The Twelfth Enchantment

“I thought you a natural philosopher, not a superstitious fool,” Uncle Lowell barked.

“Natural philosophy, above all things, concerns itself with what can be observed,” said the doctor in the sort of calming voice medical men use to convince others that they know of what they speak. “If I were to presume I possessed the skill to cure that man simply because I have trained as a physician, then I would be guilty of irrational belief in what no evidence has demonstrated. I would, in point of fact, be guilty of clinging to superstition.”

During this exchange, Lucy sat pressing her hands together hard enough to make her knuckles ache. It all seemed so unreal, and yet it concerned her as nearly as anything ever had. She looked over to Mrs. Quince, who was now turned away from Snyder. She might know something of curses if anyone did, but she volunteered nothing.

Lucy ventured to speak her mind. “Sir, we have all heard tales in which the vomiting of pins signifies bewitchment, but perhaps he simply swallowed them?”

“No,” said Snyder. “I—I saw things during my examination. I will not discuss the particulars—I will never speak of what I saw to anyone. Suffice to say I have no doubt in my mind that this gentleman suffers from an affliction medicine cannot remedy.”

“And so you plan to desert me?” asked Uncle Lowell. “You cannot cure him, so you walk away and leave this man in my care?”

“Not quite,” Mr. Snyder said. “In my youth there were several cunning women with excellent reputations in the county, but they have since died. However, I know of a lady recently come to town—not a cunning woman, but a respectable gentlewoman learned in such matters.”

“You tell me to invite a witch into my home?” Uncle Lowell cried incredulously.

“She is no witch, but a lady of means.”

With great reluctance, Uncle Lowell listened to the information about the woman and suffered Mr. Snyder to depart. He then turned to Mrs. Quince and commanded her to go fetch this woman at once. “Tell her I will brook no delay,” he said, apparently forgetting or disregarding Mr. Snyder’s comments about the lady’s status.

“It is dark, and I am quite disordered by these events,” Mrs. Quince said. “I should like to take Miss Derrick with me.”

Lucy never wished to go anywhere with Mrs. Quince, but under these circumstances, she wished it less than any time she could recall. It was extremely uncharacteristic for Mrs. Quince to request Lucy’s presence unless there was some difficult or unpleasant work to be done, but Lucy was not now surprised to be summoned. Given the unusual circumstances, they would now have to speak of private things, of the one secret they shared. There was no helping it. Best to get it out of the way, for though there was nothing but bitterness between them, fate had conspired to place them in a position in which they must protect each other.

3

WITH THE DULL MOTIONS OF A SOMNAMBULIST, LUCY PUT ON HER gloves, a warm bonnet, and a plain muslin pelisse. She stepped out of the house with Mrs. Quince, and they both walked in silence for a brief while. It was cool and crisp, and the Nottingham streets were lightly trafficked. Lucy believed it unlikely the rough men who caused so much trouble in the country would dare molest two such as they, walking upon the fashionable lanes in the shadow of the castle, but in the spring of the year 1812, it was difficult not to be frightened. These once-placid streets were now haunted by luckless men, hulking and impoverished and starving, skulking about with their shovels and hammers and spades. They sought to destroy, to beat back into its proper shape a world that had betrayed them with war and famine and rising prices. Twice before Lucy had seen bands of these Luddites, though only at a distance, and they had shocked her with their sunken eyes and animal desperation.

After several minutes of silence, Mrs. Quince finally spoke without bothering to turn to Lucy. “Shall I presume you are the cause of that man’s difficulties?”

Lucy could not help but laugh. “You know far more of these matters than I.”

“Now you would call me a witch?” snapped Mrs. Quince.

“I only suggest that what little I know I have learned from you.”

“I hardly know anything myself. Perhaps you have studied elsewhere,” said Mrs. Quince.

“Of course not,” answered Lucy, and this was mostly true—certainly true for all practical effect. Lucy had once secretly purchased a book, The Magus by Francis Barrett, with money from her meager annuity, but this volume had proved utterly unilluminating. In any case, she could not quite make herself believe in the seriousness of these things. Did Mrs. Quince truly suspect Lucy cooked up hexes and spells like a witch in a fairy tale? What they had done together those years before now seemed silly, no more than a girls’ game, and they had not attempted anything so implausible as a curse. Yet Lucy knew learned men had believed in such things for millennia. Her father had directed her to read about the lives of Paracelsus and Cornelius Agrippa and Isaac Newton—great thinkers and natural philosophers who also delved into magic and alchemy and the summoning of spirits. Only in the modern world had the educated begun to reject such beliefs. Yet, here she was, walking the streets of Nottingham at night to find a mysterious woman who might help lift the curse off a handsome stranger.

Three years ago, it was Mrs. Quince, then her friend, who wished to explore such matters, who said it would be fun, who laughed with her about the secrets they might discover. Now that business was being thrown in her face, as though Lucy were to blame.

The doctor had informed them that the woman they sought, Miss Mary Crawford, lived on High Pavement, which was among the most desirable streets in Nottingham, but her house was modest, very narrow and lower in height than those surrounding it. They walked up the steps, and Mrs. Quince turned to Lucy. “I shall speak. Pray do not trouble the lady.”

Within moments of their knocking, the door opened, and a curious sort of woman greeted them. She grinned widely and absurdly, showing a mouth of perfectly white and even teeth. She was plump and of indeterminate age, with a dingy complexion, narrow eyes, and a round face that would conceal many wrinkles, assuming she was old enough to possess them. This woman might have been thirty or she might have been fifty. She wore a shapeless, mouse-colored frock, and her bonnet was so low upon her forehead that it rested just above her eyebrows, and its odd placement gave the woman the look of a simpleton.

“It is Miss Lucy Derrick!” the woman cried out with evident joy, and grabbed Lucy by the hand. “Oh, you must come in. Miss Crawford will be so happy to hear of your arrival.”

Lucy did not try to escape the woman’s firm grip, but her mind raced in confusion. She did not often forget faces, and she believed she must recognize the woman if they had previously met. Now, with her accusation only minutes old, Mrs. Quince stared at Lucy with cold fury.

“I am very sorry,” Lucy said, “but I do not believe I know you.”

The woman waved a plump hand dismissively. “Do not trouble your mind, my dear. We’ve not met, but how could I not know a young lady as sweet as Lucy Derrick?”

Lucy had no answer to this question, and for entirely different reasons, neither did Mrs. Quince, but they allowed the peculiar woman to lead them into the sitting room, which was a small but comfortable space.

“I am Mrs. Emmett,” the woman said to Lucy, ignoring Mrs. Quince entirely. She reached out and took Lucy’s hand in both of hers. Her skin was warm, almost hot, and as soft as a baby’s. “Mrs. Emmett.” She pronounced each syllable with much exaggeration. “You’ll recollect it, I hope, Miss Derrick. You’ll not forget me now.”

“Indeed, I shall not,” said Lucy.

“I am so happy.” She released Lucy’s hand. “I shall fetch Miss Crawford at once.”

She then hurried out of the room, muttering to herself and waving her hands excitedly.

Mrs. Quince, who did not love to be slighted, turned hard to Lucy. “You claim to have no knowledge of curses, and yet the cunning woman’s servant knows you.”

“She does appear to, but you heard that she did not expect me to know her. Perhaps she foresaw my arrival in the cards,” Lucy said, enjoying the moment of sauciness.

Mrs. Quince snorted and turned to examine the gilt wallpaper, which she said she thought rather shabby for a