The Twelfth Enchantment: A Novel

shape a world that had betrayed them with war and famine and rising prices. Twice before Lucy had seen bands of these Luddites, though only at a distance, and they had shocked her with their sunken eyes and animal desperation.

After several minutes of silence, Mrs. Quince finally spoke without bothering to turn to Lucy. “Shall I presume you are the cause of that man’s difficulties?”

Lucy could not help but laugh. “You know far more of these matters than I.”

“Now you would call me a witch?” snapped Mrs. Quince.

“I only suggest that what little I know I have learned from you.”

“I hardly know anything myself. Perhaps you have studied elsewhere,” said Mrs. Quince.

“Of course not,” answered Lucy, and this was mostly true—certainly true for all practical effect. Lucy had once secretly purchased a book, The Magus by Francis Barrett, with money from her meager annuity, but this volume had proved utterly unilluminating. In any case, she could not quite make herself believe in the seriousness of these things. Did Mrs. Quince truly suspect Lucy cooked up hexes and spells like a witch in a fairy tale? What they had done together those years before now seemed silly, no more than a girls’ game, and they had not attempted anything so implausible as a curse. Yet Lucy knew learned men had believed in such things for millennia. Her father had directed her to read about the lives of Paracelsus and Cornelius Agrippa and Isaac Newton—great thinkers and natural philosophers who also delved into magic and alchemy and the summoning of spirits. Only in the modern world had the educated begun to reject such beliefs. Yet, here she was, walking the streets of Nottingham at night to find a mysterious woman who might help lift the curse off a handsome stranger.

Three years ago, it was Mrs. Quince, then her friend, who wished to explore such matters, who said it would be fun, who laughed with her about the secrets they might discover. Now that business was being thrown in her face, as though Lucy were to blame.

The doctor had informed them that the woman they sought, Miss Mary Crawford, lived on High Pavement, which was among the most desirable streets in Nottingham, but her house was modest, very narrow and lower in height than those surrounding it. They walked up the steps, and Mrs. Quince turned to Lucy. “I shall speak. Pray do not trouble the lady.”

Within moments of their knocking, the door opened, and a curious sort of woman greeted them. She grinned widely and absurdly, showing a mouth of perfectly white and even teeth. She was plump and of indeterminate age, with a dingy complexion, narrow eyes, and a round face that would conceal many wrinkles, assuming she was old enough to possess them. This woman might have been thirty or she might have been fifty. She wore a shapeless, mouse-colored frock, and her bonnet was so low upon her forehead that it rested just above her eyebrows, and its odd placement gave the woman the look of a simpleton.

“It is Miss Lucy Derrick!” the woman cried out with evident joy, and grabbed Lucy by the hand. “Oh, you must come in. Miss Crawford will be so happy to hear of your arrival.”

Lucy did not try to escape the woman’s firm grip, but her mind raced in confusion. She did not often forget faces, and she believed she must recognize the woman if they had previously met. Now, with her accusation only minutes old, Mrs. Quince stared at Lucy with cold fury.

“I am very sorry,” Lucy said, “but I do not believe I know you.”

The woman waved a plump hand dismissively. “Do not trouble your mind, my dear. We’ve not met, but how could I not know a young lady as sweet as Lucy Derrick?”

Lucy had no answer to this question, and for entirely different reasons, neither did Mrs. Quince, but they allowed the peculiar woman to lead them into the sitting room, which was a small but comfortable space.

“I am Mrs. Emmett,” the woman said to Lucy, ignoring Mrs. Quince entirely. She reached out and took Lucy’s hand in both of hers. Her skin was warm, almost hot, and as soft as a baby’s. “Mrs. Emmett.” She pronounced each syllable with much exaggeration. “You’ll recollect it, I hope, Miss Derrick. You’ll not forget me now.”

“Indeed, I shall not,” said Lucy.

“I am so happy.” She released Lucy’s hand. “I shall fetch Miss Crawford at once.”

She then hurried out of the room, muttering to herself and waving her hands excitedly.

Mrs. Quince, who did not love to be slighted, turned hard to Lucy. “You claim to have no knowledge of curses, and yet the cunning woman’s servant knows you.”

“She does appear to, but you heard that she did not expect me to know her. Perhaps she foresaw my arrival in the cards,” Lucy said, enjoying the moment of sauciness.

Mrs. Quince snorted and turned to examine the gilt wallpaper, which she said she thought rather shabby for a gentlewoman’s.

After a few moments, they heard the approach of feminine footsteps, and in walked a strikingly pretty woman of perhaps five-and-twenty, tall and graceful, with fair skin, hair so blond it was nearly white, and extraordinarily pale green eyes. She wore a fine tunic of green and gold, cut square in the front, and cut low, as was also the London fashion, and it showed her shape to great advantage. She dressed as though she were entertaining or prepared to go out, though Lucy could see no signs that either case was true.

She did not hesitate to take Lucy’s hand. “Miss Derrick, I am Mary Crawford. I hope my woman’s excitement did not trouble you. She has seen you about town and admired you. Mrs. Emmett has her peculiarities, but she is a good woman and means no harm.” There was something about her—not her appearance certainly, but some elusive quality—that made Lucy think at once of her late sister, Emily. It may have been the way she tilted her head when she spoke, or in the kindness of her words. Perhaps it was the hint of cleverness that revealed itself in even the most banal statements.

That had been the essence of Emily—not merely her remarkable, if unusual, beauty, with her nose slightly too large, her lips too thin, her chin too long—not merely her wit or charm or winning conversation. Emily always gave the impression of being thoughtful and clever. She projected warmth and friendliness, and at the same time she had seemed superior, yet she appeared utterly insensible of her superiority. This remarkable confluence of appearance, demeanor, and ease had made her loved by virtually all who knew her. Some friend or other was forever inviting her to travel, and she spent nearly half the year, every year, away from home, off to London, York, Bath, Brighton, even Edinburgh and Cardiff. Everyone had wanted to be near Emily, and Mary Crawford had, if not precisely the same charm, something very like it.

“I assure you, I took no offense.” Lucy made the deliberate decision not to introduce Mrs. Quince, in part because it felt quite pleasant to slight her, but also because she could not help but feel that she wanted this lady all to herself. “I come upon truly unusual business, Miss Crawford, and I hope you will forgive me.”

“I am certain whatever you have to say will require no forgiveness. Please, sit down. Perhaps your woman will wait in the kitchen? Mrs. Emmett can fetch her a pot of small beer.”

“I am content where I am.” Mrs. Quince met Miss Crawford’s eye, but she was not so bold as to sit herself.

“Of course,” said Miss Crawford, who gave Mrs. Quince a sidelong glance that, to Lucy, suggested she understood everything.

Mrs. Quince had said she wished to do the speaking, but now Lucy believed it fell to her to explain her situation as best she could. “I hardly even know how to state this business, but there has been a strange incident at my uncle’s house, and we have been advised to seek your aid.” She went on to provide a summary of the evening’s events, beginning with the arrival of the stranger and concluding with Mr. Snyder’s recommendations.

“I have not the pleasure of knowing Mr. Snyder well,” said Miss Crawford, “and I met him only briefly, so I fear he misunderstood the nature of my experience with the old knowledge. While I am something of a student of the hidden arts, I have no skill as a practitioner.”

Lucy leaned forward, fascinated. “But you believe in magic? You think it real?”

Miss Crawford laughed, not unkindly. “If you had seen all I have seen, you would understand that it is not a matter of belief. From what you describe, you have seen remarkable things this night as well.”

“What we saw was indeed remarkable,” admitted Lucy, “but I am convinced there must be some manner of explanation.”

“Certainly there is,” agreed Miss Crawford. “Most likely, this man is cursed.”