the only person he trusted to take the book for herself.”
Lucy nodded. “Of course. Emily. She went to Cardiff shortly before she died, and you went there looking for the book. It was Emily who disassembled the book, to keep it safe, and only she knew where the pieces were.”
“I believe so,” said Mr. Morrison. “But the pages themselves have power. You have discovered that, I think. They contain information for those who know how to read them or are sensitive to them, and so they can be sensed. Some of the pages remain where Emily left them, others have been discovered and changed hands several times.”
“All this time, I have been following in my sister’s footsteps,” said Lucy.
Mr. Morrison nodded. “You see now why Lady Harriett wanted you to marry Mr. Olson. Your property would become his. The book would no longer belong to you. Lady Harriett wanted desperately for you to marry him before all the pages were recovered, because no one wanted the book reassembled while you still owned it.”
“Almost no one,” said Lucy very quietly, for Mary dared. She alone dared to urge Lucy to assemble the book that contained the secret of unmaking her.
Mr. Morrison turned away. “Almost no one.”
Lucy had to know. She swallowed and forged ahead before she lost the nerve to ask. “If you love her, why does it matter? She left, but she returned, so why are you apart from each other? Why does she not use your name?”
He shook his head. “I will not discuss it.”
“I do not mean to cause you pain,” she said quietly. “I only wish to understand.” It was so odd, she thought as she looked at him. She had spent years hating him, thinking him the most vile of men, but he was never that person. He had only been a kind and loyal man serving Lucy’s father—and serving Lucy herself.
To distract herself, she decided it was time to find the pages. Lucy turned slowly about the room, like a sluggish child at absent play. She ran her hand along the shelves as she walked, hoping for some kind of spark or warmth or feeling of nearness. Then, in some noiseless way, she heard its cry. Lucy walked toward a shelf and there she found her father’s copy of
Lucy looked at them. They were as beautiful and strange and inexplicable as the others. On the pages were trees transmuting into vines and into animals, plant and creature alike twirling and twisting upward and down. It was all about transformation and change and melding. It was about the future and the past. It was about insight, Lucy realized, about seeing the truth behind veils of deception and disguise. There was more than that, however. The philosopher’s stone was the source of transformation and alteration, and such power required wisdom and judgment and patience, and these too were embedded in these images. Lucy stared for a long time, hoping she might become wise and insightful enough to know what to do next.
And then she did.
She turned to Mr. Morrison and Mrs. Emmett. “I need you to keep my sister away from me. I need you to keep her downstairs no matter what.”
“Where do you go?” asked Mr. Morrison.
Lucy swallowed hard, working up the courage to say what would be far more difficult to do. She turned to Mrs. Emmett and straightened herself in a display of determination. “I go to speak to the changeling.”
Perhaps she heard someone upon the stairs, for when Lucy reached the baby’s room, the wet nurse—a plump and pretty fair-haired woman in her early thirties—emerged. Her eyes were red and heavily bagged, and her posture somewhat slumped. Everything about the woman suggested fatigue and dejection.
“I wish to be alone with the—the infant,” said Lucy. “I am the aunt.”
“I don’t care who you are, mum,” the woman said hurrying down the hall. “If you want to be alone with her, she’s yours as long as you’ll have her.”
Lucy stepped into the room. It was dark, with only a small fire burning. This had once been Lucy’s own room, but it was unfamiliar now, with pictures of animals upon the wall, a new rug of plain weave, and entirely different furnishings. Near the fireplace rested the baby’s crib, but Lucy did not have to approach and peer into it. The creature had already pulled itself up and clutched the railings in its narrow, clawed fingers. Its large, reptilian eyes followed her as she moved into the room, and then, as she drew too close, it hissed in alarm, showing its sharp teeth. Its forked tongue darted out, tasting the air.
Lucy took another step forward. It cocked its head and hissed again. So, it was afraid of her. That was interesting.
“Can you speak?” she asked.
“Can you?” it asked, its voice raspy and low.
“Clearly,” said Lucy as she took another step forward.
The thing hissed again and swiped at the air with its claws. “No further, witch.”
Lucy stopped, but more as an experiment than out of fear. She was surprised to discover she was not afraid of the creature. She found it vile, but not terrifying, perhaps because it was so clearly afraid of her. “Why do you fear me?”
“You would send me back if you knew how,” it said.
“And you do not wish to go back? You enjoy tormenting my sister?”
“I am charged to not let you send me back,” it said. “For the baby’s sake. It is what my mistress has commanded, and I obey her.”
“Your mistress is Mary Crawford?”
“Yes,” it hissed.
“How do I find my niece?” Lucy asked.
It opened its mouth, and then only hissed again.
“You were going to tell me,” Lucy said. “But you did not. Because you were commanded not to tell me?”
“Yes,” it said, evidently unhappy.
“But otherwise you seem inclined to answer my questions honestly. Why?”
The creature turned away from her, rubbing its long hands over the rough skin of its head, as if trying to puzzle something out. It mumbled something Lucy could not understand.
“Speak so I might hear you,” Lucy said.
It turned to her and flashed its teeth. “It is the pages of the book. They compel me to tell the truth.”
Lucy smiled and approached closer. “Is there anything you can tell me to help me get my niece back?”
“No, you cannot force me to speak of that.”
Lucy took a moment to think of what she might ask next. She could not stay here forever. The men downstairs might awaken, or Martha might come in to discover what Lucy did. She needed to hurry. “What must Mary Crawford do to banish you?”
“Even she cannot banish me now, not until certain conditions are fulfilled. Not until your niece is safe.”
There must be something it could tell her, Lucy thought. Some truth she could extract that did not directly involve the rescue of her niece but would help effect that rescue. She made another attempt. “Then what of the pages yet missing? Mr. Morrison said that Mary Crawford knew the location of pages. Though why would she not tell me?”
“All she does, she believes is right,” the changeling said.
Lucy realized it had answered part of her question, but not all of it, so she tried again, asking more precisely this time. “Do you know where I will find the last pages of the book?”
The creature backed up in the crib. It looked this way and that and appeared so desperate that Lucy almost felt sorry for it. But she pressed her case and pointed at the changeling. “Tell me.”
And it did.
Downstairs Mr. Morrison rushed toward her, evidently concerned. “Is all well?”
“No,” said Lucy. “It seems you were right about Mary. She did deceive me. She had pages hidden away all along, and now, unfortunately, I know where.”
“Why is that unfortunate?” he demanded.
