Lucy felt black rage course through her. She had known people who were small and petty and selfish and vile, but never had she encountered pure evil. Whatever reservations she had had about destroying Lady Harriett, destroying her forever, were gone. She would do what she must. “My compassion does not extend to you,” she said.
“I do not fear you,” said Lady Harriett. “How could I, when your loyalties are so easily manipulated? Now, here is what happens next. You shall give me the pages of the
Lucy had defeated wards before, but she did not think she could depend upon doing so. “How can I know you will give me Emily?”
“What care I for the baby?” asked Lady Harriett. “It was only ever of interest because it was important to you. But I am serious in my threat. Mr. Buckles, take the child, and be ready to strangle it when I command.”
Buckles took the baby from Mrs. Quince’s arms. He held it in the crook of his arm, but there was no tenderness in him. He might have been holding a log.
“You must not believe her,” Mr. Morrison told Lucy. “Do nothing on her terms.”
“I cannot see that I have a choice,” she answered. She turned back to Lady Harriett. “What will you do with the pages besides cast away Ludd?”
“That is my concern, not yours.”
Lucy stood still for a long moment, neither moving nor blinking. She then reached into the folds of her gown and pulled out a rolled tube of papers. Tentatively, she held them out while Lady Harriett stepped forward and snatched them from her hand, as though fearful that Lucy was a serpent ready to strike.
“No!” Mary and Mr. Morrison cried out at once, but the act was already finished. Lady Harriett had the pages.
Lady Harriett retreated back to her own people and examined the pages. “They are remarkable,” she said, leafing through them. Her chest heaved with her breathing, and her face colored. “You give them to me? These are mine?”
“Lucy,” Mary cautioned.
“Yes, I give them to you,” said Lucy. “They are yours for so long as you want them. Now give me my niece.”
Lady Harriett smiled at her. “No. I don’t think I will.”
“Why do you want her?” said Lucy. Her voice was shrill, even to her own ears. “You said she means nothing to you.”
“I want her for spite,” said Lady Harriett. “Perhaps it is because of your friend Mr. Morrison, and the debt I owe him for striking down Sir Reginald. Perhaps it is because I hate you enough for your own sake. Perhaps I want to keep her to punish you for standing in my way, and to mock you for agreeing so foolishly to trust me. Having her gives me pleasure in direct proportion to your pain, and it allows me to show you how poorly you played your hand. I now have everything, and you nothing. With this book I can destroy all of you, and there is nothing you can do. You have made a great blunder.”
Lucy could not help but smile. She did not think of herself as a vengeful person, as one who took pleasure in the suffering of others, but this was different. Here was Lady Harriett who had lost all shred of her humanity, who was evil beyond reckoning. She thought herself superior to everyone, but she was not superior to Lucy Derrick.
“I would have blundered indeed,” said Lucy, “had I given you the true pages.”
Lady Harriett looked through them again. “You lie. I have seen the false pages, and these are not the same, but they are of the same hand.”
“I had them of the artist who drew the true pages,” said Lucy. “They were a parting gift from a very wise man. I believe this is what Mr. Morrison would call sleight of hand.”
From the corner of her eye, she saw Mr. Morrison gazing at her with open admiration. She suspected that if she took the time to think about it, she would very much like the feeling.
Lady Harriett looked at the false pages. She stared at them and then sniffed them like a dog and rubbed them against her face. The truth of Lucy’s claim made itself known to her, and she tossed Mr. Blake’s drawings down in disgust.
“Very clever,” said Lady Harriett. “But I do not make idle threats. A father sacrificing a child on my behalf—a sacrifice on that order shall give me the power I need to force you to gift me the book. Kill the child, Buckles.”
“He shall not!” cried Mary. “Lucy, be prepared to take the baby.”
Lucy turned and saw that, while their attention had been on Emily, Mary had surrounded herself with something upon the floor, a circle that glinted and sparkled in the dim light. Lucy understood at once what it was —Mary had encircled herself in gold.
Casting her gaze to Mr. Buckles, she saw him standing in mute horror, the baby still cradled in his arm, but he appeared to have forgotten it. He made no effort to harm it. He merely stared in disbelief.
“No,” said Lucy, her voice cracking. She remembered the story Mary had told her, and she knew what the circle meant. “There must be another way.”
Mary shook her head. “No, my dear Lucy. There is but one way.”
Lady Harriett had her eyes fixed upon Mr. Buckles, and seemed not to have noticed the circle upon the floor. “Buckles, why is that child still alive? Sacrifice it to me.”
“Look at the Crawford woman,” he snapped back. “She’s drawn a circle.”
“Don’t be an idiot,” said Lady Harriett. “Spells won’t work here.”
“Not a spell circle,” hissed Buckles. “One of
“It is far more elemental than a spell,” said Mary. “You should know that. It is the flow of the universe itself, and your wards will no more hold it than you could hold back the wind with a basket.”
Lady Harriett turned toward Mary, and seeing the thin line of gold upon the ground, she set her jaw hard, perhaps in defiance, perhaps in disdain. “You’ll not sacrifice yourself for that infant.”
“I cannot let you have the book. If you take possession of it, the age of the machine will be ushered in, and nothing will stop it.”
“No,” said Buckles, his eyes wide with understanding. He understood what Mary did, what it meant. “I won’t harm the child. Here, Quince, take it.”
Mrs. Quince shrank back. She wanted no part of the child either, and so, desperate, Mr. Buckles rushed forward and handed his daughter to Lucy. “Take it! Take it, and see that I do not harm it. Now stop your friend.”
“You blockhead!” cried Lady Harriet.
“Get behind me!” shouted Mr. Morrison, raising his shotgun. “This may not kill you, Lady Harriett, but I’ll wager it will sting.”
Lucy retreated behind Mr. Morrison. Emily was deep in infant sleep, but healthy and unharmed. It was her niece. She hugged her to her chest, feeling her warmth, listening to the low rumble of her breathing, smelled the yeasty odor of milk about her mouth. It was truly her niece in her arms, safe at last.
Lady Harriett stepped forward, but Mr. Morrison put his finger on the trigger, and she stopped.
“That’s right,” he said. “It’s hard to retrieve a baby when you are writhing upon the floor in pain. I recall that is how it was with your husband. The first blast did not kill him, but it made him much easier to manage.”
Lady Harriett balled her fists in rage. Her face turned red, and she whirled on Mrs. Quince. “Do something!”
“I don’t know what to do!” Mrs. Quince cried out.
Mr. Buckles was in full panic. “She hasn’t stopped. Why hasn’t she stopped? I’ve returned the child. One of you must stop her.”
Mary looked up, and her eyes were moist. Her hands trembled as she poured a sprinkling of sulfur atop the gold, but there was a smile upon her lips. “I cannot let you live while you are willing to destroy what Lucy loves best. You would harm your own daughter simply to gratify your mistress, and so that is why I have already done it. Can you not see that? I have contained myself in the circle. I cannot turn back.”
“Please,” said Mr. Buckles. “Miss Derrick, you have the child. Tell her to spare me.”
“Mary,” Lucy said softly, beginning to understand what her friend intended. “You may stop.”
