The Twelfth Enchantment

gentlewoman’s.

After a few moments, they heard the approach of feminine footsteps, and in walked a strikingly pretty woman of perhaps five-and-twenty, tall and graceful, with fair skin, hair so blond it was nearly white, and extraordinarily pale green eyes. She wore a fine tunic of green and gold, cut square in the front, and cut low, as was also the London fashion, and it showed her shape to great advantage. She dressed as though she were entertaining or prepared to go out, though Lucy could see no signs that either case was true.

She did not hesitate to take Lucy’s hand. “Miss Derrick, I am Mary Crawford. I hope my woman’s excitement did not trouble you. She has seen you about town and admired you. Mrs. Emmett has her peculiarities, but she is a good woman and means no harm.” There was something about her—not her appearance certainly, but some elusive quality—that made Lucy think at once of her late sister, Emily. It may have been the way she tilted her head when she spoke, or in the kindness of her words. Perhaps it was the hint of cleverness that revealed itself in even the most banal statements.

That had been the essence of Emily—not merely her remarkable, if unusual, beauty, with her nose slightly too large, her lips too thin, her chin too long—not merely her wit or charm or winning conversation. Emily always gave the impression of being thoughtful and clever. She projected warmth and friendliness, and at the same time she had seemed superior, yet she appeared utterly insensible of her superiority. This remarkable confluence of appearance, demeanor, and ease had made her loved by virtually all who knew her. Some friend or other was forever inviting her to travel, and she spent nearly half the year, every year, away from home, off to London, York, Bath, Brighton, even Edinburgh and Cardiff. Everyone had wanted to be near Emily, and Mary Crawford had, if not precisely the same charm, something very like it.

“I assure you, I took no offense.” Lucy made the deliberate decision not to introduce Mrs. Quince, in part because it felt quite pleasant to slight her, but also because she could not help but feel that she wanted this lady all to herself. “I come upon truly unusual business, Miss Crawford, and I hope you will forgive me.”

“I am certain whatever you have to say will require no forgiveness. Please, sit down. Perhaps your woman will wait in the kitchen? Mrs. Emmett can fetch her a pot of small beer.”

“I am content where I am.” Mrs. Quince met Miss Crawford’s eye, but she was not so bold as to sit herself.

“Of course,” said Miss Crawford, who gave Mrs. Quince a sidelong glance that, to Lucy, suggested she understood everything.

Mrs. Quince had said she wished to do the speaking, but now Lucy believed it fell to her to explain her situation as best she could. “I hardly even know how to state this business, but there has been a strange incident at my uncle’s house, and we have been advised to seek your aid.” She went on to provide a summary of the evening’s events, beginning with the arrival of the stranger and concluding with Mr. Snyder’s recommendations.

“I have not the pleasure of knowing Mr. Snyder well,” said Miss Crawford, “and I met him only briefly, so I fear he misunderstood the nature of my experience with the old knowledge. While I am something of a student of the hidden arts, I have no skill as a practitioner.”

Lucy leaned forward, fascinated. “But you believe in magic? You think it real?”

Miss Crawford laughed, not unkindly. “If you had seen all I have seen, you would understand that it is not a matter of belief. From what you describe, you have seen remarkable things this night as well.”

“What we saw was indeed remarkable,” admitted Lucy, “but I am convinced there must be some manner of explanation.”

“Certainly there is,” agreed Miss Crawford. “Most likely, this man is cursed.”

“What we have thus learned,” said Mrs. Quince as she airily looked out the window, “is that you claim this man is bewitched, but you can do nothing about it. If that is so, I see no reason we should trouble your quiet any longer.”

Lucy felt herself flush with shame, but Miss Crawford’s smile remained fixed and kind and entirely directed at Lucy.

“I do not know that I shall be able to help this man, though I shall be able to tell you if he suffers a bewitchment or no with a high degree of certainty. Once we establish that, well… then we shall see.”

Miss Crawford had a carriage at her disposal, which she insisted they take the short distance to Uncle Lowell’s house. They rode in uneasy silence, and Lucy could not help but suspect that Mrs. Quince, with her glowering mood, was the cause of it. Even in the dark, Lucy saw Miss Crawford cast her the occasional kind and conspiratorial smile, as though they were allies together against Mrs. Quince, and Lucy had the strangest feeling that she and this lady were friends, and that they had been for a great while. She knew it was but a flight of fancy, but she clung to the idea of having such a friend.

Upon their arrival, Lucy introduced Miss Crawford, believing her uncle must be charmed. He was, however, unimpressed. “Pretty for a witch, I’ll warrant, but pretty don’t signify,” he said, apparently oblivious to Miss Crawford’s presence or his unpardonable rudeness. “I’ll not pay a farthing for gypsy tricks.”

Lucy felt her face burn. “Miss Crawford wants no money” she said, using her most soothing voice. “Only to help if she can.”

“It is what they say,” replied Uncle Lowell. “If there is a bill to be delivered in the end, present it to the vomiting vagabond. I promise to pay nothing.”

Lucy took a candle, and the four of them ascended to the guest room, which was cold for want of a fire, and was lit by only two small oil lamps. There, in the gloom, they gazed upon the shadowy form of the stranger, who lay on the bed, curled up like a kitten on top of the counterpane, breathing in uneven rasps. Lucy took the opportunity to observe his uncovered misshapen foot—hooked and twisted like a beast’s wounded claw. It was awkward to be so close to so handsome a man in a state of undress, and Lucy turned away.

Miss Crawford took the candle from Lucy’s hand and crept forward to examine the stranger. She came within a few feet of him, held out the light, and then nearly dropped the taper. She stepped backwards, and her face twisted with surprise or perhaps fear.

Lucy ran forward to take her elbow. “Are you unwell?”

Straightening out and affecting a calm demeanor, Miss Crawford shook her head. “It is nothing, thank you. It is only that… I cannot say. There is something very wrong here.”

“And it is now, I suppose, that you say you shall make everything right for a guinea!” cried Uncle Lowell. “You must think me the greatest fool who ever lived.”

“I shall show her to the door,” offered Mrs. Quince.

Lucy knew better than to apologize for her uncle. Instead she relied upon the tools she had always used to survive in his and the serving woman’s company, which is to say, she ignored them as best she could. “What must we do, Miss Crawford?”

Even in the dark of the room, Lucy could see the concern upon the lady’s face. “I cannot say what there is to be done. I can—I can try to do something. I must have some quiet. I beg you all to leave the room. All but Miss Derrick. You will stay with me, won’t you?”

Lucy wanted to stay with Miss Crawford, certainly, though she did not know how she felt about staying with this undressed stranger.

“I shall remain too,” announced Mrs. Quince, “to protect the interests of the household.”

“I must request otherwise,” said Miss Crawford to Lucy, ignoring Mrs. Quince entirely. “I do not think your woman’s proximity will aid my concentration.”

Mrs. Quince turned to Miss Crawford, and something hot and angry burned in her eyes, but she swept from the room, and Lucy indulged in a little thrill of triumph. It was childish, yes, but she did not care. She was the favored one now, and she watched with pleasure as Uncle Lowell and Mrs. Quince stepped away, so that only the two young ladies remained in the dimly lit room with the door closed.

Miss Crawford sighed as she set her candle down upon a little table near the fireplace. “Now I must do what I do not love. I must attempt to practice.”

“Does it hurt you?” asked Lucy.

Miss Crawford laughed good-naturedly. “No, it is simply something for which I have no talent. I also hate to play at the pianoforte, for I am very bad at it, and the attempt makes me feel useless. I understand the principles of magic, just as I understand those of music, but I was not formed to excel at either. Even so, for the sake of your