The Twelfth Enchantment: A Novel (34 page)

“I am happy to offer my help,” he said. “If only because I willingly sold a book to Lady Harriett that I would have been so much happier to give to you as a gift. And yet you seem reluctant to tell me what book it is and why it is so important.”

Lucy sighed. “The affair is complicated, and so unbelievable. Even having seen what you have seen, you would think me mad if I told you the truth. I would think myself mad. I have spoken it aloud only to Mr. Morrison, and it nearly broke my heart to do so.”

“You would tell him what you would not tell me?” He sounded more arch than angry.

“Only out of necessity.”

“Then I shan’t force you,” he said. “But you need not fear for my belief. I have also seen many things. The ghost of my dog, Boatswain, haunts my estate at Newstead, and people think me mad when I speak of it, but that makes it no less true. I would add that I am bound to accept anything that comes from your lips as the absolute truth.”

It was this ease that prompted her. “I had an older sister whom I loved very much, and she died very young. My other sister, Martha, named her first child for her. I cannot tell you what that child means to me, and now she is gone, replaced with a vile thing, a changeling. I know how it sounds, but I have seen it, even if no one else has. The book I seek will give me the knowledge I need to banish the changeling and return Emily to her mother.”

Byron said nothing for several long minutes. “I am sorry that such a book was in my power and that I let it go. I only wish I had known.”

“I did not know until recently. Have you ties to Lady Harriett?”

“Her family is old and established,” said Byron, “and because of my title, I am often in the company of such people.”

“Do you think she would give you what we seek as a favor?”

Byron shook his head. “Lady Harriett does not do favors, and I recall she was curiously eager to buy my collection, which is a poor one. I think she must have known what I had. If she truly wants this book for herself, she will never give it over. Do you have a plan that does not require asking politely?”

“Yes,” said Lucy. “It involves breaking open the house and stealing the book.”

“Oh,” said Byron. “I hope it works better than it did at my home.”

Lucy smiled at him. “That effort was planned by Mr. Morrison. I shall plan this one, and I assure you, it will go far better.”

They dined that evening at an inn, and who was to know that they were not husband and wife? It was, for Lucy, a wonderful feeling: powerful and anonymous. The eyes of all the ladies in the room were upon Byron in admiration and upon her in envy, and it seemed to her that she knew, if only in the smallest way, what it would feel like to be Lady Byron.

They remained at the inn until past midnight, and Byron drank more wine than Lucy would have thought wise, but she did not believe it her place to advise him on such matters. As he drank, he talked more about his forthcoming volume, which he both praised as brilliant and dismissed as having been effortlessly tossed off in odd moments. He felt sure that the book would secure him eternal fame, just as he felt sure it would make the world despise him.

When the time was right, they drove on, and Lucy watched the dark countryside pass before her. They were not far—less than sixteen miles—from Harrington, where she had grown up, and she knew the road well enough for it to make her melancholy. She was determined not to feel sorry for herself, however. Mr. Buckles had deceived her, and rather than pitying herself for the life she had lost, Lucy was determined to steel herself for revenge. She was not accepting her fate, but striking
back, taking control of those who would order the world around her. Lucy liked how this sense of command felt.

They arrived in the vicinity of Mossings, Lady Harriett’s estate, but it was not yet late enough to attempt a forced entry, and so they sat in the coach until another hour had passed. Byron assured Lucy that the lady had a reputation for being a woman who went to bed early, and by one in the morning they could be certain that she, her staff, and any guests she might have would be long in their beds. It was only a matter of reaching the library and identifying the book or missing pages, and escaping before they attracted attention. Unfortunately, Byron did not believe he would be of much use in identifying books from his own collection. It seemed to Lucy a rather odd thing for a poet to so little know his own books, but Byron appeared to take a certain pride in his indifference to works that were not his own.

“I’ve brought a few tools that should help me to find it,” said Lucy, “and if I don’t know where it is, I will certainly know it when I see it.”

“It may be risky to take the time to search the library. The longer we are there, the greater the chance someone will notice that there are lights or will hear the noise we make.”

“No one will notice us,” said Lucy as she grabbed her bag. “Let us go.”

The estate was large, and Lucy felt exposed and conspicuous as they crossed the expansive lawns, thankfully not populated by dogs. They passed fountains and gardens and shrubbery, until at last they reached the main house, massive and stately, built in the unadorned style that preceded the reign of Oliver Cromwell. All was quiet upon the grounds, and in the dark, the house looked like a lonely mountain, or perhaps a sleeping giant, passive and still, but coiled tightly with danger.

They walked around to the servants’ entrance, moving slowly, cautious of dogs or any other unwelcome surprises. None came, and they at last reached the door, which was bolted shut. Lucy reached into her bag and removed something dark. Next she withdrew a tinderbox and made a light, which she applied to several candles attached to the object.

“Are you certain you wish to make such a light?” asked Byron.

“Oh, yes,” said Lucy, who affected far more confidence than she felt. Here she was, breaking open the house of a dangerous and powerful woman, attempting to commit a crime that could lead to her going to jail, to standing trial, to humiliation beyond anything she could imagine. She swallowed her fear because she had no choice.

Only by quieting herself, as though she prepared to cast a spell, could Lucy keep herself from shaking uncontrollably. She did this for Emily, she told herself. She did it for Martha and her father and she did it for herself.

The light revealed that the object she had retrieved was a sort of mummified hand that had several candles molded onto each of its fingers, and a wax base attached to the stump of the wrist, that it might be set down.

“Good Lord, what is that?” demanded Byron, probably in a voice louder than was wise.

“A hand of glory,” said Lucy, who wished to sound as though she thought this a very ordinary business for a sophisticated woman such as herself. “It is the pickled and roasted hand of a hanged murderer, upon which the proper incantations have been spoken. The intruder who holds the hand of glory may trespass without hindrance or detection.”

Even in the dark, Lucy could see Byron’s disbelief. “Does it work?”

“Let’s find out.” Lucy pushed against the servants’ door and found it conveniently open. They stepped inside.

The house was pitch-black, and their hand of glory provided a jumbled chaos of flickering light and overlapping shadows. She thought of all the remarkable things she had seen and done since the day Byron had pounded upon her uncle’s door. This was not the first adventure she’d had. It was not even the first house she’d broken open. Ought she not to be used to such things by now? Her heart pounded, and her hand trembled, and she wished only that she might finish and flee.

“Where do you think the library would be?” asked Lucy.

“These houses are all upon the same plan,” said Byron. “I believe I can find it.” He reached out to take the hand of glory himself, but then
recoiled, not wanting to touch it. Instead, he pushed on through the dark and led Lucy up a set of stairs and then down a long hallway. At the end of it they found a series of open doors, one of which led to the library—an enormous room that very possibly could have contained all of her uncle’s house.

Byron closed the door and, without actually touching the hand of glory himself, led Lucy over to various candles to begin to light the room. He took one of these and lit sconces and chandeliers until the space was quite bright.

“We will be visible from the outside, and from that wing of the estate,” he said, gesturing toward the window at the parallel wing. “But if everyone is asleep, and that horrid thing does what it is supposed to do, then it should not much matter.”

Lucy now removed from her bag a little divining rod she had made at home, to which she had applied the juice of a freshly cut apple, a drop of her own water, and a cat’s whisker. She then spoke a few words over the divining rod and held it upright in both hands.

The feeling was subtle, almost too subtle to be certain it was not merely her fancy, but she followed the impulse toward a section of books across the room and to a particular shelf of books. Lucy took every one of the books down and set them on a well-lit table and began to leaf through them. Byron picked up a volume as well, but it soon became clear that he had no idea what he was looking for, and so set it down again.

After the first two books, Lucy picked up a third and set it down unopened. Then another with which she did the same. After two more books, she reached out for another, and a sharp sensation ran through her fingertips, a shock of something living and powerful. It was almost as though the book called to her. No, not that. Something
in
the book called to her. She felt it wanting to be found, and had no doubt that this was what she had sought. She opened the book to almost precisely the middle and there, sewn irregularly into the volume, were three prints in the dreamy, discordant style she recognized as that of the
Mutus Liber
. Here were floating men and naked women and dancing animals. Here
was a bear with the head of a mouse, combining mercury and salt. Here was an ancient and bearded man, like an artistic rendering of God, pointing his divine finger at a flower—a bluebell, Lucy believed—as it sprang from the ground. The images felt alive and needy, and what they needed was Lucy, and Lucy was happy to take them. It was though she was reunited with a long lost piece of herself.

Just as the pages Mary had shown her had in them instructions upon the subject of sacrifice, so too these wanted to tell her something. It was something just out of her grasp, like a word she had forgotten that would come to her at any moment, but she had not time to puzzle over it now. She would not stay in Lady Harriett’s house a moment longer than necessary.

Without waiting any longer, Lucy took her penknife and cut the pages from the book. She folded them and placed them within the hidden pouch in her gown, and then set the damaged book back in its pile. Now she had to decide if she should trust Byron or pretend to continue looking and convince him she must walk away disappointed.

She moved some more books about and then turned to Byron to see how he occupied himself, but as she did she saw two people standing behind him. One was an odd-looking man of middle years, wearing an out-of-fashion and rumpled tan suit. He had unruly hair that stuck up at strange angles, and unnaturally large eyes that appeared wild and gave the impression of being propped open against his will. His hands shook, and he bit his dry and peeling lips. He frightened Lucy, but not nearly so much as Lady Harriett Dyer, who stood near him, wearing her usual widow’s black. Her gray hair flowed about her shoulders. She stood with her arms folded across her bosom, and she gazed upon the scene with evident disgust.

“Can you really suppose that I would not have wards in my house to protect against something so trivial as a hand of glory?” said Lady Harriett. “Did you not know it is possible to keep another’s charms from working within your own walls? Miss Derrick, you clearly have no idea with whom you are dealing. And you, Byron”—she moved across the room, her stride swift and purposeful, and stood before the baron—“have
you no wish to live that you would defy me like this? I was under the impression we understood each other.”