by David Liss
He leaned forward, as if to lessen the distance between them. “I was to keep my eye upon the man you were to marry, Mr. Olson.”
“But why?”
He took a deep breath. “There are forces in motion. Dangerous forces. Chief among these are what people are apt to call fairies or elves. Do not laugh, for this is serious.”
Lucy thought about Mary’s words, as well as the changeling creature she had held in her own arms. “I assure you, I am past laughing.”
Mr. Morrison appeared surprised by her reaction. “You know of them already?”
“They are the spirits of the dead, returned and given flesh. They are revenants.”
“You are unusually well informed,” said Mr. Morrison. “Quite impressive. Almost no one outside our circle knows it. There are some historians of our folklore who have commented upon the fact that what we call fairy barrows are often burial mounds of the ancients, but that is the closest I have ever seen to things becoming common knowledge.”
“I have uncommon sources,” she said. Unable to any longer endure it, she removed her hand from his light touch. She was gentle, however. Lucy knew that a jarring experience or emotional confusion could destroy the effect of her spell. She would have to tread lightly.
Mr. Morrison looked at his hand, as if unable to comprehend what had happened, and then straightened himself. “Yes, I have no doubt. They have been among us as long as anyone can recall, bound to these isles. They are part of who we are, part of what it means to be British. For many years they have walked among us, scattered through many powerful families in the land. There have always been those who sought to join their number, who dream of power and immortality, and little imagine the cost. And too there are those who seek to constrain their power and influence, such as my order does now.”
“What do these creatures want?” asked Lucy.
He shrugged. “Sometimes nothing more than to exist as they please. They play their games among themselves and, at times, they toy with us. Sometimes their schemes are trivial, and other times they seek to manipulate our lives in ways we cannot tolerate. They are strange and vile, Lucy, and to encounter one is to be altered by its strangeness.”
“Our mortality makes us what we are,” said Lucy, echoing Mary’s words.
He nodded. “How could I help but love a woman as wise as you? Yes, that is the thing. Even the ones newly returned are so altered as to be different creatures than the beings they were in life. They are inscrutable and arbitrary and terrifying.”
“Mr. Morrison, why is any of this important? You say that these beings have long walked among us. Why is your order acting against them now?”
“The world is changing, Lucy. Everywhere we see the rise of new machines, new methods of making and building and transporting. The world is about to enter an era in which man and machine will hold dominion over nature. In this, the revenants have allied with us. They have been providing us with intelligence against the Luddites.”
“Do you mean to say that you stand with these monsters?” Lucy was horrified. She knew that Mr. Morrison and his Rosicrucians believed that Britain must not fall behind the rest of the world as mills replaced men in the production of goods, but to align with creatures that Mary described as pure evil—that seemed too much.
“Not quite so much standing with them as finding ourselves upon common ground.”
Mr. Morrison’s hand had been creeping back toward hers as he gathered the courage to hold it, but Lucy snatched hers away. Now that she knew what he stood for, she could feel far less guilty about having placed this spell upon him.
“Have you seen these mills?” she asked him. “Do you know what they are, what it is to work in one? Do you understand what it is you defend?”
“I have seen them,” he said, and indeed he looked shaken. “They are terrible. I know that, Lucy, and your outrage does you credit, but Britain cannot stand alone, defenseless in the past while other nations march forward. We will be backwards and defenseless.”
“That is a poor excuse,” said Lucy.
“We have no choice. If these Luddites are unchecked, their uprising will lead to rebellion. Do you want to have happen here what has happened in France? We must move forward in peace or fall backwards in violence. What course would you advise?”
“A third way,” said Lucy, who spoke without thinking, but as the words escaped her mouth, she knew it was what she believed. There had to be a third way, some kind of compromise position that steered the nation between the Luddites and the revenants. That was what Lucy endorsed. And, much to her own surprise, she found that she cared about it. It meant something to her. Finding her niece was the most pressing issue upon her mind, but this—this compromise was important too. She could not have said why, she could not have said how her opinion on the fate of the nation could be of consequence, but she felt sure that it was.
“What is that third way? I pray you tell me, for if you can think of it, I shall urge my superior to pursue it.”
Lucy smiled. “I don’t know. Yet. Give me a little time.” She placed her hand back on the table. The idea that he would again touch her, would even think of touching her, was sickening, but Lucy had set these events in motion, and she would have to let them unfold. “What has Mr. Olson to do with all this?”
“We are not entirely certain. The truth is, the revenants give us half-truths and partial intelligence. They attempt to aid us against the Luddites, but also to manipulate us for their own ends, perhaps even ends that have nothing to do with this cause. We believed that Olson was to play some role in the rise of these mills, but since his frames were destroyed, it may no longer be so. In any event, I am upon a new mission now.”
“What is that?”
“There is a book,” he said. “An alchemical book that supposedly contains the secret of both making and unmaking revenants, of enslaving and banishing magical creatures. It contains much more besides: the secret to warding against magic, and to breaking the wards of others. It tells of things not imagined, and yet so simple, it is hard to believe they could be unknown. But most of all, it contains the secret of bringing the dead back to life—or, perhaps more accurately, to giving them a new kind of life. It is, in short, the most terrible book in the world. The only known copy of the book has been torn apart, and its pages scattered. My superior has charged me with finding these pages. I don’t know precisely why, but the book is likely something we can use to bargain with these revenants.”
Lucy tried to look only vaguely interested, but her hands began to shake. She could use the Mutus Liber to cast off the monster that had taken the place of her niece. She had to find the missing pages, and she had to do so before Mr. Morrison did—a man who enjoyed the resources of a secret international organization.
She took a deep breath to clear her mind. “Do you know where to find this book?”
“It has been broken up into many pieces,” he said, “but I believe I have recently discovered where to look for at least part of it, and I must leave soon.”
There was no help for it now, and so she spoke words she would never have believed she could utter. “Will you take me with you?”
Finally he found the courage to take her hand. Mr. Morrison smiled at her, and his eyes moistened. “I should like nothing better than to have you with me, but it is far too dangerous.”
Lucy swallowed, preparing her to say the words she had to say. “If you love me, you will take me with you.”
He looked down at the table for a long time. Finally, he met her eyes. “My search for the book will take me far away, to many different places, and I cannot harm your reputation by asking you to go with me unmarried. And I cannot now marry you. I should like nothing better, Lucy, but until this matter is resolved, my superior would not give me permission.”
No one is asking you to marry me, thought Lucy bitterly, and yet, she could not help but consider this offer as though it were serious, as though it were brought on by something other than her magic and her will.
Mr. Morrison was a gentleman, he had money and certainly influence of some kind. He was charming and clever and handsome. Ought she not to set aside her past antipathy and encourage this line of conversation?
“However,” he said, snapping her out of her thoughts, “before I travel, I must look for some of the missing pages close to hand. It will be dangerous, but you are a woman of some skill, so if you do precisely what I say, I will venture to bring you with me.”
It was better than nothing. It was a start. “Where do we go?”
He made a face of disgust. “To a vile place, Lucy. One as full of demons and ghosts as anywhere on earth. We go to an estate whose every stone is permeated with evil and dissipation. It is the ruined home of a corrupted baron who is more devil than man. The place I speak of is called Newstead Abbey.”
22
THEY WOULD GO AT NIGHT, MR. MORRISON SAID, AS THE SERVANTS of Newstead would not remain the night in the absence of their master. Slipping in at night increased their chances of finding the book and remaining undiscovered. Lucy knew she would need to bring whatever talismans and protections she could muster against fairies and other dark things. Newstead, as she already knew, was supposed to be haunted by several ghosts. The entire neighborhood spoke of Byron’s deceased dog, whom Mr. Morrison said was called Boatswain, and according to local gossip there were earthly creatures to fear as well. Byron was known 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.
“Think you so?” asked Mr. Morrison, who removed an amethyst on a chain from his pocket. “It appears that the deaf girl is the only one of us generous enough to share.”
“I presumed my gem would be sufficient for all of us,” Lucy answered sulkily. She did not like to be accused of being unkind.