The Twelfth Enchantment: A Novel

to keep a menagerie of wild animals upon the grounds, including a bear, a wolf, and, perhaps less menacing, a tortoise. Lucy was determined to prepare for all of these, and for dangers yet unimagined.

Yet, if danger could be avoided, why should they risk breaking open the abbey? “Can we not ask the master of Newstead to give you or sell you what you seek?” Lucy asked.

“The master of Newstead, as you style him, will not behave like a gentleman. If he knows we desire the pages, he will withhold them for as much money as he can demand.”

“And why not pay him then? Surely your order has resources.”

“We do,” said Mr. Morrison, “and I believe if we could depend upon him to conduct himself according to the dictates of reason, we would buy the pages, but this man is half mad, a capricious and dangerous fiend who will ally himself against his nation for the simple pleasure of rebellion. We dare not risk letting him know that we are aware of the pages and desire them.”

Byron had shown her every sign of being a kind, generous, and open gentleman, but he had shown her another side as well, and Lucy too would hesitate to depend upon his goodness. Still, she found herself irritated that Mr. Morrison would speak so ill of him. Who was he to judge anyone else’s actions after his crimes and after he and his kind had sided with revenants and mill operators? Lucy thought it entirely possible she could persuade Byron to give her the pages. He lived by his own law, and it was a dangerous law for her, but perhaps with the aid of the right talisman, Lucy could get him to surrender whatever she wished.

That was all speculation, however, for Byron was in London. If the pages were here in Nottinghamshire, it was better to take them with Mr. Morrison’s aid. She hated that it was he with whom she would share this adventure. It would be far more delightful to sneak into Mr. Morrison’s estate with Byron as her coconspirator. Byron had insulted her, that was true, but in his mind he had not meant his proposal as an insult, and his regard for her appeared genuine, not brought about by magic and charms. This was, however, all building castles in the air. There were to be no adventures with Byron, and Lucy would have to order things as best she could to protect her niece. Later she would worry about who was right in this conflict between Mary Crawford’s ideas and Mr. Morrison’s.

Byron would surely have had no difficulty in asking Lucy to slip from her home in the dark of night, but the idea did not sit well with the far more prim Mr. Morrison. He wrestled with the impropriety of it, torturing himself over his near elopement with her four years before. In the end, he was forced to make do with many assurances of his good intentions. “You may depend upon my behaving honorably,” he told her. “Do not think I will confuse love with license.”

Lucy absently thanked him and at once began to consider which among her gowns would be best suited for a midnight adventure to a gothic castle.

Lucy contrived to slip into everyone’s supper a combination of herbs to induce a heavy sleep. She also placed little bundles under the pillows in each bed, bits of lavender entwined with each person’s hair, and a drop of wine. They would wake under natural circumstances, but they would be disinclined to hear her slip down the stairs and opening the front door. Upon the clock striking one in the morning, Lucy, as Mr. Morrison had directed her, removed herself from the house and he met her upon the street. There was to be no carriage, only a single horse, onto which Mr. Morrison helped her. Then, without ceremony, they began the slow and steady ride into the night.

They spoke little, but Lucy felt the awkward weight of his body against hers as they rode. He did not press up against her on purpose—nothing so vulgar as that. If anything, he shifted away from her, avoiding contact, but only because he so much desired it. Lucy hated him still—of course she did—but she also felt a strange kind of pity for Mr. Morrison. He was a melancholy creature, and showed every sign of being genuinely affected by the death of his wife. Lucy, with her spell, would only make him more melancholy still.

At last they turned off the main road and continued the next mile or so until the looming shape of Newstead Abbey began to appear in the shadow of the near-full moon. Mr. Morrison’s pace did not slow, but she sensed a tension in him as he approached.

“Have you before been to the abbey?” she asked him.

“Once.” His voice was cold and clipped. Lucy understood that there was something between the two men, something Mr. Morrison chose not to speak of.

They followed the road past the great lake and around the southern wing of the castle to approach by the western front. Lucy thought of what Mr. Blake had said about ghosts, and though she had taken precautions, she could not help but feel the thrill of fear. Yet, for all her anxiety, it was a pleasant night with a bright moon and a soothing quiet. The horse trotted along the road until they reached its broadening, right before the door. There, they dismounted and Mr. Morrison tied his horse. He took from his saddlebag a lantern and a tinderbox and struck a light.

When Mr. Morrison raised the light, Lucy almost screamed with surprise. Upon the steps to the main entrance was a crumpled figure in white. For an instant, Lucy had no doubt that she beheld a ghost. Then, while her heart pounded in her chest, she recognized the wild auburn hair and frail limbs. She let out a gasp of relief and rushed over, even as Mr. Morrison called out for her to stop. Lucy felt no fear, however. She knelt by Sophie Hyatt’s prostrate form, and saw that the deaf girl was not hurt, only sleeping.

Lucy took her exposed hand, which felt as cold as ice. Sophie awoke with a start and sat up, looking both confused and disappointed to see Lucy staring at her.

“Hold up the light,” she said to Mr. Morrison, who was now behind her. “She must see my lips to understand me.”

Without inquiring what she meant, he obeyed.

“Miss Hyatt,” said Lucy. “What do you do here?”

She did not shiver. The elements appeared to have no effect upon her. With a steady hand, she took her slate, which rested by her side, and found her chalk upon the ground.

I love him, she wrote.

Lucy took her hand. “I know you do, but you will catch your death. Are you not cold?”

The fire within warms me, she wrote.

“Improbable, I should think,” said Mr. Morrison, who removed his greatcoat and draped it over the girl’s shoulders. It looked absurd upon her—she was like a kitten lost in tangled bedsheets—and she reacted to the added warmth not at all. “You are acquainted with the shivering deaf girl, Miss Derrick?”

“We have met before,” said Lucy. “She has bound herself to Lord Byron.”

“Tell her to come with us, but to make no mischief,” he said. “When we are through, we will see her someplace safe. I won’t leave her here to be pounced on by bears or nibbled at by tortoises or whatever else can happen at this wretched place.”

Mr. Morrison’s concern surprised Lucy. It would have been more consistent with her idea of him if he had been content to leave a damaged girl such as Sophie to her fate, particularly if it were a fate she had chosen for herself. Perhaps it was the spell Lucy had put on him that made him more caring than was his nature.

They attempted the front door, which was locked.

Mr. Morrison retrieved from his pocket a long, ornate gold key. “Association with my order has certain advantages. We know so many marvelous people, including locksmiths.”

He rotated the key in the lock, and the heavy door swung inward.

Lucy expected something vile and cold and heavy to wash over her, but it was only a large hall, dark and empty and badly kept. They had taken only a few steps inside before her lungs began to feel heavy with dust, and if there was nothing inherently frightening she saw or felt, she nevertheless started when she felt Sophie’s frail hand tug upon her gown. When she turned, the girl held out a pebble no larger than a raisin.

Sophie twisted the slate that hung around her neck and scratched out a few lines. Emethist. For spirits.

Lucy nodded. She had her own amethyst upon her to protect against ghosts, but she did not want to reject the girl’s generosity. She took the stone and squeezed Sophie’s arm by way of thanks, and then stood back while Mr. Morrison held up his lantern.

“Amethyst?” he asked.

“Yes,” Lucy said.

“Smart girl.”

“Smarter than you,” said Lucy, who held up the small amethyst pendant that she wore around her wrist.