The Twelfth Enchantment: A Novel

Only by quieting herself, as though she prepared to cast a spell, could Lucy keep herself from shaking uncontrollably. She did this for Emily, she told herself. She did it for Martha and her father and she did it for herself.

The light revealed that the object she had retrieved was a sort of mummified hand that had several candles molded onto each of its fingers, and a wax base attached to the stump of the wrist, that it might be set down.

“Good Lord, what is that?” demanded Byron, probably in a voice louder than was wise.

“A hand of glory,” said Lucy, who wished to sound as though she thought this a very ordinary business for a sophisticated woman such as herself. “It is the pickled and roasted hand of a hanged murderer, upon which the proper incantations have been spoken. The intruder who holds the hand of glory may trespass without hindrance or detection.”

Even in the dark, Lucy could see Byron’s disbelief. “Does it work?”

“Let’s find out.” Lucy pushed against the servants’ door and found it conveniently open. They stepped inside.

The house was pitch-black, and their hand of glory provided a jumbled chaos of flickering light and overlapping shadows. She thought of all the remarkable things she had seen and done since the day Byron had pounded upon her uncle’s door. This was not the first adventure she’d had. It was not even the first house she’d broken open. Ought she not to be used to such things by now? Her heart pounded, and her hand trembled, and she wished only that she might finish and flee.

“Where do you think the library would be?” asked Lucy.

“These houses are all upon the same plan,” said Byron. “I believe I can find it.” He reached out to take the hand of glory himself, but then recoiled, not wanting to touch it. Instead, he pushed on through the dark and led Lucy up a set of stairs and then down a long hallway. At the end of it they found a series of open doors, one of which led to the library—an enormous room that very possibly could have contained all of her uncle’s house.

Byron closed the door and, without actually touching the hand of glory himself, led Lucy over to various candles to begin to light the room. He took one of these and lit sconces and chandeliers until the space was quite bright.

“We will be visible from the outside, and from that wing of the estate,” he said, gesturing toward the window at the parallel wing. “But if everyone is asleep, and that horrid thing does what it is supposed to do, then it should not much matter.”

Lucy now removed from her bag a little divining rod she had made at home, to which she had applied the juice of a freshly cut apple, a drop of her own water, and a cat’s whisker. She then spoke a few words over the divining rod and held it upright in both hands.

The feeling was subtle, almost too subtle to be certain it was not merely her fancy, but she followed the impulse toward a section of books across the room and to a particular shelf of books. Lucy took every one of the books down and set them on a well-lit table and began to leaf through them. Byron picked up a volume as well, but it soon became clear that he had no idea what he was looking for, and so set it down again.

After the first two books, Lucy picked up a third and set it down unopened. Then another with which she did the same. After two more books, she reached out for another, and a sharp sensation ran through her fingertips, a shock of something living and powerful. It was almost as though the book called to her. No, not that. Something in the book called to her. She felt it wanting to be found, and had no doubt that this was what she had sought. She opened the book to almost precisely the middle and there, sewn irregularly into the volume, were three prints in the dreamy, discordant style she recognized as that of the Mutus Liber. Here were floating men and naked women and dancing animals. Here was a bear with the head of a mouse, combining mercury and salt. Here was an ancient and bearded man, like an artistic rendering of God, pointing his divine finger at a flower—a bluebell, Lucy believed—as it sprang from the ground. The images felt alive and needy, and what they needed was Lucy, and Lucy was happy to take them. It was though she was reunited with a long lost piece of herself.

Just as the pages Mary had shown her had in them instructions upon the subject of sacrifice, so too these wanted to tell her something. It was something just out of her grasp, like a word she had forgotten that would come to her at any moment, but she had not time to puzzle over it now. She would not stay in Lady Harriett’s house a moment longer than necessary.

Without waiting any longer, Lucy took her penknife and cut the pages from the book. She folded them and placed them within the hidden pouch in her gown, and then set the damaged book back in its pile. Now she had to decide if she should trust Byron or pretend to continue looking and convince him she must walk away disappointed.

She moved some more books about and then turned to Byron to see how he occupied himself, but as she did she saw two people standing behind him. One was an odd-looking man of middle years, wearing an out-of-fashion and rumpled tan suit. He had unruly hair that stuck up at strange angles, and unnaturally large eyes that appeared wild and gave the impression of being propped open against his will. His hands shook, and he bit his dry and peeling lips. He frightened Lucy, but not nearly so much as Lady Harriett Dyer, who stood near him, wearing her usual widow’s black. Her gray hair flowed about her shoulders. She stood with her arms folded across her bosom, and she gazed upon the scene with evident disgust.

“Can you really suppose that I would not have wards in my house to protect against something so trivial as a hand of glory?” said Lady Harriett. “Did you not know it is possible to keep another’s charms from working within your own walls? Miss Derrick, you clearly have no idea with whom you are dealing. And you, Byron”—she moved across the room, her stride swift and purposeful, and stood before the baron—“have you no wish to live that you would defy me like this? I was under the impression we understood each other.”

“Lady Harriett, this is a silly misunderstanding.” Lord Byron showed her his best smile.

He managed to proceed no further, however. Lady Harriett struck him across the face with the back of her hand. The blow was impossibly swift, and equally strong, for Byron was lifted off his feet and traveled his body length through the air, landing upon the hard floor with an alarmingly solid noise.

Lucy rushed over to Byron, but her eyes were on Lady Harriett, who was evidently far more than what she appeared.

26

BYRON HAD BEEN MOTIONLESS FOR A MOMENT, BUT THEN GROANED and with Lucy’s help managed to bring himself to the sofa, where he sat looking gloomy while his fingers repeatedly tested the tender skin of his face.

“Your beauty is bruised, not broken,” said Lady Harriett. “Reckon yourself lucky I did not snap your neck.”

Byron said nothing, only leaned against Lucy as if for support, though she could not imagine what sort of support a sitting man required. What was Lady Harriett that she had such strength? And what could Lucy do about it? She began to think of all the spells she knew, all the talismans she had memorized, all the tools she had hidden upon herself. There was one to induce weakness and vulnerability, but she had not brought it. She would certainly have one ready if she were ever to face Lady Harriett again. There was the failed summoning circle, which would kill the most arrogant person in the room, but Lucy could not be sure that person was Lady Harriett and not Byron himself. And then there was the matter of Lady Harriett’s wards. Lucy had read of wards, but knew little of them, and had never had the time or inclination to make inquiries into that branch of knowledge. Would anything she knew work here?

Lady Harriett paced the room, and the odd man remained still, standing near the fireplace, watching them, twitching and scraping dry skin off his lips with his teeth. Lucy told herself that she could find a way out of this disaster. Lady Harriett clearly possessed powers terrible and dangerous, but Lucy had three pages of the Mutus Liber hidden away, and she would escape with them. Emily depended upon it.

“I have yet to decide what to do with you,” said Lady Harriett. She turned to the man. “They come into my home, the home of my late husband, and violate it with their presence. Do you see, Mr. Bellingham? Do you not see what sort of enemies there are here? They have come to do you harm. They have come to keep you from receiving your money.”

“I want what’s mine!” This Mr. Bellingham shouted at them. It was like an eruption. He was quiet and twitching, then his mouth opened, his eyes expanded, and he shouted with incredible vehemence. Then back he shrank to his previous meekness.