loved Mary as he said, and if she had loved him, then why were they not together? She had died, but she had come back. What kept them apart?
Lucy continued to dwell on such things because she did not want to dwell on one thing in particular—that she would be returning to the house where she had grown up and once lived in happiness with her father and her sisters. She had been there since Martha’s marriage to Mr. Buckles, but not often, and not since her life had altered so drastically. She did not know what to expect now. She did not know what she would see or how she would feel. She did not want to go there and see her sister and the goblin she believed to be her own baby. Most of all, she did not wish to confront Mr. Buckles in front of Martha.
They had been in the coach not an hour when Lucy turned to Mr. Morrison. “What is this great heroic act that people keep attempting to mention?”
He laughed. “There’s always some threat or other, Lucy. I know this must all seem very new to you, but for me this is only one more time I must save the world from destruction.”
She looked at him to see if he made sport of her, but she could see no sign that it was so.
They arrived before noon, turning off the main road to enter the grounds, then, onto the circular drive before the old rectangular house, made of dusty and battered red brick. Lucy had thought it grand as a child, but now she saw it was a rather plain house, somewhat tired-looking. Still, it reminded her of Emily and her father, and that was enough to make her love it.
They had sent no word ahead, and Martha came running out of the house to greet them, and Lucy forced herself to stifle a cry when she looked upon her sister. She looked thinner now, and her eyes tired and lined, her skin brittle and dry. She appeared ten years older.
Lucy hugged Martha until she saw she dampened her sister’s neck with her tears.
“What has happened?” asked Martha, as she watched Mrs. Emmett and Mr. Morrison emerge from the coach. “For you to come here unannounced, and with—good lord, Mr. Morrison. It is he. I did not think you would really come.”
“We have come to see Mr. Buckles,” said Mr. Morrison. “Is he at home? We’d just like a quick chat. Nothing terribly violent.”
Martha looked to Lucy, but when her sister offered no further comment about the nature of their visit, she turned back to Mr. Morrison. “I expect him later today. I am told you must come in.” She cast her eyes down and spoke in a quiet voice. “But you must
“That
Martha shook her head. “They told me not to say.”
“There are three of them,” said Mrs. Emmett.
Lucy was about to ask how she could know, but saved herself the trouble. She knew there was no point. Instead she looked at Martha. “We shall have a look.”
“You mustn’t,” said Martha. “These men, they will not be gentle.”
“Neither shall I, and we shan’t make anything better out here,” said Mr. Morrison. “Come, Miss Derrick. Mrs. Emmett, please keep Lucy’s sister out of trouble.”
Martha turned toward him, and then stopped, instead fixing her tired eyes on Lucy. “Do you know what you are doing?”
“A little,” said Lucy.
Mr. Morrison raised his eyebrows and then beckoned Lucy to follow. She had seen him silly and charming and gracious and foolish and in love, but now, Lucy understood, she was seeing him for who he was. She now observed Jonas Morrison fully in his element, with a task to do, unconcerned with the odds or the dangers. This, she understood, was his true nature, and she did not wish to miss seeing it.
They stepped inside the house, and the old front hall filled Lucy with instant melancholy. Things had changed, of course—the paintings upon the walls were different, replaced with new paintings and silhouettes of both Mr. Buckles and Lady Harriett—not one of Martha, Lucy could not but notice. There had been a worn Persian rug in her father’s day, but that was gone, replaced by a new rug of garish blue and red. The statue in the corner of the second Charles was replaced by an oriental vase full of bright spring flowers. And yet, for all these changes, it was her old house, her old front hall, and the memories of those years fell upon her, heavy and warm. The wave of nostalgia felt wonderful, but it was soon enough replaced by anger. This house was never to have been hers, of course. It had been entailed to Mr. Buckles, and nothing could have changed that, but so much else had been stolen from her. Here was the house of her happiness, and it had been transformed to the seat of her misery.
Three men approached from the parlor. They looked to Lucy like soldiers or laborers, dressed up like country gentlemen in trousers and plain waistcoats. They were all of them broad in the shoulder and thick in the arms, with bulging necks and the sort of heavy faces that such muscular men often possess.
One of them stepped forward. “Jonas Morrison. They said you’d be foolish enough to come here, and I’m glad you did, for me and the lads was getting restless. Now, let’s see your hands up high, so I know you don’t mean no tricks.”
Lucy took a step back, but Mr. Morrison did nothing other than raise his empty hands to shoulder height and smile amiably at the men. “Nothing in my hands,” he said, as though about to perform one of his tricks.
And he was. Lucy understood that only an instant before it happened, and when it did happen, things moved so quickly she could not be sure she saw it all, or could believe what she did see. The brute who had spoken took a quick step toward Mr. Morrison, grinning with pleasure, one fist pulled back, ready to deliver a mighty blow, but he never had the chance. Though Mr. Morrison had demonstrated that his hands were empty, they no longer were so. In his right hand he held a cudgel, heavy and black, of about a foot in length. As the brute swung his fist, Mr. Morrison deftly stepped to one side, and struck the man in the side of his head, quick, hard, decisive. The brute toppled liked a felled tree.
With a quick and easy gesture, Mr. Morrison tossed the cudgel to his left hand, and now in his right hand appeared a piece of chalk, snatched as if from the air itself as the cudgel had been. Finding an exposed spot on the floor, he quickly drew a set of symbols on it—two interlocking triangles inside a square inside a circle, and then whispered something over the symbol. It took but a second, and it was done. He then dropped the chalk and made manifest a second cudgel. He rose to face the two remaining brutes who were now upon him.
One lunged, and Morrison struck him upon either side of the head simultaneously, causing the man to stagger backwards and collapse. The remaining man pulled from his pockets two pistols, which he held in each hand.
“I’ll not let you get close enough to use those,” he said.
Morrison dropped a cudgel down his sleeve and took Lucy’s hand. His skin was cool and dry, as though his efforts had cost him nothing. She felt his pulse in his hand, and it was calm and regular.
“I see we’ve upset you,” said Mr. Morrison. “We’ll just be on our way.” He began to back up toward the door, pulling Lucy with him.
“You’re not going anywhere,” said the brute. “Stand still.”
“Oh, you won’t shoot and risk hitting the lady, will you?” asked Mr. Morrison, continuing his slow retreat.
“If you don’t stop moving, I’ll shoot the lady first,” answered the man as he advanced, just as slowly, clearly unwilling to close distance between them. As he finished speaking, Morrison stopped and so did he.
Morrison smiled and cast his eyes to the floor, where the brute stood upon the symbol he’d drawn in chalk. “Oh, dear,” Morrison said. “That’s not good.”
“What do you mean?” said the brute, though he already began to appear distressed. A trickle of blood began to flow from his nose, and his eyes were so bloodshot as to be almost entirely red. “What do you mean?” he said again, and this time a trickle of blood fell from the corner of his mouth. Then he fell to the floor.
Mr. Morrison let go of Lucy’s hand and went to check on the men, feeling the pulses in their necks, lifting their eyelids. “We have two hours, at least.”
Martha came into the house and shrieked. Mrs. Emmett took her hand to steady her.
“I do apologize for the mess,” said Mr. Morrison. “Let us leave them for your husband to tend to, shall we? In the meantime, your sister and I have business.”
“But those men might die here,” said Martha.
“Oh, no,” said Mrs. Emmett. “Those two right there shall hang within the year, and that one with the fair hair, he shall choke to death upon his own vomit. He drinks to excess, you know.”
