The Twelfth Enchantment: A Novel

all at once, a wave of guilt washed over her. The talisman was designed to make him wish to flee, but what precisely did that mean? Would he wish to flee from the room in which he stood, or would he wish to keep running forever so long as he wore that coat? What if he could not stop running? Had she unleashed a curse as malevolent as the one she’d removed from Byron? She wondered if she ought to remove the paper from his jacket, but it was far easier to drop a small thing onto a gentleman’s person than it was to retrieve it.

All of these thoughts flashed through her mind in an instant, and then it was too late. Mr. Olson appeared to have something to say, but abruptly turned on his heel and walked with almost comical quickness from the hall.

Lucy stood staring after him, and then at the door through which he’d left, and whatever fear and guilt and regret she felt crumbled before the mighty power of her exultation. She had cast a spell. She had done magic. Such forces were true and vibrant and accessible, and she had commanded them. It was not her imagination or some silly fancy. It was all Lucy could do to keep herself from laughing out loud, from clapping, from jumping up and down like a little girl. She was not powerless and weak. Not anymore.

She was thinking to herself all the things she might now do, when a man passed before her. “Lucy Derrick, you do look pleased with yourself. I can’t think of a better way to express your happiness than with a dance.”

Lucy looked up and knew at once that here was the man who had watched her make the talisman. It took all her will not to cry out or gasp or stagger back or faint. A thousand incoherent thoughts burst in her mind, wild and discordant and impossible to sort. Standing before her was Jonas Morrison, the man who had convinced Lucy to run away with him four years earlier.

Lucy had not seen Jonas Morrison since he had left their neighborhood, but she had heard that he had married very well. Apparently a beautiful and wealthy woman had succumbed to his charms. She wondered how miserable this lady must be today.

Now he held out a hand and Lucy took it, hardly aware of what she did, too confused even to think of resisting. Before she could clear her thoughts, she was upon the dance floor with him.

“Bit of a surprise I imagine,” he said as they danced. “For me as well. Surprises all around, yes?” He reached up to her ear and seemed to produce a brightly colored egg, which he then showed her with a grin.

“You are much mistaken if you think your little tricks are of interest to me,” said Lucy.

“I thought it was rather a good trick. Egg from an ear? People usually like that sort of thing. People who aren’t humorless, I mean.” He spoke quickly, as he often did when he was excited, she recalled. Or perhaps he only affected excitement. If Lucy knew anything about Jonas Morrison it was that she had never really known him at all.

“However,” he continued, “I am far more interested in a different kind of magic. Tell me why you cast a spell upon that man.”

Lucy’s first impulse was to pretend to ignorance, but what need had she to justify herself to him? Four years earlier, Mr. Morrison had nearly seduced and ruined a sixteen-year-old girl. He had come into her life and destroyed it, altering her prospects forever. She hated him, hated him more than she hated anyone, and she owed him nothing.

“I would avoid creating a scene by condemning you in public,” said Lucy through clenched teeth, “so the moment this dance is over, you will walk away from me, and I will never see you again. I despise you, sir.”

He was silent for several steps. Once or twice he opened his mouth to speak, but it felt like a long time indeed before he found his words. Lucy dared to look at him, and what she saw surprised her. Like Byron, he wore London fashions, and his hair was only a few shades lighter, but they were very different in appearance. Mr. Morrison’s good looks were less monumental, less devastatingly magnetic than Byron’s, and he had a wry, ironic cast to him, as though he thought everything a great joke. He lacked Byron’s gravity, but he struck her as more grave than he had been in the past. He still had the same easy grin she recalled, but it was replaced, from time to time, by a somber expression.

He, apparently, had also been evaluating her. “I see you are not the girl you once were.”

“I have not been allowed to be.”

“Do you know what? I think you are right to be angry with me. I behaved horribly. Truly terrible stuff. And I am content for you to hate me all you like when we have finished speaking, but I am here upon a serious concern now that may be just a bit more important than who did what to whom many years ago. I wish to know why you cast your spell upon that man. And don’t pretend to misunderstand me. I don’t mean batting your eyelashes or simpering and acting coy. I mean a spell. Abracadabra! You meant to repel him, and now he’s gone.”

Lucy felt shame and confusion and fear, but did not wish to demonstrate any of these emotions. She wanted to know how Mr. Morrison had discovered what she had done—how it was that he knew about magic at all—but she refused to appear weak before him. Instead, she said, “It is no concern of yours, I promise you.”

“It is no concern of mine why you wish him gone. No surprise either. I had a good look at him. Bit pruney in the face, so ship him off, by all means. It is my concern, however, if you live or die, and you are placing yourself before dangerous and powerful forces.”

Despite herself, Lucy gripped him tighter Then she let go. “I hardly think Mr. Olson is dangerous,” she said with a forced laugh.

“No, he’s harmless, but he has crossed paths with some very bad … well, things I suppose is the right word. Things. Yes. You do not want your fortunes entangled with his.”

“Our fortunes are already entangled, for he and I are to marry,” Lucy answered, if only to demonstrate that he had no sway over her.

For a brief instant it seemed as though Lucy had genuinely surprised Mr. Morrison. He gave the impression of a man whose words had been quite knocked out of him. But he recovered quickly enough. “Your spell bodes somewhat ill for domestic happiness, I should think.”

Lucy could offer no response to this sound observation.

The dance was over, and Mr. Morrison bowed. “I haven’t the time or inclination to justify our past, but you must listen to me, Lucy. If you must continue to cast your country-witch spells, cast no more in Mr. Olson’s direction. You are putting yourself at great risk.”

With that he bowed again, and walked away, leaving the hall altogether. He had hardly stepped away, and Lucy had not had time even to consider anything beyond the fact that Jonas Morrison was here, in Nottingham, dancing with her, before Norah rushed over to her. “Dear Lucy, who was that? He is the handsomest man I have seen this age, and he had eyes for no one but you. I suspect dear Mr. Olson would be angry were he still here.”

Lucy had other concerns besides Mr. Olson, and even besides Jonas Morrison. Coming toward her from across the hall was Mrs. Quince, her face red with anger. Lucy made her way toward the door, lest Mrs. Quince grab her and drag her out as though she were a wicked child.

15

MR. OLSON WAS NOT KNOWN TO BE A DRINKING MAN AS A MATTER of habit. He was too concerned with his business to waste time and money upon such foolishness, but after Lucy had humiliated him at the assembly, he was in a state. He hadn’t wanted to go home, but rather the urge had come upon him to walk and walk and walk until he at last wished to settle, and settle he did at the Little John Tavern. There he drank silently and heavily until the publican told him he had to leave that they might both go to sleep. Mr. Olson managed to stumble home, and he fell into a thick slumber upon his bed with his clothes yet upon him. It was not until the next morning when he woke up, feeling a pain in his head at once dull and sharp, that he discovered the terrible truth: During the night, every stocking frame in his mill had been broken.

It was the work of machine breakers. He had no doubt once he saw the damage. If he did have doubts, they would have been put to rest by the message chalked upon his door in a surprisingly neat hand:Sing not songs of old Robin HoodHis feats I but little admireI will tell of our own General LuddNow Hero of Nottinghamshire.

Underneath this bit of doggerel was drawn a circle composed of a string of nonsensical runes, and within the circle was a grid of squares containing Greek letters. But Mr. Olson hardly knew what to make of it, and spoke of it to no one, not out of fear or confusion, merely out of indifference.

It took little time for word of the destruction to spread.