The Twelfth Enchantment: A Novel

“My God,” said Byron. “I hoped for something, but surely even you did not expect so definitive a result.”

Lucy stared at the dog, confused and uncertain, for it did not appear to be a thing of spirit at all, but flesh and blood—and a great deal of the latter. The animal’s abdomen was torn open, and blood pooled around its lifeless body. Then Lucy noticed an acrid scent, like that of a gun just fired. She turned and looked down the path where a woman stood holding a long-barreled hunting weapon. She was just now lowering it. She was perhaps two hundred feet away, but there was no mistaking her tall form, elegant shape, pale complexion, and the ethereal white hair that hung free, billowing in the wind. It was Mary Crawford.

28

LUCY HARDLY KNEW WHAT TO SAY OR WHAT TO DO. THERE WAS Mary Crawford, who had vanished, who had left her, who had perhaps taken Emily and replaced her with a monster. She had also just saved Lucy’s life. There could be no doubt about that.

Her legs felt unnatural, not her own, unsteady and heavy at once, but she forced herself to walk to Mary, who stood with a grim smile upon her face.

“We must hurry,” Mary said. “I know not when Lady Harriett will return.”

“Who are you?” said Lucy, her voice now sharp. “What are you? Was it you who took Emily?”

Mary took Lucy’s hand. “There will be time for answers, Lucy. I swear it to you, but if we do not go— now—it may be too late.”

“Mary is right,” said Byron. “We must go.”

Lucy spun in astonishment. “You are already acquainted?”

“I know not what you mean,” Mary said. “I perceive that you are alone here. I saw no pathetic excuse for a man cowering while you attempted to rescue him.”

“Mary,” Byron said in his most soothing voice, “this is no time for recriminations.”

“If you think,” Mary snapped back, “that I will not put a bullet through your knee rather than let you follow, it proves how little you understand me. I care nothing if you suffer. I care only for my friend, whom I love—an emotion you do not understand but as it pertains to yourself.”

Lucy pivoted her head between the two of them. More than ever, she felt like some child being dragged about by adults she neither knew nor understood. It seemed now that Mary too was familiar with Byron, and not happy in the acquaintance, though she had betrayed none of that when they had first met before his unconscious form at her uncle’s house. It took no great leap of the imagination to suppose what Byron had done to Mary to incur this anger, nor why she would keep such a familiarity a secret. He was the man he was, and he made little pretense of being otherwise, but he was also beautiful and charming, and more than once Lucy had known the temptation he could inspire.

“I won’t leave him,” said Lucy. “I asked him to take me here, and he aided me when I needed it. I will not turn my back upon him.”

“Damn it!” Mary spat. “I will take him off the grounds—to the inn. No more than that. Let him say but one wrong thing, and I shall give him a second bruise to match his first.”

They rode in Mary’s coach for the twenty or so minutes it took to return to the inn. No one spoke, and Lucy spent much of the time stealing glances at both Mary and Byron. The lady did nothing more than look out the window, her face hard and stony. Byron, for his part, appeared chastened, and looked to Lucy like nothing so much as a child who had been caught doing something naughty.

Lucy wanted to speak, to try to mend things between these two friends, these two people who, above all, had made her feel important and special and powerful—these people she liked, possibly loved, and whom she could not trust.

When they reached the inn, Mary opened the door herself. “Get out,” she said.

Byron did not look at her. Instead, he turned to Lucy. “You need not stay with her. I will see you back.”

“Too many times,” cut in Mary, “have I had you in my power and spared your life. You must think me softhearted, but I promise you are mistaken. Leave now if you value your flesh.”

Byron spared a glance for Lucy, and a sort of sheepish half smile, and then departed, gently closing the door behind him.

“You do not know him if you would put your trust in him,” said Mary.

“I know what he would have of me,” Lucy said, “but I do not offer it.”

“You know nothing,” Mary said. “He will take what he desires, do so without remorse or regret, and think himself mighty for indulging his appetites.”

Lucy gasped. “Is that what he did to you? Did he force himself upon you?”

“It does not matter. If he can be of use to you, then use him, but never put yourself in his power. He is weak and vile, but he is dangerous because he is beautiful and believes himself exempt from the law of men. In truth, he is a capricious madman. I shall say no more of him, so do not ask.”

Lucy did not recognize in Byron the man Mary described, but she understood there was no point in arguing. “If you will not speak of Lord Byron, then speak of my niece. Do you know where she is? Did you take her, Mary, and replace her with that creature?”

“Yes,” she said. “I did that, and I did so out of love for you.”

“Because Lady Harriett would have killed her?”

“Yes.” Mary made an effort at a sad smile. “I cannot guess how you learned as much, but I have no doubt it involved an impressive application of cunning craft.”

“Lord Byron held Mr. Buckles still while I used the knowledge of persuasion from the Mutus Liber to force him to speak the truth.”

Mary took Lucy’s hand. “You make me proud, my sweet girl. You must know that. I could not have put my faith in anyone better.”

Lucy yanked her hand away. “You did not put any faith in me. You stole my niece and told me nothing.”

“I had no choice, Lucy, just as I had no choice but to go into hiding. Lady Harriett would destroy me if she had the chance, and you must not doubt that she has the power. You have seen only the smallest fraction of what she has at her command. I risked everything—far more than myself—in coming to your aid today. It was only a coincidence that you happened to be there when I came to liberate a man she held prisoner in her home.”

“That madman, Mr. Bellingham?”

Mary nodded. “He is a madman, but he is of use to our cause. Lady Harriett knew that, which is why she tried to keep him hidden, and that is why I freed him. He has a purpose yet. Now her plans are thwarted, and she will be very angry with both of us. Perhaps you think she is a foolish and vain old woman, and at heart she is those things, but she is much more than that.”

“A revenant,” said Lucy. “A fairy.”

“Yes, but these are just words. Most people have no real knowledge of what they are, of what they do.”

“I shall relish the history lesson,” said Lucy, “when I have my niece safe.”

“Your niece is safe nowhere that you could get her,” said Mary. “Nor are you safe, but you can defend yourself. Emily is helpless, and you must endure being separated from her while these troubles rage, because that is the only way to keep her alive.”

“Can I see her?”

“You cannot go there.”

“Go where?”

“I shall not tell you.”

“This is all nonsense. What is that creature that torments my sister? Will it harm her?”

“No,” Mary said. “It cannot help being what it is. It is monstrous, I suppose, but not deadly, and it is loyal to me. It will do as I have bid it, and it will keep my secrets, and though it will feed off your sister—for its kind is voracious—it will not hurt her.”

Lucy shook her head. “That is not good enough. I don’t want Martha to suckle a monster. I want to know why she must. I don’t believe Mr. Buckles’s story that Lady Harriett fears Emily. She fears me, though I don’t know why.”

“Perhaps she does not believe she can kill you,” said Mary, “but what Buckles told you is nonsense. No doubt he believes it, that it is what she told him, but the truth is far more elemental than that. His wife, his child, have power over Buckles and Lady Harriett resents it. She would kill Emily as a sacrifice, because of the power contained in her most loyal servant willingly surrendering his own child. It is no more than that. While the child lives, she will