At a great distance they circled around him, not wishing to approach until they saw everything that lay between them and him. When they reached the far side of the circumference, and believed the approach unhindered, they took a few steps forward. Mr. Morrison held the lantern out as far before him as he could manage. In the dim light of the room they saw that sitting in the chair in the center of the great hall, bound and gagged, was the owner of the estate, Byron. And upon his lap were two sheets of paper that, even at this great distance, Lucy recognized as the final two pages of the
This would have struck her as good news had the whole thing not been so very convenient, and had not Byron’s eyes been so wide with terror.
34
“Wait,” he said. “Let us not do anything hastily.”
“We can’t leave him bound like that,” Lucy said.
“Can you explain why not?” Mr. Morrison asked.
It seemed a good question. Lucy had no wish to set Byron free, not after the way he had treated her, but letting him suffer because he was a scoundrel hardly seemed right. “Because as vile a man as Lord Byron is, he is not our enemy right now, and I should very much like to know who put him there and set out those pages for us.”
“Hold the lantern,” Mr. Morrison said, thrusting it out to Mrs. Emmett. “I want to make certain there is not some trap upon the pages. Then we shall see to Byron.”
While Mrs. Emmett held the lantern aloft, Mr. Morrison carefully approached the baron. Byron’s eyes were wide and wet. He rocked back and forth in his chair, and he mumbled under the gag. Perhaps he feared Mr. Morrison would harm him, but somehow Lucy did not think that would happen. Mr. Morrison had been tempted before and resisted, and he was not the sort of man who would take pleasure in revenge against so helpless an enemy. It was possible that Byron would not recognize that, being the sort of man who would take revenge against a helpless enemy.
Mr. Morrison approached, examined with his eyes the pages upon Byron’s lap as best he could, and then snatched them up in a rapid gesture. Nothing happened. No monsters attacked and no trapdoor opened. He walked back to Lucy and handed her the pages. She did not even need to look at them to know that they were real. She felt their harmony with the ones in her bag, and she put them in to join their brothers. She saw the familiar images now, which she associated with Mr. Blake—the men at work, struggling against bonds or busy at their labors. One man, nearly naked, held a great boulder upon his back. A woman lay upon her side, suckling wolves. A divine arm extended from the heavens, giving something to the people below, or perhaps unleashing punishment.
As she held them, she felt an energy course through her, but their message was harder to understand than that of the other pages—not because it was less significant, but because it was more complex. Deciphering these pages, let alone the entire book once assembled, would not be the work of hours, but days or weeks. She knew that at once, but she did not know if she would have such time.
“I am going to untie him,” Lucy said.
“For what reason?”
“So we know how he got there. Do you not think it important?”
“No,” said Mr. Morrison. “We have the pages. We should go.”
She shook her head. “I cannot believe it will be that easy, that we will be permitted simply to walk away. Someone has orchestrated this for their benefit, and I would know who.”
“Then for God’s sake ungag him, but do not let him go.”
Lucy walked over to Byron and grabbed the gag from behind his head. He grunted as she tried to pull it off. Clearly it hurt him, but Lucy could see no alternative.
She found the slack and pulled it off. Byron gasped and spat and swallowed and then gulped down the air. He breathed hard, but grinned wildly. “Thank you, Lucy. I knew I could depend upon your goodness.”
“I have very little goodness left for you. How did you get here? Who tied you thus?”
“Oh, I cannot recall,” he said. “Perhaps my memory will return when you free me.”
“Perhaps if I cut off his nose he will recall,” Mr. Morrison said drily.
Lucy went to her bag and retrieved a knife. “If I cut him free and he refuses to help us, you may cut off as many pieces of him as you like. For now I will depend upon his humanity.”
“That is a poor prospect,” Mr. Morrison said.
Lucy cut free his hands and then his feet. Byron rubbed his hands together and raised and lowered his legs as he attempted to restore circulation.
“Ah,” he said. “That is the most gratifying thing you have ever done for me, Lucy. There is some hope for you yet.”
“Shut your mouth,” Mr. Morrison snapped. “Tell us what we want to know. How did you get in this state?”
“ ‘Shut your mouth’?” Byron repeated. “ ‘Tell us what we want to know’? Once again, Morrison, you are an intruder in my house, and it seems to me you have no business ordering me to do anything.”
“Lord Byron, please,” said Lucy. “I know you have done terrible things, and there must be a reckoning, but I have also seen you be brave and selfless. Set aside what you feel for one moment, and do what is right. Tell us.”
He sighed. “Only because you are so much kinder than this dullard. Alas, I can tell you almost nothing. I do not know who brought me here. I came from London in search of some personal effects. Once I left, I was upon the road and then abducted. A bag was placed over my head, and I saw nothing of my attackers. They brought me here and kept themselves hidden from me. I have been waiting in that chair since this morning, and, if I may be so bold, I must piss at once or I shall die. Will you excuse me?”
“The quality of this meeting, much to my surprise, continues to deteriorate,” said Mr. Morrison. “And that is keeping in mind how basely it began. Let us go, Lucy.”
Then came the voice from behind them. “I packaged him for you like a present, and you let him go. I am disappointed, Jonas.”
They turned to see Mary Crawford.
She seemed to glow in the near darkness. Her skin was like ivory, her hair almost white, and her gown as white as her hair, but she was not a figure of loveliness. Like her widower, Mary was prepared for war, and she bore two shotguns upon her back in the precise manner Mr. Morrison did. It occurred to Lucy that she knew almost nothing of their lives together. Had they gone on adventures, faced magic and monsters? What had passed between them had been real and true and lived, not like the silly infatuation she had felt for Mr. Morrison when she was sixteen or the foolish attraction she’d felt for Byron. Theirs had been a true love, forged and built and earned. She could see that in Mr. Morrison’s eyes as he gazed upon her. He swallowed hard, and appeared to look away, but then turned back, determination in his eyes. He would be telling himself that this was not his wife, not his Mary, Lucy thought. She could not imagine the suffering.
She would have imagined Mrs. Emmett would have reacted more strongly to seeing her old mistress, but she only stood, gazing almost stupidly, awaiting the next situation that would require her attention. This one, evidently, did not.
“I’ll not murder him in cold blood,” said Mr. Morrison. “Not like that.”
“He deserves no better,” said Mary.
Mr. Morrison gritted his teeth, and then took a deep intake of breath. “Perhaps not, but I shall have to live with what I do, and I cannot be so base as he. But you don’t need me. You could do what you like for yourself.”
She shook her head. “I have no fear of consequences. No fear of God or damnation or my immortal soul. I
“Perhaps you are more like what you once were than I credit,” Mr. Morrison said in a quiet voice.
“No,” she answered. “If it were you to whom he had done this, my old self would have slit his throat in that
