too much."

"I know these beings are real as much as I know you are. These fairiesa"these revenants, if you prefera"have long wielded their influence over this kingdom, but their influence has been waning. They fear to increase their numbers, because they fear the power and vigor of those who are young, and yet the old ones, powerful as they are, grow torpid, weary of life and fearful of death. But in their limited influence they have funded and supported the rise of mills. Clothing mills and iron mills and pottery mills. Mills that make everything once made with the careful eye and hand of the artisan. These revenants have lost their humanity, and now they seek to rob the rest of us of ours."

Lucy felt her breath catch. Had not her father used nearly the same words to speak of the mills themselves? "But if they are creatures of magic, why should they wish to see magic banished, as you say it must if these mills rise?"

They now stood outside Uncle Lowell's house.

"I know you must go, and there will be plenty of time to discuss these matters further, though perhaps not tonight." At this she smiled. "For now, what you must know is that they are indeed creatures of magic, Lucy, but magic alone can unmake them. They fear nothing else, for they cannot be destroyed by any weapon, by any disease or any accident."

"Then nothing can stop them?"

Mary shook her head. "I heard a story once of one of these creatures that contained itself in an elemental circlea"something far more powerful than a magic circle. The nature of the elements is a guarded secret, but once inside, it took its own life as a means of destroying the life of another of its kind. And there are other rumors of powerful elemental magic that can be used against some of them, but these secrets are closed to us."

"Then what would you have me do?" asked Lucy.

"Continue to read and learn and hope you are ready. Ludd has sought you out, and I believe these revenants will seek you out as well. It is only a matter of time, and I don't know that you can ever be prepared, but you must try your best. I fear to think what will happen otherwise."

19.

THE NEXT DAY WAS WARM AND BEAUTIFUL, AND LUCY DID NOT WISH to remain in the house with Mr. Buckles and her uncle. An excursion was just the thing, and she believed she knew the perfect place.

Like many country estates, both the grand and the ancient, Newstead Abbey was open to visitors certain days, particularly when its master was not on the premises. At Newstead, only the grounds were open, as the main building itself was largely in a state of disrepair, unfit for visitors or even, some said, inhabitants. Locals knew that Lord Byron could afford to restore only a minimal number of rooms, and so he kept the building closed to outsiders out of embarra.s.sment and concern for their safety.

Ludd had told her to gather the leaves in Newstead, whatever that meant, but Lucy had no plans to do any leaf gathering. She had no plans to enter the house, only to look around, get a sense of things, to see if she could gain any insight into what Ludd wanted, and perhaps to gain some insight into Byron himself. She had to admit that visiting his estate offered a special thrill. He would not be there, of course, but it was his home, and she liked the idea of seeing it.

Martha was certainly curious about Byron, having heard a heavily redacted, and so somewhat nonsensical, version of his visit to Uncle Lowell's house. In the end, she understood only that a das.h.i.+ng, perhaps slightly dangerous, baron toyed with the idea of pursuing Lucy, and that was the reason Lucy did not wish to marry Mr. Olson. It was certainly only part of the truth, but it was a story that clearly pleased Martha, so Lucy allowed her sister to believe it.

While she did not antic.i.p.ate anything unusual might happen, Lucy still preferred to limit the excursion to the two of them, and so she was quite relieved when Mr. Buckles demonstrated no interest in attending. "I have seen Lady Harriett's estate," he told Lucy. "I have been a guest there many times, and so have no need to see the estate of some minor baron."

They packed a basket and hired a coach to take them the ten miles or so to Newstead. The two sisters were so delighted to be alone, truly alone, in each other's company. Little Emily was with the nurse, and while Martha missed her child, as new mothers are inclined to do, she also relished the luxury of a few hours to herself.

That she also enjoyed being away from her husband was painfully obvious to Lucy, but she would not press this matter. Martha had sacrificed herself because she believed it was the only way to keep her sister from poverty. It had not worked, and now she was shackled to him until one of them was dead. It was too horrible to think of. It was no wonder that Martha loved her little baby to distraction, for Emily must be the only thing in the world to give her pleasure.

Had they not received directions, they would never have found the abbey, for its only indication from the High North Road was a white gate and a small post house. Once through the gate, they traveled for perhaps half a mile through thick woods, some of the last remnants of the long-since destroyed Sherwood Forest. Once the turrets and parapets of the ancient gothic structure began to appear above the trees, Lucy could not help but think how appropriate so imposing a ruin should be housed in a wood that was, itself, a remnant of the past.

Newstead Abbey was ma.s.sive and imposing and beautiful and in a state of unspeakable disrepair. Walls crumbled, roofs were collapsed. It looked unfit for habitation, and yet, for all that, it was breathtaking. A decayed wall enclosed a wild garden to the north and east. To the west lay a ma.s.sive lake that sparkled in the sunlight. Lucy had never seen anything so simultaneously magnificent and gloomy.

Martha too appeared momentarily transfixed. After gazing upon the main building with wonder, she took Lucy's hand. "I think that to be mistress of Newstead might be something."

Lucy smiled at her sister. "Certainly something I shall never know."

The grounds were reasonably orderlya"and ma.s.sivea"and the two sisters wandered from fountain to pond to topiary to well to crumbling statuary, giggling and pulling each other by the hand as though they were girls again. Some heavy clouds pa.s.sed before the sun, and the air turned moderately colder. Their cheeks became apple red, and their breath puffed into the air with their laughter. Lucy could not recall a time when she had been happier. She forgot about magic and dark beings and leaf gathering. For this one day, she was determined, she would be but a young lady, thinking young-lady thoughts, visiting with her sister and diverting herself.

They wandered the grounds for two hours, ate their lunch, and walked until they were quite fatigued. They saw no other people and no animals of consequencea"the rumors of Byron's menagerie thus far being unproved, for they saw no bears or wolves or giant tortoises, and certainly not the ghostly dog said by locals to haunt the grounds. Lucy had wanted to gain some sense of what Ludd had meant by sending her to Newstead, but when Martha suggested they return home, Lucy began to feel that the excursion had been a wonderful failure. She had learned nothing. There were no clues or hints or cryptic messages.

As she considered these matters, Lucy noticed a stranger approaching. He was an older man, in his sixties at least, and dressed like a tradesman in plain woolens. He walked with a stick, and wore an expression upon his rounded face of such kindness that it never occurred to Lucy to be cautious. He grew closer, and his grin widened, and when he was close enough he paused and removed his hat.

He bowed to Martha, but then turned his attention to Lucy. "Are you the young lady for whom I am looking?"

"I cannot know," said Lucy, who suspected that she must be precisely the young lady for whom he was looking, though she hated even to wonder why.

Martha tugged on her arm, perhaps alarmed by something in the man's appearance, or, more likely, his mode of address. Lucy, however, ignored her sister. She could not know who the man was or what he wanted, but she felt certain she had nothing to fear from him.

"Quite a lot of ghosts upon this estate, do you not think so?" he asked.

"I saw none," Lucy said.

"Not even the dog?" the old man asked. "He is quite friendly for a dead dog. Ghost dogs are often so quarrelsome, you know. I saw him frolicking by the water. He must enjoy it for now, for his time of enjoyment will come to an end soon, perhaps. So much of it will."

"What do you mean?" asked Lucy. The man's voice was light and easy, but his words chilled her.

"The world is changing, young lady. You must know that. The things that play in the forest about herea"they will play no longer. And sport no more seen on the darkening green." He paused for a moment. "Oh, dear. I do hate when I quote my own writing, but I just now understand what I was saying, and it is such a surprise when things become clear."

"Lucy!" Martha hissed just above a whisper. "Do you know this gentleman?"

The older man removed his hat and bowed. "I do beg your pardon. I seem to have forgotten my manners. My name is William Blake, engraver, and I am at your service."

There was no doubt the man was peculiar, but Lucy's instincts told her that she had nothing to fear, so she curtsied and smiled at the man. "I am Lucy Derrick, and this is my sister, Mrs. Martha Buckles."

"Very charmed, ladies. And I believe it is you, Miss Derrick, that I have come all the way from London to see. And having completed my task, I must return to London and my work. I do hate to be away from my home and my dear wife. I only wished to come here to make your acquaintance."

"I am very sorry," said Martha. "You traveled more than a hundred miles to meet someone you did not know, and having said h.e.l.lo to her, you return from whence you've come?"

"You have it precisely," Mr. Blake answered with great cheer. "Now I have ordered it so that when Miss Derrick and I meet again, we will no longer be strangers."

"That is nonsensical," said Martha.

"If you subscribe to the narrow reason of Bacon and Newton and Hume and men of that stripe, then I suppose it is," answered Mr. Blake. "I choose not to let the devil's logic interfere with G.o.d's truth, not when it is before my eyes."

Martha turned to Lucy. "You appear remarkably unperturbed. Do you know something of all this?"

Lucy shook her head. "This sort of thing happens to me a great deal these days. But sir, can you tell me nothing more of your business with me?"

"I cannot because I know nothing of it," he answered. "I have no doubt we shall know in time. But the green is darkening, is it not? The mills come, belching smoke and ash, grinding men to dust, and nature prepares to decay. You know it too, I think."

"Lucy," Martha said again, the urgency evident in her voice.

Lucy was about to respond, but she suddenly heard weeping, and she observed that Mr. Blake heard it too. It was a soft sounda"a delicate, feminine sobbinga"nothing menacing, and yet Lucy understood that the afternoon had turned. The air grew cool, and the hair on the back of her neck bristled. Everything around her refined and sharpened into vivid colors. She heard every twig and leaf crunch under their feet.

They traveled some fifty feet down the path and found, sitting under a tree, a young woman in a dingy white dress, rustic by the look of it. They could not determine her age, for she had her back to them, but she wore her coppery hair loose and unruly under her bonnet, and by her sizea"tall and very thina"Lucy imagined her to be in her late teens. There was something about her look, about her misery and the way she held her head in her hands, that reminded her of herself weeping after the death of her sister. She remembered one afternoon, some weeks after the day her father had admitted her to his study, when she had been walking behind the house, and Emily's death had struck her fresh, like a blow. She had understood, as if for the first time, that her sister was gone, that she would never see her again, and the emptiness of this realization overwhelmed her. She had fallen to the ground and wept, unable to stop herself, unable to find the will to try.

She knew not how long she lay therea"hours perhapsa"lost in her own misery, until she'd felt hands upon her shoulders. She'd shrugged them off, but they were insistent, and when at last she looked up, Lucy saw that it was her father, out of his study, pulling her to her feet. He was not used to being an affectionate man, and he did not love to touch even his children, but he took her into his embrace and let her weep against his shoulder for long minutes, until she felt smothered by the scent of wet wool. She did not know if there was ever a moment when she'd loved her father so well, or needed him more, or was so glad to have his guidance.

Now she looked upon this strange girl as she sat hunched over, a mournful, almost bovine sound escaping her lips, and Lucy wanted to comfort her, wanted to offer her some small portion of what only another person can provide in such moments of grief. As they approached, the girl did not regard them at all, and they saw she was bent over a book. The text must be pa.s.sing melancholy, Lucy thought, to elicit such a response.

Martha hung back, but Lucy circled around, and Mr. Blake walked by her side, a look of pure concern upon his wrinkled face. When they could see the girl's face, they noted that she was pretty, with a fair countenance, somewhat marred by freckles and a nose broad and flat at the bridge, but with large, very beautiful hazel eyesa"red and moist with tears though they might have been.

As Lucy and Mr. Blake approached her from the side, the girl suddenly started and scrambled to her feet in a terrified scurry, more animal-like than human. Once she rose, however, she appeared somewhat calmed by the sight of the two young ladies and the kindly older man, who anyone could see posed no threat. There was, however, a marked look of incomprehension on the girl's face. Her mouth hung slightly open, her eyes squinted as though willing the world to form into some intelligible shape.