by David Liss
“You will not say that to me,” she snapped. Her anger was sudden and terrible. She was like a jungle cat, crouched as it readied itself to pounce. Her face flushed dark and her eyes widened and her pupils narrowed. Teeth showed through parted lips. “I am nothing like him, and you will never say such a thing to me, nor even speak his name to me if you can avoid it. I will—” She then began to weep, and she pulled Lucy to her breast. “Forgive me. Your comment was innocent, and my anger unjust.”
Lucy pulled away. “You may not wish to be likened to him, but you are as careless with my name and reputation as he is. Who are you to decide if they are worth preserving? My reputation is mine, Mary. I do not wish to let it go so lightly. I have no means, I have no name, I have no station. I cannot live as a whore in the eyes of the world. I am not so foolish that I don’t understand that the world’s thinking it so shall make it truth in the end. I may try to resist it, but I must have bread, and in the end, I will become what they say.”
“There is no fate that can be thrust upon you but what you permit,” said Mary, beaming like a proud parent.
“I thank you for your confidence, but I must go to London. Turn us around while there is still time.”
“You cannot go to London,” said Mary. “Things are going to happen, and they will be beyond even your control. London will soon become a city of chaos.”
“My friends are in London,” Lucy said.
“Many people are in London, but there is no helping that,” Mary answered. “It is time for the change to begin. It has to happen in some way, and revolution can never be quiet or peaceful or easy. I wish that it could be, but it cannot. Revolutions must be bloody. You may condemn me for a monster, but the men who have allied with the revenants are willing to endure suffering for their cause, and so there is no other way. I have set things in motion, and we are now powerless to stop what we have begun. We have no choice but to flee from its destruction.”
How much of this was metaphor or speculation or sheer nonsense? Lucy did not know. Mary did not lie to her—she believed that—but she withheld much when it was convenient, and Lucy was tired of being manipulated and moved about like a game piece. It was time to make her own decisions.
With hardly a thought of what it would mean, Lucy leapt up, hurled open the door of the coach, and threw herself out onto the grass. She landed more violently than she would have expected, and she felt the sharp scrape of something cut against her cheek. Her arm struck something hard, and she heard herself cry out in pain as she rolled, and then she rolled again. The world passed by in a nauseous blur of grass and tree and rock, and Lucy understood that she had jumped out upon the top of a hill. From some unfathomable distance she heard Mary shouting and then horses crying out their complaints, but Lucy was tumbling—tumbling fast and hard and with terrifying speed; the gray of the sky rolled past her eyes as she gained momentum and a strange calm came through her. She thought she was at the center of things and that all roads began and ended with her, and yet here she was, about to have her head broken open by a rock and a tree.
And that was when she landed into the nearly frozen stream of water. She opened her mouth to cry out, but water filled her lungs. She thrashed, hardly knowing which was up or down, but managed, owing to the shallowness of the stream and nothing else, to lift out her head and find cold, welcome air. She cried out in relief and confusion, only to realize her head lay only inches from a horse’s hoof.
Lucy raised her head to see a great black and brown stallion, and atop it, smiling without humor, sat Mr. Olson. Then Lucy’s world went dark.
* * *
Lucy awoke feeling surprisingly warm. Her dreams were filled with cold water and mud, but now she was dry. She felt aches in her arm, her back, both her legs. Her face stung, and she remembered leaping from Mary’s coach. And she remembered Mr. Olson.
She opened her eyes.
It could well be that Lucy possessed some sort of expectation of what she would find when she opened her eyes, but whatever it was, surely this was not it. She sat in a rough-hewn wooden chair near a fire in a rude cottage with a dirt floor and nothing upon the walls. She could see through the windows that it remained gloomy outside, and in the cottage all was dim and shadowy. Her gown was dry and brittle, much stained and caked with hard mud. So was her skin. Her hands were clotted with dirt, making them hard to move. They were also bound behind her back.
Across the cottage, at a long table, sat Mr. Olson, wearing a mud-splattered riding coat. He sat working at a piece of wood with a knife, but sensed that she gazed upon him. He set down the wood, but not the knife, and looked at her. Even in the dimness of the cabin she could see his face was set in something like anger. He was red-eyed and haggard, and had three or four days’ worth of beard upon his face.
“You woke up,” he said in a heavy voice, deep and scratchy.
Fear thudded in her chest. She needed to get free. She needed herbs and plants and a pen. She needed to make a charm and escape. It almost made her smile to think how magic was now the first thing she thought of in a crisis.
“Please, Mr. Olson,” she said. “I am hurt, and I must go. I must be in London as soon as I may.” Time was running out, and she was stuck here, with Mr. Olson who appeared not himself. Lucy gritted her teeth with anger. She would not cry. She would find a way out of this. She was at the center of things, and she would find a solution.
Mr. Olson pushed himself from the bench by the table and stood menacingly over her. “I am shocked by your behavior. Lady Harriett summoned me to her home, and when I arrived, I saw the damage you had done. Breaking her door, killing her dog. All was chaos. You had only just departed, and Lady Harriett just returned, but she made everything clear. I understood that I had to go after you. I was so tired, but I had to have you, Lucy, and now I do. At last, you are mine.”
“I am not yours,” said Lucy, trying hard to sound both determined and reasonable. He did not seem the cold, unfeeling, methodical man she had known. There was something unrestrained about him, darkly passionate. He seemed like a madman. “I do not wish to be here. Whose cottage is this?”
“As to that, I have no knowledge. I found it, and so it is mine, as you are.”
“Listen to me,” said Lucy. “You must let me go at once, or there will be consequences.”
“What consequences can there be?” He looked about the small house, straining his neck theatrically in a grotesque mimicry of humor. “Soon we shall be married, and that shall be the end of it.”
“You said you did not want me,” said Lucy, hating the desperation in her voice. “You said your feelings were altered.”
He shook his head and grinned like a panting dog. “I never said that. I only dreamed I did.” He placed his hands upon her shoulders and then reached around and began to unlace the ribbons of her frock. “We must wait to be married in law, but not in deed.”
Lucy pushed herself back into the chair, but there was nowhere to go. She pulled against her restraints, but they would not be moved. She had thought herself powerful and mighty, but there was no magic, there were no charms, that could help her now. And this was truly happening. Mr. Olson, vile and mad and under Lady Harriett’s monstrous spell, was undressing her, and she could not stop it.
There were three ties, and the first two went easily. His clumsy fingers struggled with the third. He grunted rudely and pressed his body against hers as he pulled at the ribbons, trying not to make the knot tighter. Finally, it came loose, and he grunted in appreciation.
He pulled at the shoulders of her gown so that it hung loose upon her, but it yet hung. “Has any man before seen you? Has Byron?”
“Please,” Lucy said. She strained against the bonds holding together her hands. She felt them rub her skin hot and raw. She felt blood trickle down her hands, and yet she fought though she knew it would do no good. It would only cause her more pain, but she fought because she could not be a woman who did not fight. “You must let me go. It is not too late.
Nothing is done that cannot be undone. You must see reason.”
“Are you a maid or aren’t you?” he asked, now sounding angry. “Did you give yourself to that man you ran away with, or did you whore yourself off to Byron? I should not be surprised. It will go better for you if you are a maid. I shall not forgive you if you are not, but you shall be mine all the same.”
Lucy could find no words. She felt paralyzed and cold and distant from herself. Everything was about to end. The life she knew would be blasted out of existence, and she would be something else, something lesser, something violated. Even when she escaped from this fiend, and she had no doubt she would do so soon enough, she would be filthy and used. She would be contemptible, and none of it was her fault. She wanted none of this, and she would pay the price for his crimes.
She thought of the pages newly acquired from the Mutus Liber, hidden away now. The images had swirled together, unfolded like a flower. She had deciphered them like a puzzle, like a riddle, and she understood some of what they said, what they told her about the magic of persuasion. It was like mesmerism, or mesmerism was like this. It hardly mattered. If she could but get free, if she could but use a few herbs, or make a quick charm, she could make Olson leave her be, but it did her no good to think of what she would do if she could.
“You won’t answer? Well, I’ll have answers soon enough. Now, let’s have a look at you.” He reached to the front of her gown, and sucked in a deep breath as he prepared to pull away the gown.
And then Lucy heard the voice behind her.
“Olson, you have never been so close to death as you are at this moment. Step away from the lady.” Byron stood at the door with a pocket pistol drawn. Lucy strained her neck to see him, but she wanted to see his beautiful face, set in determination, blazing with anger and perhaps exertion. He looked wild and demonic and angelic all at once.
“I must thank you for giving me an excuse to shoot you,” Byron said. “I’ve wanted one, so I shan’t ask again.”
Mr. Olson turned to Byron and made a low, gurgling sound in the back of his throat. “She will never be yours. She is mine.”
Byron’s expression changed not at all. “I did warn you.” He fired the pistol.
A loud bang filled the room, and a rosette of blood blossomed on Mr. Olson’s thigh, darkening his already filthy breeches. He let out a howl as he clamped a hand to the wound. “Damn you!” he cried. “You’ve shot me.”
“I am only getting started,” said Byron, striking him in the head with his still-smoking pistol.
Byron rushed to Lucy and began to cut her restraints with the rough knife from the table. In a moment, the rope snapped, and Lucy was free.
“I know not how long I was unconscious,” she said, the words coming out in a mad jumble. “How long have I been here? Hours? Is it too late? Tell me it is not too late.”
“It is not too late,” Byron said, gently pulling her to her feet. “I followed you in Mary’s coach, and I saw you jump. Now I have come for you, and I shall return you in time.” He placed his hands upon her shoulders, and turned her around. Gently, he tied the ribbons of her frock. She felt his fingers, warm and dexterous, brushing against her, and she closed her eyes in pleasure and relief.
It was she who kissed him. Her lips found his, and she raised a hand to touch his warm face, rough with stubble, and she lost herself for a moment in his sweet taste and the feel of his arms around her. He had come for her. He had saved her. Whatever he was, whatever cruel and selfish things he did, whatever he wanted from her, it was he who had rescued her from destruction. How could she not kiss him? How could she not want to give him whatever he asked?
Then she pushed herself away.
They stood in a filthy shack with Olson upon the ground, bleeding and wheezing but a few feet away from them. Byron made her right and whole and safe, and if circumstances were different—if they were someplace safe and clean and quiet, she did not know if she could have refused him anything, but they were not in such a place.
“I can never thank you enough,” she said in a strained voice.
She then walked over to Mr. Olson and squatted down better to examine his leg. It bled steadily, but not alarmingly, and though the sight sickened her, Lucy knew what had to be done. She could not leave him to die, no matter what he had done. While Byron busied himself with reloading his pistol, she found a cloth, stiff from drying, near the fire, then crouched next to him. Gritting her teeth as though the act would cause her pain, she ripped open his breeches and used the cloth to bind the wound tightly. Let someone else clean the wound. It was more than anyone would ask of her. It would have to be enough.
Without warning, Olson opened his eyes and looked at her. Lucy leapt backwards, nearly falling over as though startled by a great rat.
“You are to be my wife, Lucy. I command you not to leave me.”
She had no answer for him. She rose and nodded at Byron. It was time to go.
They turned to the door, but found it blocked. Standing before them, smiling in an absent way, like an amused child playing with toys, was the strange gray-haired man from Lady Harriett’s estate, the one called Mr. Whitestone.
* * *
“I can’t remember what I am doing here,” he said to Lucy. He sounded amused, not at all upset. “Do you think that odd?”
“You are supposed to be protecting me, blockhead,” said Mr. Olson, still unable to get up from the floor, but now dragging himself toward Lucy, like a desperate soldier upon the battlefield.
“From which one?” asked Mr. Whitestone.
“From the man, you dolt.”
“Oh, yes. That is what Lady Harriett said.”
Quickly, impossibly quickly, he closed the distance between the door and Byron, and lifted Byron in the air, holding him under his arms the way a parent might lift a beloved child. Then Mr. Whitestone tossed Byron hard against the wall. His body struck upon the shoulder, and Byron cried out as he bounced off. Something fell from his pocket, landing upon the dirt floor with a thud. An instant later, Byron landed himself, hard upon his shoulder. He cried out again. His teeth were now covered with blood, and his eyes looked wild, desperate, and enraged.
“Like that?” asked Mr. Whitestone.
“It is a start,” snarled Mr. Olson, panting heavily, taking a break from crawling toward Lucy. “Now, rip his head from his neck.”
“Oh,” said Mr. Whitestone. “Are you certain? I don’t love to kill.”
“It is what Lady Harriett said,” answered Mr. Olson. He winced and snapped his teeth together, fighting off a wave of pain. “In her name, in the name of her late husband, Sir Reginald, I command you to pull Byron’s head from his shoulders.”
“No,” said Lucy, stepping forward, placing herself between Mr. Whitestone and Byron. “You will not hurt him.”
“He did mention Sir Reginald,” said Mr. Whitestone. “We take that very seriously.”
“But you do not love to kill,” said Lucy.
“Do I kill the lady as well?” Mr. Whitestone asked Mr. Olson.
“No, not kill. You may strike her, though not in the face. Nor the breasts. I do not want her breasts bruised.”
“Oh,” said Mr. Whitestone.
Lucy had no time to think. No time to consider. She saw that the object that had fallen from Byron’s coat was his pistol. Darting forward she grabbed it, and not taking a moment to think—for she dared not hesitate, dared not consider—she pointed it at Mr. Whitestone’s chest, cocked the hammer, and pulled the trigger.
The pan flashed and the gun blasted forth its ball, bucking in Lucy’s hand and jerking her wrist back so hard that at first she feared she had broken it. The pain lasted but a second, however, and she reached back and pulled Byron to his feet. He staggered, but he seemed more disordered than wounded.
“Dear Christ!” he cried out.
Lucy followed his gaze and looked at Mr. Whitestone, and she came close to swooning. She had missed his chest by quite a bit, and the bal
l had struck his face. Almost everything above his mouth—nose, eyes, most of the forehead—had been blasted away or crushed. Nothing remained but a mass of bone and blood, oozing freely, and yet Mr. Whitestone remained standing.
“Oh,” said the bloodied but unharmed mouth. And then Lucy saw something else. The skin around the wound began to repair itself, to grow. She saw the skin moving, stretching, increasing, so that it appeared as though his face crawled with a thousand ants.
She yanked on Byron’s arm. “Can you run?”
He nodded.
They ran.
* * *
They had but a single horse, and she sat behind Byron, clutching him tight. Riding on horseback was both faster and less comfortable, and given all her bruises and injuries, Lucy felt each step of the journey, but she willed the horse to run faster. She tried to think of nothing but the journey. There would be time later to think of the horrible spell cast over Mr. Olson and monstrous Mr. Whitestone, clearly an immortal revenant, whom she had shot in the face. She shook the image from her mind. Instead, she managed to pry her watch from her bag, and what she saw there filled her with hope. It was only just before noon. They could make it in four hours. She looked wretched, inexplicably filthy, but she would worry about that later. She only needed to get to Mr. Gilley’s house in time.
The sky remained steel gray and dark, so she could not chart the passage of time, but she felt they must be covering a great deal of ground, and though she hurt and the cold cut through her, she told herself all would be well. Her wounds would heal, a fire would warm her. Little else mattered. Not now. The things she had seen, the things she had done, they would all wait. That is what she told herself as they rode and time collapsed into itself and minutes became hours or perhaps the other way around. They could only ride. Thinking and worrying and wondering accomplished nothing.
As they turned at a crossroads, Byron slowed sufficiently that she was able to remove her watch and observe the time again. A quarter after two. “How much longer?” she called.