The Twelfth Enchantment: A Novel

in a late dinner.

That night, after her sister had retired to bed, Ungston once again informed Lucy that Miss Crawford awaited her in her carriage. Lucy rushed outside, and even in the dark, the lady’s grim expression was evident.

“Mary, is something wrong?”

“Not wrong, no,” said her friend. “Please step inside for a moment. I must speak with you.”

Lucy entered the coach and sat next to Mary, hardly knowing what to expect.

The lady turned to her, eyes seeming to glow in the gloom of the coach. “Matters are serious, Lucy. I am afraid I cannot long stay. I have business that I must attend to, and it may be many days before I return. Since I saw you last, grave circumstances have come to my attention, and I must speak to you before I go.”

“I have learned things too,” Lucy blurted out. She wanted to be more patient, to wait to hear Mary’s news, but she could not contain herself. “Mr. Buckles and Lady Harriett have been looking for the Mutus Liber too. Everything is connected, though I don’t know how.”

Mary appeared little surprised by this news. “I know you are frightened, Lucy, but the book has always been important. It is more so now. That is why you must find the scattered pages before our enemies do.”

These words struck Lucy as dire and true. She was supposed to find the missing pages. Now that she heard it, it made perfect sense. She formed the words, though they felt thick and bitter in her mouth. “I must gather the leaves.”

“Yes, that is what you must do.”

A strange calm came over her. It was not as though she understood why these things happened, but at least there was purpose. She must find missing pages of a book. It was a task, and tasks could be accomplished. “And when I have them?”

“Then we will determine what to do together.” She leaned in to hug Lucy. Her skin was icy cold. “I know this is much to ask of you, and I hate that you must do it alone. I will be by your side again as soon as I can, but I am needed elsewhere. You must remember, Lucy, that the Mutus Liber is strongest in the hands of the person to whom it belongs, but … things have become so complicated. And never before has it been more important to trust me.”

She handed Lucy a writing tablet, upon which was set a piece of paper with dense writing on it, too small to read in the dark. Mary then set forth a quill and an ink pot.

“What I must ask you now will sound outlandish, but I beg you to trust me. You must sign this, Lucy.”

“What is it?”

“A will.”

Lucy could not believe what she heard. After everything that had happened with her father’s will, did Mary believe Lucy would sign a will in haste, without reading it?

“In this will you leave everything to your sister, which is I know what you would wish. Everything except any pages of the Mutus Liber that you might find. Those you entrust to me.”

Lucy opened her mouth, but she could not even think of the words she would say if she could.

“You must wonder why,” said Mary. “And I shall tell you. If you do not sign this, the revenants will kill you. If the pages are left to me, they will not. It is that simple. I am your friend, and I would do anything to help you. You must believe me. I want you to leave me the pages for that reason and for no other—because your enemies would risk anything than that I should become the true owner. To protect you, we must make the consequence of your death terrible to those who seek to harm you. If you have ever trusted me, trust me now. I know not what I can do for you if you will not.”

There was such pleading in her voice, such desperation, that Lucy could not but believe her. This was Mary Crawford, the one person in the world who knew her secret, the one person, besides her own sister, she trusted. Though unable to understand the request, Lucy decided she had to believe in her friend’s good intentions. She signed where Mary directed her. They blotted the signature, and then Mary rolled up the paper and handed it to Lucy.

“I do not need it. I would not have you think I am about some deception with it. Only, keep it safe. The will must exist to protect you.” She hugged Lucy again. “Remember, I am your friend. Do not doubt me.” She then handed Lucy the copy of the Mutus Liber she had shown her previously. “Hold on to this. Add pages to it as you can.”

Dazed, Lucy stepped out of the coach, and watched it drive away, holding in her hand a paper that granted, upon her death, the most powerful book in the world to her only friend.

Lucy rushed inside, only wanting to retire to her room, but Mrs. Quince confronted her on the staircase. She had been avoiding Lucy since the encounter with Mr. Morrison at the Gilley house, but now she stood, blocking her way, a disdainful expression upon her face. She knew something. Lucy was sure of it.

“Some secret nighttime assignation, Miss Derrick? What do you have planned? I wonder. What do you think to do? No money, no husband, no friends? Do you believe your little tricks will work forever?”

Rather than retreat, Lucy took a step forward. The knowledge that Lady Harriett had been scheming against her for years made her angry, and her anger emboldened her. She leaned into Mrs. Quince’s face and said, in a bold whisper, “Jonas Morrison.”

Mrs. Quince flinched and stepped away. “You are brazen,” she said, attempting to act unperturbed, “to flaunt your whoredom before me.”

“I had no wish to see him, and hope I never set eyes upon him again,” Lucy said, stepping close again, “but you fear him. Why?”

“You are mistaken,” said Mrs. Quince as she smoothed her apron.

“Then go tell my uncle,” said Lucy, wishing to test Mrs. Quince, perhaps wishing to hurt her. “Tell Mr. Buckles. Tell them all with whom I danced. Go on. Tell them.”

Mrs. Quince did not move.

Lucy pushed past her, entered her room, and closed the door.

Her triumph over Mrs. Quince, glorious though it may have been, left Lucy more confused than happy. What was Mr. Morrison to her that she should be so frightened? And what did it mean that Lady Harriett had been seeking someone to identify the Mutus Liber in the past few years? Was there some link between that and Mrs. Quince’s failed efforts to teach Lucy to read the cards? And now came this will that Mary has asked her to sign. She did not suspect Mary of trying to cheat her, but she did believe her friend knew more than she was saying, and that made Lucy uneasy.

Lucy slept badly and was awakened by the baby, whom she could hear fussing through the walls. Martha was not at the table when Lucy went downstairs for breakfast. There was only Mr. Buckles and Uncle Lowell, who appeared very angry indeed. Lucy glanced at Mr. Buckles, but he offered only a foolish smile before turning away. Was it hard for him to look at her, she wondered, to see the young lady whose life he had stolen? Lucy doubted his thoughts were ever troubled by such things. She did not believe him even conscious that he had done wrong. He had done it, and now it was over, so he thought no more of it.

After a brief period of silence, and then the baby began its shrill wail again. Mr. Lowell slammed down his fork. “I cannot see what your baby is doing, crying so violently.”

“It is usually very placid,” said Mr. Buckles. “Even Lady Harriett has condescended to observe how very … how, ah, very placid it is.”

“It weren’t placid last night,” said Uncle Lowell.

Lucy set aside her breakfast and went up to see Martha, who was still in bed, but quite awake. The bags under her eyes testified to the difficulties of her night, but she brightened considerably when she saw Lucy.

“I shall go quite mad,” said Martha. “Poor little Emily is really not herself. She’s never been like this, and I fear she may be ill.”

Lucy brushed some unruly hair from Martha’s face. “Does she nurse?”

“Like nothing I’ve seen.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “I am quite bruised. Emily is ravenous, and has taken to biting me with the little teeth she has. Why, it seems she has grown more teeth overnight, which may explain her sadness. In truth, if she does not cease hurting me, I will have to hire a wet nurse after all.”

Just then the door opened, and the nurse came in with little Emily wrapped in a blanket.

“How is she?” asked Martha.

“She won’t settle, mum,” said the woman. “I reckon she wants her milk.”

“It cannot be,” said Martha. “She has done nothing but eat.”