possess.”
Lucy could not think of what there was to say. Her father had been a hermeticist, a Rosicrucian, and her sister his apprentice. They had studied magic together, the two of them, locked in his study, as Lucy was later to do—or begin to do. All those books he had her read, the philosophers, the languages, the botany. He had been laying the groundwork for what Lucy would later become. It was all so clear now.
“As the time drew closer,” Mr. Morrison continued, “as the hour of danger approached, I became convinced that you would die if you did not leave. I had to get you away, if only for a little while, until the danger passed.”
Lucy looked at him. His eyes were cast down, his face was red.
“And so you pretended to love me?”
“I needed you to go with me,” he said. “If I told you a tale of magic and spells and curses, you would have laughed at me. I needed you to want to go.”
“Then, what you did—you were not being cruel. All this time I have spent hating you, thinking you horrible, and you said nothing. Why did you say nothing?” Lucy felt herself growing angry again. He had let her hate him when she should have regarded him as her friend. She hardly knew where her anger belonged, but it balled up inside her, threatening to explode.
“Your father never forgave himself for being wrong, but he was, and your sister paid the price for it. The curse meant for you found her, and it killed her.”
Lucy sat still and silent, hearing nothing but the rushing of blood in her ears. It came on her, wave after wave, grief and rage and anger and loathing for herself. “Emily died, when it should have been me.”
“No!” Mr. Morrison jumped to his feet. “No, damn it. Can you not understand? Your father did not want you to know, not because he feared you would blame him. He blamed himself sufficiently that he needed no aid. He never wanted you to know because he feared you would blame yourself. He feared you would see it in that absurd way. You did not know, and you could have done nothing. It should not have been you. It should not have been either of you. She was murdered and it is no one’s fault but the murderer’s.” When Lucy said nothing, he sat down again and took her hands in both of his. “Can you not see that?”
She nodded. “Who was it? Who killed my sister?”
“The leader of the revenants.”
It was Lucy’s turn to rise to her feet. “Lady Harriett killed my sister, and you struck a deal with her?”
He shook his head. “Lady Harriett was not then leader. She took that post after the death of her husband, Sir Reginald. He had led them for centuries before he died. Before I killed him.”
“You?” said Lucy, sitting slowly.
“Out of love for your father, I did what needed doing. They had done the unpardonable, and a message had to be sent. I destroyed him.”
“Then you know how to kill them.”
“My order has known for a long time, and that knowledge had led to our truce.”
“You must tell me,” whispered Lucy.
“I cannot. I have taken an oath to guard the secret. It is a simple thing, a mixture of common elements, but the nature of these elements is something I cannot reveal.”
Lucy’s understanding came into such sharp focus, it was like a slap across her face. “Gold, mercury, and sulfur,” she said.
Mr. Morrison’s eyes went wide. He said nothing, but he did not have to. His closely guarded secret was now Lucy’s.
Lucy kept moving her hands, not quite sure what to do with them, putting them on her knees, winding them together, stroking her chin. There was so much to think about. Mr. Morrison had not been an unrepentant rake all those years ago. He had tried to help her, the only way he could think of. Her father had not suddenly decided he loved her, but he had loved her all along, wanting only to protect her from the terrible dangers posed by her own nature. He had made an error, a terrible, catastrophic error, and Emily had paid the price. So much had gone wrong, and now it was Lucy’s lot to set it right. Everything that she had ever done, or that had been done to her, had happened along the path—the crooked, winding, back-turning path—to her destiny.
“And what of Mary Crawford?” asked Lucy, with some trepidation. She did not wish to alarm Mr. Morrison by again mentioning her name, but she had to know. “Is she my friend? Can I depend upon her?”
“No,” Mr. Morrison said, his face utterly without expression, his voice entirely flat. “She is dead, and she is no one’s friend. She lies. Her kind always lies, Lucy. Never forget it.”
“And what has she lied to me about?”
Mr. Morrison sighed. “I hardly know what she told you, so I cannot inventory it all, but if she sent you to look for the pages of the
Lucy was on her feet. “What? That cannot be. She would have told me.”
“Only if she wished you to know. You think she is helping you? She is using you. No more.”
“How can you know that she had them?”
“I can’t,” he admitted. “Not for certain, but my order had long suspected that two of them were in her hands.”
Lucy walked to the window and peered out, taking in none of what she saw. She did not know if Mr. Morrison was right. She supposed it hardly mattered now. There was but one course, and she would follow it.
“My niece awaits,” she said. “And so does everything else, I suppose. Mr. Morrison, will you take me to what was once my father’s house? Will you take me to Harrington?”
Mr. Morrison rose and bowed. “You need not ask. You need only command. But you must know that Lady Harriett will suspect that Mr. Perceval’s death means the end of our agreement. She and her kind will come after us. Are you prepared to face them?”
Lucy thought of her sister Emily, whom she had loved so much. She thought of her niece, the child who bore her sister’s name. “Mr. Morrison, I am prepared to kill them.”
It was too late to leave that evening, but Lucy and Mrs. Emmett joined Mr. Morrison in his coach at first light. Mr. Blake awoke early to see Lucy out, and he appeared uncommonly pleased that she was going—not because he wished to be rid of her, but because he sensed that she was doing what she must do.
“Your father must be very proud of you,” he told her. “I have but known you a little, and I certainly am.” He thrust some papers into her hands. “You must take these.”
Lucy looked at the pages. They were engravings like the engravings of the
“What are they?”
“They are pages made in the likeness of your own book. I have been practicing against the day that I must make the true pages, even if that day is hundreds of years in the past.” He smiled at her. “It is how I live my life.”
“Thank you, Mr. Blake.”
“They are but a reminder,” he told her, “that we are all works in progress. Even at my age, I strive to improve. You must be kind to yourself, my dear girl.”
He took her hand and smiled upon her, and then led her to the coach where Mr. Morrison and Mrs. Emmett already awaited them.
When Lucy climbed in, she saw that Mr. Morrison found Mrs. Emmett puzzling. He looked at her and then, realizing he was being rude, looked away, only to sneak glances out of the corner of his eye. As the coach began to roll, he looked at Lucy and, in the dim light, raised his eyebrows questioningly. Lucy answered with a shrug, perhaps not the most reassuring answer as they embarked upon a dangerous mission, accompanied by a curious serving woman.
For much of the morning they rode in silence, Lucy only half awake, watching the landscape pass before her, thinking of everything she’d like to ask Mr. Morrison, but daring to ask none of it. More than anything, she wanted to ask about Mary, but she had seen the look of heartbreak upon his face at the mention of that name, and she would not inflict that upon him. And yet, after everything they’d discussed, one question remained above all else. If he had
