by David Liss
“At least there is no harm done. Despite your rudeness to him, Mr. Olson has in no way indicated that he wishes to end his engagement to you,” said Uncle Lowell as he slurped at his chocolate. “He wrote to me this morning and made his intentions plain. You are to continue to regard him as your intended husband.”
That Mr. Olson was now ruined obviously mattered little to her uncle. Lucy did not raise this point because it was not an argument she could win. More than anything she wished to speak to Mary about her encounter with Ludd. The rules were clear, however, and she was not to visit Mary without an invitation. She spent the morning with her books, though she could but little concentrate on Paracelsus, and much to her surprise, her wishes were soon enough satisfied. Ungston knocked upon her door to tell her that Miss Crawford had sent her equipage and requested the pleasure of Lucy’s company.
When she arrived at the little town house, Mrs. Emmett ushered Lucy inside as though she were late for an appointment. She found Mary waiting for her, dressed in a frock of green and white, and looking particularly pale. Even her hair appeared whiter than Lucy recollected. Despite her pallor, she seemed quite pleased to see Lucy.
Mary took her hand in her own. “I am sorry I have not been able to see you more and hear of your progress. You must tell me everything at once. What have you been learning? What has captured your imagination?”
Lucy had wanted to tell Mary of her encounter with Ludd, of the revelations about Jonas Morrison and the Rosicrucians, but Mary wanted to hear of nothing but studies, and Lucy was content that there would be plenty of time to speak of those other matters later. So Lucy began to speak of what she had been reading, and before she knew it, her studies were all she could think of. She went on for the better part of half an hour about what she had read, what had intrigued her, and what she could not understand.
“I knew you would do nothing but amaze me,” Mary said when Lucy had finished her breathless recitation. “You learn and understand like no one I have ever heard of.”
“That cannot be so,” said Lucy. “Everything is so hard to understand.”
Mary shook her head. “Come, tell me how the effigy we found upon Lord Byron could affect him. What principle was at work? Was it magic truly?”
“I hope I express this right, but the things I have done, I have seen—they are real. I don’t doubt that. But they are not magic, in the sense that people mean when they use the word, are they? Magic implies some sort of exception from the rules that govern the world, something outside nature, but if these things were magic in that sense, these spells could not be written down. There could be no knowing if a spell would work from one time to the next. But these things you teach me to do—they are governed by laws. A spell cast in the same way, under the same conditions, with the same level of concentration—it will work the same every time. If that is so, is not magic simply another kind of natural philosophy, though a more obscure one?”
“Yes,” said Mary. Simple and direct. “You have grasped the most powerful secret of all, and one that eludes so many who seek to master these skills. Now tell me, what rules governed the curse upon Byron?”
“I believe it is the natural sympathetic link between all things. If I understand Agrippa, then everything in the universe is a miniature representation of the whole, and that by affecting certain things mimetically, you can cause those effects to reflect back upon what you desire. There is a phrase I have seen frequently in many of the books: As above, so below.”
“You speak of Agrippa’s law of resonance,” said Mary. “It states that all things which are similar are also connected, and so they are drawn to each other’s power. You affect the universe by affecting the miniatures of the universe to be found within everything.”
Lucy smiled. “Agrippa writes that you can intensify the natural attraction between things by augmenting charms with items that come from, or belong to, the target and by using items in nature that best conduct what sort of energy you wish to apply. Different objects in the world contain different kinds of energy, and so the charm I used upon Mr. Olson called for a lemon, for its natural bitterness. The charm I used upon my uncle to persuade him not to cast me out of his house required sugar, for its ability to conduct sweetness—in taste and disposition. It is why so many spells call for parts of frogs or toads or newts. These are creatures that change form over the course of their lives, and so they possess a natural transformative quality.”
“You explain it all with perfect clarity.”
“I wish it could be explained to me in perfect clarity.”
Mary laughed. “Those who write of such things wrap their knowledge in obscurity to keep the uninitiated from understanding and attempting.”
“It is so much to understand, and to accept. And there is so much we have not even discussed. Many of the writers have lengthy sections upon the summoning of spirits and demons. Am I to learn to do such things?”
“No,” said Mary. “While you are my student, you will not try anything of the sort, and if you are wise you never will. Commanding such creatures is not safe, and you have challenges enough before you.”
Mary rose and retreated to her library, from which she returned with a slender folio. It was bound in faded calf’s leather, slightly scuffed, and held closed with a tattered red ribbon. Mary’s dexterous fingers untied the ribbon as she spoke. “I meant to wait many weeks, perhaps many months, before showing this to you, but danger is coming quickly, and we must act to stop it. You know of the machine breakers? You have heard of their General Ludd?”
“Of course.” Lucy’s pulse raced. They were moving toward something of moment. “I believe… I believe I saw Ludd last night. He spoke to me. And it was not the first time. I saw him outside Mr. Olson’s mill, though I did not know it was he at the time. And I have seen other things, creatures of shadow, even in my uncle’s house. I am so confused and frightened, Mary.”
Mary paced the room, playing her fingers along the slender volume’s ribbon. “I am not surprised he has come to you. I told you there is something coming. A great change for good or ill, but a change that cannot be prevented, only shaped. The machine breakers are a part of this.”
“Of the ill?”
“Of the good,” said Mary. “Do you understand what these machines represent? Already we hear tales from all over the country of how coal smoke blackens the skies and soils the waters. There are those like your Mr. Olson who would take men and women who once labored of their own hands to produce their own goods in their own homes and remove them to mills where they labor for endless hours for little money in the most monotonous and tedious and unimaginative of work. They blacken nature and turn men into machines.”
“But there are only a few such places.”
“There will be more, more than we can imagine. Anything that can be made will be made by machine. Already some of these machines are powered by steam and coal, and someday they will all be. When that happens, there will be no more artisans and craftsmen, only mill workers ground down by their machine labor until they are sick or dead, and replaced by others equally nameless and faceless—one man or woman or child no better or worse than another. It is an end to our English way of life, an end to nature as we know it, and if nature is blighted, then so is magic as we know it.”
“Things in the world can shape the world,” Lucy said, thinking aloud. “Agrippa’s law of resonance. You mean that changing the landscape changes the nature of the world itself?”
“That is exactly what I mean. You have seen what transpires in Mr. Olson’s mill. Imagine that multiplied by a thousand, or a thousand thousand. Imagine forests destroyed for fuel to feed the mills, rivers blackened with their wastes. Generation after generation of children who know nothing of childhood, but only long hours of labor. Imagine men who are virtual slaves to mill owners, who dictate conditions and wages. I have seen these things, Lucy. The world is not merely going to change, it is going to be remade.”
“But why must I s
tand against it?” asked Lucy.
“I don’t know,” Mary said. “I cannot say why Ludd seeks you out, or why you can see the creatures of shadow that are invisible to nearly everyone else.”
“Can you see them?” asked Lucy.
“If I look for them,” Mary answered sadly. “They are part of the world, just as we are.”
“And Ludd? Is he part of the world too?”
“He is something else, I think. But he is drawn to you, just as the shadow creatures are. You have become some sort of magnet, Lucy, drawing things in. I do not know why, but I do know that you cannot ignore your centrality.”
Lucy said nothing for a long time. The idea that she had some power, some responsibility, to stand against mysterious forces and great changes seemed absurd, and yet her friend believed this.
“What must I do?” she asked.
“You will start by opening this book.” Mary held it out. The untied red ribbons dangled free.
Lucy took the book and knew at once she did something momentous and important. With a trembling hand, she leafed through the pages, few that they were, and saw the book contained a series of engraved prints, images of men, angels, animals, and all sorts of odd beings. Expressions were curious, often pained or amused or oddly lascivious, and often without cause. Men flew through the air on wings. Animals rode horses or baked bread in ovens. Activity of some sort abounded, though it was hard to tell precisely what these figures were attempting to achieve. They poured liquids in bowls, weighed substances, mixed and measured, and while all of the illustrations had clearly been done with the same hand, some seemed to Lucy silly and trivial, and some struck her as serious, even important. They demanded her attention.
“This is the Mutus Liber,” Mary said, sitting at last across from her. “The wordless book. It was published in La Rochelle in the seventeenth century, and it is said to be the most precise book ever printed on the creation of the philosopher’s stone. Do you know what that is?”
“Is it not the key to alchemy?” Lucy asked. “I understand it to be a stone in name only, but I’ve seen it represented as the key both to transmuting base metals to gold and to achieving eternal life.”
“Yes,” said Mary. “The stone is not a stone at all, of course. It is sometimes said to be a powder, sometimes said to be a process with no physical shape—a spell or a set of actions, a state of being, or even the body or mind of the alchemist who understands the workings of these secrets. The Mutus Liber dared to set down processes never before committed to print, because it set them down metaphorically. Only someone who is attuned to the hidden arts could understand the instructions embedded within the pictures. And what is more, the pictures make themselves known to those who have the right of understanding. The book is said to favor the wise and the learned, particularly if someone wise and learned is the book’s rightful owner. It is always most powerful in the hands of the person to whom it belongs.”
“Do you mean to say that once I understand these images, I would have the secret?” asked Lucy as she turned the pages, noticing the particulars of each print. Some appeared pregnant with meaning, but others struck her as merely odd. “That I could, with enough study, make the philosopher’s stone, whatever that may be?”
“No,” she said. “Because this book, the one printed at La Rochelle, is not the true Mutus Liber. It is always thus, isn’t it? Secrets within secrets. There are dozens, perhaps hundreds of copies of this book in circulation, but they are all false. The true book contains only twelve prints, not sixteen like this one. It is said that three of those found here are real, but no one is certain which three. That this edition is not the true Mutus Liber is a secret possessed by very few, and even those in possession of that secret cannot say which of these prints are genuine.”
“Prints five, ten, and thirteen are true,” Lucy said, not a little pleased with herself.
Mary stared at Lucy, her face unreadable. “How can you know that?”
“How did I know which spells were real in that book you gave me?” she asked. “It is the same. I cannot prove that I am right, but I know it.”
She did. Those prints felt different to her. It was as though they gave off heat, but it was not heat at all. It was as though they sang to her, but there was no sound. It was a kind of energy, almost like the feeling that someone’s eyes are upon you, even though you have not yet turned to see that it is so.
Mary smiled. “I doubt it is the same. What you have done here is far more impressive. These pages are designed to elude detection. And yet, I knew you could solve this riddle, even if I did not believe you could do so with such ease.”
Ease was not precisely the word Lucy would have chosen, for it had not been easy so much as it had been natural, like struggling to remember something long forgotten. But now that she saw these pages for what they were, she found she wanted to see more. Perhaps she would have done a great deal to see more. “Where is the true book?” she asked. “The complete one.”
Mary shook her head. “I can only tell you what is rumored. There was said to be a whole copy in this kingdom, perhaps the only one in the world, guarded by the Brotherhood of the Rosy Cross—the Rosicrucians. You know who they are?”
“I have heard of them,” Lucy answered, afraid to say more.
“I have heard that the leader of a powerful Rosicrucian lodge had the book, but he believed dark forces would use the book against England, and so, to protect it, he had one of his agents take the book apart and hide its pages. If there is a true Mutus Liber left in the world, the pages are separated by great distances.”
Lucy was only half-listening, because as interesting as were Mary’s words, the pages were so absorbing. There was something in the curious etchings, something she could almost see. The first thing she observed was that these pages somehow went together. It was no coincidence that these three were left in the book. They were a set, and someone who perhaps believed he might choose pages at random could choose these three, not seeing how they belonged with one another. But there was something else, too. The patterns, the images, took hold of her thoughts, pulled them, led them like a boat upon a river’s strong current. There was meaning here, clear meaning, though it took her a moment to see it.
At last she looked up at Mary. “There is a principle of magic we have not discussed,” Lucy said. “The principle of sacrifice.”
Lucy understood at once that she had said something significant, for Mary dropped her teacup. It struck the floor and shattered, while the lady herself gripped the sides of her chair as though preparing for a great wind that might rip her from where she sat. Mary said nothing, merely stared at Lucy in wonder. Lucy was afraid to ask what it meant. They sat there, frozen in the moment, until roused by a pounding upon the door. Lucy listened as Mrs. Emmett answered, and then, after a moment, Mrs. Quince rushed in, with Mrs. Emmett behind her. Lucy had only enough time to close the Mutus Liber before Mrs. Quince could glance in its direction.
“Miss Derrick must come home at once,” announced Mrs. Quince.
“What is it? Is something wrong?” asked Lucy.
“You will worry about anything,” said Mrs. Quince. “No cause for alarm, except as it affects our peace. Your sister and her family have arrived, and Mr. Lowell does not wish to have them about without you present.”
“Oh,” said Lucy, who was still so intrigued by Mary’s reaction that she momentarily forgot to be thrilled at the news that her sister was there at last. Thus she allowed Mrs. Quince to lead her away without saying a proper good-bye or even understanding precisely what had happened.
18
ALL THE STRANGENESS OF HER MOST RECENT ENCOUNTER WITH Mary was forgotten the moment she walked into her uncle’s house and saw her sister in the front room, holding her baby, little Emily. Lucy rushed over and carefully hugged her sister, so as not to crush the baby, and then peeled back the blanket to afford herself a better look at the child, who was awake but gurgling peacefully, swaddled as she was in a bl
ue blanket embroidered with silver lace.
Lucy looked at her sister and her niece, and hugged them both again. She felt the tears running down her cheeks, but she did not care. She was so happy to see them. This was her only remaining family, and how she loved her sister, and how she loved her niece. “Oh, Martha, she looks just like our Emily. The resemblance is remarkable.”
Emily had clearly brought Martha a full measure of happiness. Prior to having her baby, Martha had looked too thin and drawn and unhappy, but now she appeared plump and rosy and cheerful. She favored their father more than Lucy did, but she shared Lucy’s dark hair and rosy complexion. Her face was longer, however, more pinched, giving her the studious look she had taken so much to heart before her marriage.
She patted her baby’s back. “I do think she is the very image, though Mr. Buckles believes she favors his side of the family.”
“It matters not for a girl,” said Mr. Buckles, by way of greeting. He had walked in when Lucy was occupied with the infant, and was busy wiping a cloth along his forehead. “Were it a boy, it would be preferable that he favor his father.”
Lucy looked at Martha, for an instant forgetting that Martha did not know about her husband’s treachery. She expected that they would share a look of disdain or disgust, but Martha only looked away, appearing grave. She clutched her child closer to her breast. Lucy understood at once that Martha had come to hate her husband. It was there upon her face, and it made Lucy unspeakably sad. Even though such hatred was only just—even if Martha did not know that Mr. Buckles had altered their father’s will—Lucy did not want Martha to suffer.
She looked over at Mr. Buckles, who simpered foolishly at Uncle Lowell, and Lucy felt her face redden with rage. He had stolen what was hers, what was Martha’s, what was her father’s, and paraded about as though it were nothing. He made his insipid observations and commanded Lucy’s sister as though he were not a villain. She swore to herself that he would pay for his crimes. And then, because his hand was outstretched, she took it and welcomed him back to Nottingham.