The Twelfth Enchantment: A Novel (37 page)

There was not much time, Byron was certainly correct in that, and there were so many questions that needed asking, but only one that mattered. “You may lower the chair, Lord Byron.” When he had done so, she looked at Mr. Buckles. “Where is your daughter?”

He did not hesitate before responding. “I do not know.”

“Then Lady Harriett did not take her, has nothing to do with her disappearance?”

“No.”

“But you knew she was gone, that she had been replaced?”

He paused for a moment. “Yes, of course I knew.”

“Does Martha know?”

“No.”

Lucy sucked in her breath.

“Do you know who took Emily?”

“One of Lady Harriett’s rivals. That is all I know.”

“And why? What did this rival want?”

“To keep Lady Harriett from doing what she wished with the child.”

“And what did she wish to do?”

Mr. Buckles worked his jaw for a moment. “She wished to kill her.”

Lucy could no longer control her anger. She could no longer pretend this was a logic puzzle. “Your own daughter. Why did you not stop her?”

“It is not my place,” said Mr. Buckles. “She is a great lady, who condescends to let me serve her. How could I refuse her such a thing? It was not a boy.”

“Do you know how I can find your daughter?” Lucy asked.

“If I knew, Lady Harriett would have her by now.”

“But why does she want your daughter dead?”

“Because talent runs crossways through families, particularly from aunt to niece. There was too great a likelihood that she would have the same sort of inclinations you do, and Lady Harriett could not endure having another such as you to contend with.”

“Another such as me,” Lucy repeated. “I would be nothing to her if she had not condescended to interfere with my life and abuse my niece.”

Buckles snorted. “Even Lady Harriett can meet her destiny while running from it.”

“We should go,” said Byron, his voice strained.

“Yes, one moment,” said Lucy. “What is Lady Harriett? Who is she that she can do such things as she does? I must know.”

Mr. Buckles barked out a cynical laugh. “There has never been a more ignorant girl. You would never have dared to meddle with her if you understood who she is.”

“Then enlighten me,” said Lucy.

“There is no time for this,” blurted Byron. “We must run while we can. Ask him how we circumvent the guards upon the doors.”

“I need none of his help for that. Who is Lady Harriett?”

“If you don’t need his help,” said Byron, “then let us go.”

“Not yet,” snapped Lucy. “Tell me, Buckles. What is Lady Harriett?”

“She is my mistress,” he said with a grin.

“What
is
she,” repeated Lucy. “What is the nature of her power?”

“You poor, silly girl,” said Mr. Buckles. “You really don’t know. Lady Harriett is of that order of beings you are foolish enough to call fairies. These are not the tiny imps in children’s tales, I assure you. They are the dead, Miss Derrick. They are the glorious dead, the triumphant dead, returned to earth with timeless flesh. Lady Harriett has walked this island, governed this island, for centuries. There are not many of her kind, but they are powerful, and they will not stand to see all they have built brought down by a rogue who thinks himself wiser than they.”

“Ludd?” asked Lucy.

“Yes, Ludd. Lady Harriett and her kind have always maintained their power with a gentle hand, bending rather than breaking. Ludd and his followers do not understand this, and so they must endure abject defeat. Just as you shall be destroyed for what you have done here.”

“I am sure there are circumstances in which your threats are more effective,” Lucy replied. Then to Byron, she said, “Tie him up, and we shall go.” Looking around the room, Lucy found a window sash, yanked it from the curtain, and tossed it to Byron. He quickly tied Mr. Buckles to the chair, and then used a table linen to gag him.

“It won’t hold him long, but it will do for now,” he said. “You must understand that you have made an enemy of someone very deadly.”

“It is she who has made an enemy of me,” Lucy said, not believing her own bravado, but enjoying the sound of it all the same.

They approached the front door with a certain trepidation. Lucy reached into her bag and retrieved a small pouch, which she held at the ready. She held back and turned to Byron. “Try the door.”

He bowed and put his hand on the doorknob. Nothing. He waited a moment, startled as the clock struck ten. Then, catching his breath, he turned.

At once he shouted in surprise and pulled his hand back in pain. Four rivulets of blood were trickling across the back of his hand, looking like slashes inflicted by invisible claws.

Byron turned to Lucy in horror and confusion. “What do I do?”

“Try again,” she said as she tossed at the door a handful of herbs that she’d assembled, using the ingredients she’d had upon her, as well as what she’d been able to find in the house. As the mixture struck, Lucy felt a shrinking, a movement in the air as though what had been there was there no longer. “Try again,” she repeated more forcefully. With evident reluctance, Byron took the handle and turned. This time the door opened and the light of a gloomy, cold, and overcast day struck them as the most beautiful thing they had ever seen.

Lucy tossed another handful of herbs in their path and they exited the house. They went perhaps ten feet forward along the walkway and turned around.

“Will those creatures follow us?” Byron asked.

“I think they have been ordered to keep us in, not retrieve us if we get out. Besides, they will not want to cross the line of herbs upon the threshold. Beings of that nature don’t like thresholds to begin with, and I’ve made it that much more unpleasant.”

“What precisely did you toss?” he asked.

“Dried fennel, dill, salt, sage, and garlic.”

“After you are done defeating the evil spirits,” Byron said, “perhaps we might pickle some cucumbers.”

Lucy could not help but laugh. “Let us find your coach and get back to London.”

They turned to walk down the path, but Lucy then froze and grabbed Byron’s arm. It took all her will not to scream. Something ran toward them, hard and fast. It was black and foul and terrifying, a great mastiff, obscenely and almost absurdly oversized. It was the largest dog she had ever seen, near as large as a pony and all over a glossy, total black. Its
mouth was open, baring its sharp, glistening fangs, slick with saliva, and in the gloom of the day they could see its eyes bright, almost luminescent.

“Back to the house!” Byron cried. He grabbed her hand and they ran toward the open door. Lucy hesitated, but only for a second. She did not want to return to that prison, but she did not want to be devoured by a monstrous dog either, and if they had escaped once, they could escape again. When Byron pulled her hand a second time, Lucy allowed him to lead her back to the house.

They’d covered half the distance when the door slammed shut, and Lucy felt a ripple in the air that she was certain was silent, malicious laughter. The house stretched out in either direction for hundreds of yards, but there was nowhere to hide. If they ran, it would extend their lives by a few extra seconds of terror.

Lucy struggled to think of a way out. The dog appeared physical enough, but that did not mean it was not a thing of spirit. She had heard of legends of the black dog, the barguest, that was said to be like a ghost or a demon. She had no choice but to treat it as though it were precisely that and hope for the best.

Lucy drew out another handful of her herbs. “We had better hope this works. It is all we have.” She poured what remained into Byron’s hand, and they both readied their fists, planted their legs, and sucked in their breath. Lucy had seen many wondrous and fantastic things, but she never quite believed her spells or talismans or herbs would work until she saw it happen, and never quite believed it had worked even seconds after. Before they’d seen the dog she was already beginning to doubt that she had freed them from the guard of evil spirits. As she stood there, shoulder cocked back, uncovered hair blowing in the growing wind, Lucy did not expect the herbs to defend them. She believed she was about to die, cruelly and painfully. There would be no one left to rescue Emily, and the sadness, the disappointment, and the anger at that outweighed the fear, as mighty as that was.

The dog leapt into the air to attack, and Byron shouted, “Now!” as he hurled his herbs. Lucy needed no prodding, and she tossed but an
instant later, wanting the dog to be but a little closer. The herbs spread out into the air, lingering like a cloud, and the dog, mouth open wide, impossibly wide—its tongue wagging like a grotesque wave—seemed to flinch its massive head just slightly as it passed through.

Lucy braced herself for agony and oblivion, but instead there was a loud cracking sound as beast and cloud met, and the dog let out a yelp and bucked in the air, turning sideways, and now suddenly coming toward them like a massive projectile. Lucy grabbed Byron’s hand and pulled him out of the way while the dog, which must have weighed thirty stone, slammed into the door, cracking the wood. It fell to the ground with a sickening wet noise, still and lifeless and bloody.

“My God,” said Byron. “I hoped for something, but surely even you did not expect so definitive a result.”

Lucy stared at the dog, confused and uncertain, for it did not appear to be a thing of spirit at all, but flesh and blood—and a great deal of the latter. The animal’s abdomen was torn open, and blood pooled around its lifeless body. Then Lucy noticed an acrid scent, like that of a gun just fired. She turned and looked down the path where a woman stood holding a long-barreled hunting weapon. She was just now lowering it. She was perhaps two hundred feet away, but there was no mistaking her tall form, elegant shape, pale complexion, and the ethereal white hair that hung free, billowing in the wind. It was Mary Crawford.

L
UCY HARDLY KNEW WHAT TO SAY OR WHAT TO DO. THERE WAS
Mary Crawford, who had vanished, who had left her, who had perhaps taken Emily and replaced her with a monster. She had also just saved Lucy’s life. There could be no doubt about that.

Her legs felt unnatural, not her own, unsteady and heavy at once, but she forced herself to walk to Mary, who stood with a grim smile upon her face.

“We must hurry,” Mary said. “I know not when Lady Harriett will return.”

“Who are you?” said Lucy, her voice now sharp. “What are you? Was it you who took Emily?”

Mary took Lucy’s hand. “There will be time for answers, Lucy. I swear it to you, but if we do not go—
now
—it may be too late.”

“Mary is right,” said Byron. “We must go.”

Lucy spun in astonishment. “You are already acquainted?”

“I know not what you mean,” Mary said. “I perceive that you are alone here. I saw no pathetic excuse for a man cowering while you attempted to rescue him.”

“Mary,” Byron said in his most soothing voice, “this is no time for recriminations.”

“If you think,” Mary snapped back, “that I will not put a bullet through your knee rather than let you follow, it proves how little you understand me. I care nothing if you suffer. I care only for my friend, whom I love—an emotion you do not understand but as it pertains to yourself.”

Lucy pivoted her head between the two of them. More than ever, she felt like some child being dragged about by adults she neither knew nor understood. It seemed now that Mary too was familiar with Byron, and not happy in the acquaintance, though she had betrayed none of that when they had first met before his unconscious form at her uncle’s house. It took no great leap of the imagination to suppose what Byron had done to Mary to incur this anger, nor why she would keep such a familiarity a secret. He was the man he was, and he made little pretense of being otherwise, but he was also beautiful and charming, and more than once Lucy had known the temptation he could inspire.

“I won’t leave him,” said Lucy. “I asked him to take me here, and he aided me when I needed it. I will not turn my back upon him.”

“Damn it!” Mary spat. “I will take him off the grounds—to the inn. No more than that. Let him say but one wrong thing, and I shall give him a second bruise to match his first.”

They rode in Mary’s coach for the twenty or so minutes it took to return to the inn. No one spoke, and Lucy spent much of the time stealing glances at both Mary and Byron. The lady did nothing more than look out the window, her face hard and stony. Byron, for his part, appeared chastened, and looked to Lucy like nothing so much as a child who had been caught doing something naughty.

Lucy wanted to speak, to try to mend things between these two friends, these two people who, above all, had made her feel important
and special and powerful—these people she liked, possibly loved, and whom she could not trust.

When they reached the inn, Mary opened the door herself. “Get out,” she said.

Byron did not look at her. Instead, he turned to Lucy. “You need not stay with her. I will see you back.”

“Too many times,” cut in Mary, “have I had you in my power and spared your life. You must think me softhearted, but I promise you are mistaken. Leave now if you value your flesh.”