and then ate far too much as they talked of the thousand things they would do together. Lucy cared for none of it; she had no interest in balls and milliner’s shops and grand houses and pleasure gardens. Perhaps a few months ago these would have seemed the finest things in the world to her, but now they seemed to her only to facilitate a small step toward a larger goal. She only spoke of them to keep Norah excited and happy. It was the least she could do after so deceiving her friend.
The next phase of her scheme required that Lucy do something she would once have considered unthinkable. She directed a note to the inn at which Mr. Morrison was lodged, and invited him to meet her at a chocolate house off the market square. Lucy had to steal a glass of wine from the kitchen in order to sufficiently steady her nerve, so much did her hand shake upon her first attempt to write the note. The kind words, the implication of forgiveness, even of admiration, made her sick in her soul, but Mr. Morrison had important information, and if Lucy were to succeed, she would need as much information as she could find.
As she prepared to leave the house for this rendezvous, Mrs. Quince hurried from the sitting room to bar her way from the door.
“Where do you think you go?”
“I have business,” Lucy answered. “It is none of your concern.”
“Is it with that vile Mary Crawford?”
“I shan’t answer your questions, so stand aside. I am soon to leave for London with Miss Gilley, and you have no further power over me.”
“Leave for London,” repeated Mrs. Quince. “Does your uncle know?”
“What does it matter? Both of you have wanted me from this house, and I shall be gone.”
Mrs. Quince took hold of Lucy’s wrist in a tight grip. “What of Mr. Olson? You are to marry him.”
“It’s time you ceased to trouble yourself about my affairs,” Lucy said, feeling the anger take hold. She was Lucy Derrick, a cunning woman, collector of the lost leaves of the
Mrs. Quince let go but did not step away. “You will regret having crossed me.”
“Thus far,” said Lucy, as she shoved the woman aside, “I’m rather enjoying it.” She opened the front door and stepped out into the street without troubling to look back, though she very much wished to.
Lucy was not certain Mr. Morrison would obey the summons, and could not have said how she would respond if he did not, but he arrived on time, his face betraying his curiosity. It was crowded at that time of day, the room’s bigger tables filled with large parties ranging from smiling elders to screaming infants. There were a variety of smaller tables, meant for couples, and Lucy had taken one of these in the back. She knew her presence there with a young man was a risk. People might talk. They probably would, but Lucy had more important things to consider, and she would be gone from Nottingham soon enough.
Finding Lucy at her table with two steaming bowls of chocolate before her, Mr. Morrison bowed and told her formally that he stood ready to obey her commands. If he were surprised by her invitation, he did not show it.
“Please sit,” said Lucy. “I have taken the liberty of ordering for you.”
“And you are thoughtful to have done so,” he said, rubbing his hands together before he took his seat. “I’ve always loved chocolate. Very good of you to recollect that.”
“I did indeed,” said Lucy, “and since I did not know how willing you would be to accept my invitation, I thought it best to provide an incentive.”
“I confess I am surprised at all this,” he said. “Pleasantly surprised, to be sure, but after our last encounter, you did not appear to wish to say more to me. But I am glad you summoned me, for I am to leave soon, and I did not wish us to part on such poor terms.”
“Where do you go?” His pronouncement had now caught her by surprise, and she did not know how or if it would affect her intentions.
“I await my orders. All I can tell you, really. These things are best kept secret.”
Lucy did not reply, and Mr. Morrison took a sip of his chocolate.
Lucy watched him, making certain he swallowed. She thought about what she was doing. This spell would make him love her, and that love would last until she broke the spell or until something happened to stagger him free of the spell’s influence. She would be manipulating another human being, which was a terrible thing to do. But this was Mr. Morrison, and so she told herself that if she could make him an unwitting agent in her service, it was the least he owed her. Accordingly she said quietly, “Thus you are bound to me, Jonas Morrison.”
Mr. Morrison set down his own cup and put his hand to his temple. “My God, Lucy. Did you just now—?” He looked away, out the window, then back to her. “I beg your pardon. I don’t recall what I was saying.”
“You spoke of your orders,” said Lucy, as she watched his face for some sign that the spell had taken effect.
“Yes, I must go soon,” he said, “and I do not want to. You must know that I do not want to leave you. Do I shock you? I am sorry, I cannot help it. You cannot doubt that I am in love with you. I know that I used you falsely in the past, and you are right not to trust me. Only you must trust me this time. You must.”
Lucy swallowed hard, suddenly aware of all the ambient noises that surrounded her—the other conversations, the rolling of carriages upon the street, the ticking of the clock, the birds, the cries of vendors, and the thundering of her own heart. She hated Jonas Morrison, but to toy with him this way was monstrous. She humiliated him and herself, and the consequences of her actions would likely prove disastrous. She understood that, but even as the waves of regret washed over her, she also knew she had no choice. She needed to know what he knew, and everything else would wait until her niece was safe. That is what mattered. Emily was missing, and her sister cared for a horrible creature, and no one anywhere knew or was prepared to do anything about it. No one but Lucy, and she would do what she must. She would crush and humiliate and deceive a thousand Jonas Morrisons if she had to.
Lucy rose to her feet. “Do not say such things,” she managed. When she had imagined casting this spell upon him, she had not considered how she would respond to such a declaration.
“I know you resent what happened between us, but I am ready to make amends, to show you my true self. I ask only that you allow me the opportunity to prove myself.”
Lucy turned to him, steeling herself for the bitterness of the words she must speak. “If you love me, you will trust me, and if you trust me, you will tell me what you know. I must understand what is happening, Mr. Morrison. I must understand everything. If you love me, you will not leave me in the darkness of ignorance.”
Mr. Morrison considered what she said, and seemed to measure her words for their reason. Then he reached forward and gently took her hand, wrapping her fingers in his as though she were made of something brittle, and he feared to break her. They both sat down again.
“I can deny you nothing that is in my power to grant,” he said. “There are dark matters of great importance of which I cannot speak, which I have sworn to withhold from all but other initiates, but what is within my power to tell you, I will.”
His touch disgusted her. No matter how she might regret manipulating him, she could not help but despise him for what he had done to her. Nevertheless, she did not pull away. “What are you doing here, Mr. Morrison? Why have you come to Nottingham?”
He leaned forward, as if to lessen the distance between them. “I was to keep my eye upon the man you were to marry, Mr. Olson.”
“But why?”
He took a deep breath. “There are forces in motion. Dangerous forces. Chief among these are what people are apt to call fairies or elves. Do not laugh, for this is serious.”
Lucy thought about Mary’s words, as well as the changeling creature she had held in her own arms. “I assure you, I am past laughing.”
Mr. Morrison appeared surprised by her reaction. “You know of them already?”
“They are the spirits of the dead, returned and given flesh. They are revenants.”
“You are unusually well informed,” said Mr. Morrison. “Quite impressive. Almost no one outside our circle knows it. There are some historians of our folklore who have commented upon the fact that what we call fairy barrows are often burial mounds of the ancients, but that is the closest I have ever seen to things becoming common knowledge.”
