many books. He told her stories that seemed dreamlike and allegorical and yet, strangely not, filled with curious names and a pantheon that evoked classical sources as well as the Bible. Lucy could not keep the names or the struggles clear, but the stories were infused with the themes that preoccupied Mr. Blake: the fight of the human spirit against the oppression of cruel and unnatural law and custom, and the struggle of divine truth against satanic reason. Even if the details eluded her, Lucy took pleasure in the enthusiasm in Mr. Blake’s voice, and she admired, even envied, his excitement at his own creation.
It was a testament to Mr. Blake’s comforting presence, not a sign of failure as a storyteller, that Lucy found herself drifting toward slumber in the comfortable armchair by the fire. She was not quite asleep, but in a state where Mr. Blake’s words took on strange and unpredictable meanings, and she drifted slightly away from herself.
Then Mr. Blake was silent, and Lucy snapped awake. There was another person in the room, sitting in a chair once empty, directly across from Lucy and Mr. Blake, and farthest from the fire. Lucy blinked twice, unable to credit what she saw, for it was Ludd himself. She had not before seen him so clearly or so directly. The room was well lit, and he did not seem to twinkle in and out of existence as he had the previous times she’d gazed upon him, and yet he did not seem to be entirely there either. He was not transparent or insubstantial, the way one might suppose a ghost to look. It was more that looking at him was like looking into a fire. She could not look long, for it strained and clouded her eyes, and she found it was most comfortable to look at him from the corners of her eyes.
Mr. Blake appeared to have no such difficulty. Lucy could see that he stared at him directly, and he blinked in wide-eyed astonishment.
Mrs. Emmett was awake now, and she too had no trouble gazing upon him. “Look at that,” she said, as though observing a dog doing a remarkable trick. “How unexpected.”
“All depends upon you,” Ludd said to Lucy.
“Can you think I don’t know it?” she answered. The bitterness of her own voice surprised her.
“I hope you do,” Ludd said in his unaccountable, shifting voice. “I hope you comprehend what happens if you fail. I may fail. You may not.”
“We do not stand for the same cause,” said Lucy. “You arranged for Mr. Perceval’s death. You hoped to cause the death of hundreds more in rebellion and unrest.”
“We thought it necessary,” Ludd said. “We failed. Now your role is even more important.”
“What shall happen if Miss Derrick does not stand with you?” asked Mr. Blake.
“Death,” said Ludd. “Blood. Machines. Enslavement. An end to everything you love. An end to all that tempers Lady Harriett and her kind. An end to England as any of us have understood it.”
“There must be another way,” said Lucy. “A way for the machines and the magic to coexist.” She did not know how strongly she believed this until she spoke it. “That is my cause. Peace and compromise. That is the third way.”
“There can be no peace while Lady Harriett lives,” Ludd said. “You must destroy her for there to be peace, and if you compromise, how can you destroy her?”
“Then what do you suggest I do?” asked Lucy.
She asked it to an empty chair.
Lucy was on her feet in an instant, walking about the room as though Ludd might somehow, absurdly, be hiding somewhere.
“Damn them!” Lucy cried, hardly caring how wanton she sounded. Then, after a moment, she said, “Forgive me, Mr. Blake.”
“No forgiveness is required,” he answered with his customary ease.
“I am so frustrated!” Lucy cried out, feeling like a petulant child. It was the unfairness of it all that drove her mad. “Why can they never speak plainly? Why can they never tell me what must be? Why are they always so opaque and vague and maddening?”
Mr. Blake smiled at her. “You must be patient with them, Lucy. Our world is as difficult for them to see as theirs is for us. That creature did not seek to vex you. It struggled mightily to be clear, but you were just as slippery and evasive to it as it was to you.”
This notion startled Lucy, but it also comforted her. It made her feel better to know that at least Ludd was not toying with her.
“I must go to Harrington. I must go to Mr. Buckles’s home and take possession of whatever it is he has.”
“Yes,” Blake said.
“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Emmett agreed. “Your father does not wish for you to go alone, so why not ask his brother to accompany you?”
Lucy stared at the woman in surprise. “He had no brother. My Uncle Lowell would never do such a thing for me, and in any case, he is no blood relative, but my mother’s sister’s husband.”
“Not that,” she corrected. “Not his brother of blood, but of fellowship. His brother of the Rosy Cross.”
Lucy stared at her in wonder and confusion. She felt as though the very floor upon which she stood bucked and twisted wildly. “What do you say, Mrs. Emmett? My father was a Rosicrucian? He was in the same order as Jonas Morrison?”
“Oh, yes,” said Mrs. Emmett. “Can you not hear him say so? They were fond of each other. Your father regarded Mr. Morrison as though he were his son.”
Lucy sat down heavily in her chair. After all that had happened, after all she had seen, this revelation astonished her more than any of the rest. Everything Lucy knew about her own life, it seemed, was a lie.
Mr. Blake agreed to escort Lucy to Mr. Morrison’s house, but he sensed Lucy’s somber mood, and rode over in complete silence, his hands in his lap, a sympathetic smile on his lips. Lucy did not wish for him to be there, and she regretted the necessity of an escort. She did not want anyone to witness the confusion and abasement she would be certain to undergo. But there was no helping it. She could not sacrifice her duty for her pride.
Lucy had never before been to Mr. Morrison’s town house, had never even seen it, but he was a man of means, and it was never difficult to learn where a rich man lives. She and Mr. Blake called at his house at two in the afternoon and could only hope that he would be home. Whatever Lucy must face, it would be less horrible than her treatment at the hands of Byron. To some degree she knew that Byron had been lashing out, feeling nothing more complicated than frustration. If she had learned anything about him it was that he was childlike in his belief both that his desires ought to be satisfied the moment he felt them, and that he was justified expressing himself in any way he chose. Whatever she had imagined to be her feelings for him now seemed empty and foolish. She had been a fool. She knew that now. Perhaps she had known it all along, and she condemned herself for it.
Lucy was nervous to the point of shaking as she and Mr. Blake were shown into the sitting room. A middle- aged woman of no discernible expression informed them that Mr. Morrison was engaged, but he would be with them when he became available. No doubt he would make Lucy wait longer than necessary. He would wish to punish her, to show that he was not at her disposal, and perhaps even to postpone the unpleasantness of their conversation.
The woman showed them to a pleasant room to endure this waiting. It caught much of the afternoon light, and there were two bookcases filled with innocuous novels, volumes of poetry—mostly of the last century—and some popular history. Upon the walls were paintings of nondescript gentlemen, a landscape of a boy leading a horse across a river, and a ship sailing toward a Mediterranean-looking port. The furnishings were comfortable but unadorned. It was, in short, a room designed to give the impression that Mr. Morrison was a man of mundane taste and an utter lack of imagination.
Mr. Blake took a few moments to examine the contents of one of the bookshelves, and finally settled upon a volume of Milton, which he brought to a chair by the window. He gave every impression of wishing to make himself invisible.
Lucy paced. She attempted to find a book to look at, but as the titles could not hold her attention, she very much doubted an open book would serve as a better distraction. After waiting for half an hour, Lucy heard footsteps outside the door, and when they passed without entering, she breathed a sigh of relief. She would have preferred to wait in that room indefinitely than to start the conversation she came to have. When Mr. Morrison did, after perhaps an hour, enter the room, he appeared flustered and hurried. His hair was messy, as though windblown, and his cravat was soiled, suggesting he had not found time to refresh himself since returning from a journey. Perhaps it
