The Twelfth Enchantment

Lady Harriett.

“What now?” asked Lucy.

“She’ll come,” said Mary. “You should be in no great hurry.”

“I’ve faced her before,” said Lucy, attempting to summon her courage. She had seen Lady Harriett toss Byron across the room as though he were an unwanted pillow. What could they do to stop her now?

“You have not faced her when she is desperate,” said Mary. “She will do anything to get that book from you. You must know it. She will want you to gift it to her. It is not too late to gift the book to me, Lucy. I can protect it better than you.”

“Leave her be about the damn book!” said Mrs. Emmett, her voice sharp.

Everyone stared at her. Lucy had never heard her speak so, and it seemed to her, as it must seem to everyone, that this strange, meek woman, with her hair perpetually in her eyes, must be incapable of such passion.

Mary recoiled as though slapped. “I want only to help.”

“I know you do,” Mrs. Emmett answered. “You want to bear the burden for her, but you cannot. It has always been Miss Derrick. You must accept that. You resist it because you love her, but you must not permit her to doubt herself.”

They heard a door open and footsteps. They could not see across the mill, for the stocking frames obscured their vision, and in silent assent they agreed not to move. Soon Lady Harriett appeared, flanked on one side by Mrs. Quince, on the other by Mr. Buckles. So, Mrs. Quince had, all that time, been in Lady Harriett’s employ. Lucy should not have been surprised. Indeed, it all made sense, and she would have felt more indignation had not her attention been arrested by a far more urgent matter. Mr. Buckles held in his arms a baby, and Lucy knew it at once to be Emily. The real Emily, small and pink and sleeping sweetly in the arms of her father, who was so eager to sacrifice her to his mistress. Yet, she appeared calm and healthy and unharmed for the moment. Lady Harriett would use Emily’s life to bargain for the book. Of that there could be no doubt, and Lucy did not know that she would have the strength to resist. And yet she would have to, for Emily’s sake, for everyone’s sake.

The urge to step forward and grab the child was overwhelming. It roared in her ears and spots manifested before her eyes. She wanted that baby, wanted to protect her from her father and Lady Harriett, but she knew that was not the way. Attempting to take Emily by force would only endanger her. She would protect her niece, but she would have to be clever. Lady Harriett would try to force Lucy to choose between the child and the book, but Lucy could not. She would be worthy of the burdens placed upon her and find a way to leave with both.

Lucy looked over at Mr. Morrison, and he inclined his head in the most imperceptible of nods. He seemed to have deduced her reasoning, and agreed with it. Do not rush. Do nothing to put the child in danger. Wait for the moment.

Mary was less calm. “Dear Lord. She’s found Emily. I would not have thought it possible.”

Lucy had been so absorbed by her niece that she had hardly given Mr. Buckles a second glance, but now she observed that he was greatly altered. His skin appeared less sallow and more pale. His hair had turned far lighter, and his eyes were a peculiar blue. Gone was his expression of simpering foolishness. He looked at Lucy, and his countenance held nothing but cold cruelty. He was not what he had been before. Mr. Buckles had died and returned. He was now a revenant, and that meant none of them, not even Mary, could hope to be fast or strong enough to rescue the child by force.

Lady Harriett and her retinue stopped perhaps ten feet from them. “So, it comes to this,” she said. “All will be resolved tonight.”

“Lady Harriett,” said Mr. Morrison. “You look well. No, that’s not it precisely. Not well. Awful. That is what I meant. You look awful. Like the dead warmed over, so to speak.”

“Silence, Morrison,” said Lady Harriett. “You and your kind disgust me. You cannot hope I shall let you live.”

“What makes you think I shall let you live?” answered Mr. Morrison.

“Your shotgun shall not work on me. You must know that. I have ordered it so the revenant who leads is imbued with a special strength, and so resistant to those elements.”

Mr. Morrison scratched his head, as though genuinely confused. “I do recall hearing something about that, yes. On the other hand, I was told that your late husband would be impossible to kill, and I made short work of him. Or perhaps you did not know that was I.”

It seemed to Lucy Lady Harriett had not known that Mr. Morrison was responsible for the destruction of her beloved Sir Reginald. She blinked at this intelligence, and then glanced at Mr. Buckles. “Give them a taste of things to come,” she said.

Moving forward quickly, impossibly quickly, Mr. Buckles was no longer ten feet away, but directly before Mrs. Emmett. Mrs. Quince now held Emily, and Mr. Buckles, with his lips pulled back in a vicious sneer, grabbed the serving woman by the hair, and, gathering it all in his left hand, he lifted her off the ground. Mrs. Emmett’s eyes went wide, and her mouth opened, but no noise came out. Below her skirts, her legs kicked, and her arms flapped like a drowning woman’s. Below Mr. Buckles’s clenched fist Lucy could see, for the first time, Mrs. Emmett’s forehead, and she now understood she had kept her hair and bonnet low in order to conceal her flesh. Inscribed, just above her thin eyebrows, written seemingly in thick black ash, were three Hebrew letters: . Lucy struggled with what little she knew of Hebrew, and realized, once she remembered to read the letters from right to left, that the word spelled emmet.

Lucy searched her memory—for it was so familiar—and then it came to her. The Jewish story of the golem. She’d read of it in more than one of the books she’d had from Mary. In the legend, Jewish magicians were able to create a man out of mud, and upon its forehead was inscribed the word — emmet—meaning “truth.” To destroy the golem, the first letter was erased leaving only : met. “Dead.”

Mr. Buckles smiled, as though he saw that Lucy now understood. He raised his free hand and allowed it to hover over the .

“No,” said Lucy.

“It is mindless thing,” said Lady Harriett. “It has no soul. It is an abomination, but I know it is of some value to you, so I shall give you one opportunity to save it. Give me the book now, or I shall have Buckles destroy it.”

Mrs. Emmett’s eyes went wide. “I shall not be used against Miss Derrick. I could never allow it. The sacrifice I make, I make for her.” So saying she reached up and, shoving Mr. Buckles’s hand out of the way, wiped away the from her forehead in a clean and simple stroke.

It happened faster than the eye could register. Mr. Buckles held nothing in his hand. At his feet fell a tangle of wet, watery mud and clothing. It landed with a solid splash, heavy and sickening. Mrs. Emmett was gone.

Unspeakable sadness shot through Lucy. She felt Mary take her hand, and she squeezed it hard for a terrible moment, as though her friend’s cold touch was the only thing that prevented her from collapsing. She stood that way, like the victim of a lightning strike, absorbing electricity, and then it passed. She let go, for though the sadness was not diminished, it had receded. Anger took its place.

That anger was real and solid and heavy, but it was not all she felt. Lucy felt alive and strong, coursing with a new vitality. It was Mrs. Emmett’s words. She knew that. She had made a sacrifice of herself, and Lucy had gained something. She knew not what, but it was powerful, and it wanted to strike.

Mr. Buckles lifted his lips in a lupine approximation of a smile as he retreated to stand by Lady Harriett. He brazenly put a hand upon her shoulder, a gesture of startling intimacy.

“It is remarkable,” said Mrs. Quince. “I tried to make such a thing once. Jewish magic was always too devious for an honest Englishwoman like myself.”

“I shall teach you,” said Lady Harriett. “It is no difficult thing, even for a weak-minded woman like you, Quince. Though Mary made a particularly clever one. Still, even the cleverest of tricks can be undone, as we have witnessed. And what of the infant? Is not that baby but another trick, an ugly illusion of copulation and generation. It sickens me.”

“It was as vile in the making as it is now,” said Mr. Buckles.

“Dear God,” Lucy said. “I hate you for daring to touch my sister.”

“Oh, don’t be so sanctimonious,” said Lady Harriett. “You cared for that lifeless bit of clay, so what do your feelings for your sister or her wretched child signify? You will give your pathetic heart to anything who looks upon you. It is what has undone you, you know. Your compassion.”