David Liss - The Twelfth Enchantment - A Novel

Lucy did not answer, for at that moment Mr. Olson himself walked into the room, and was immediately remarked by every unmarried woman there. Though his suit was unfashionable by London standards, it answered in Nottingham, and it was well cut and flattering to his squat form. He walked with a confidence that bordered upon grace, and he even bowed with a courtly air at the ladies he passed. As he did so, his eyes cast about here and there, searching the room, and Lucy knew he searched for her.

She felt cold, animal panic spread through her. She would not marry him. She would be a governess, or a serving woman. She would be like those characters in the novels who chose to do what is right and noble rather than what is expedient, and it was not because she was righteous, but because she now understood the easy thing is not easy at all. It is horrid.

She had been carrying Miss Crawford’s tiny book of talismans with her everywhere she went—tonight she had left it in her pelisse—and now, Lucy thought, was the time for her to make the attempt. It occurred to her that she might make Mr. Olson fall in love with Norah, but she quickly dismissed the notion. Miss Crawford’s words had affected her, and forcing two people to think themselves in love seemed to Lucy a cruel thing. Besides, that spell required hair and personal effects from both people, and obtaining these was not practicable. No, Lucy realized which charm she must use now. It would not solve her troubles forever, but if it worked, it would relieve her from the discomfort of dancing with Mr. Olson tonight. After this, she could throw herself on Miss Crawford’s mercy, beg that lady for some means by which she could save herself from both frying pan and fire.

She saw Mr. Olson look her way, and Lucy felt her legs turn weak. Their eyes met, so she understood she was committing herself now to a path from which there could be no retreat. So be it. This was her life, and she would live it her way. If she had to choose between Mr. Olson and Miss Crawford, there could be but one decision. Lucy turned and fled.

First she went to the card room, from which she sent one of the attendants to fetch her pelisse. While she waited, she found a pen, a little bottle of ink, and a fresh piece of paper. This task was made more difficult because she needed to avoid Mrs. Quince, but that lady was much engaged in a card came, and by keeping to her back, Lucy managed to escape her notice.

Once she had retrieved the book, Lucy proceeded to the kitchen. The work in preparing the refreshments had long since been completed, so there was only a pair of serving girls standing about and speaking to each other in animated whispers. Lucy smiled at the girls and then walked to a far corner and set her items upon a cutting block.

Lucy consulted her book to make sure she recalled correctly what she needed, and saw that she required a lemon. She found one deemed too shriveled and moldy to be fit for the punch, but Lucy could not believe its poor state would affect her purposes. She took the lemon and a knife, and returned to the cutting block.

Setting out the book, Lucy began to copy the talisman precisely, as she had practiced in her room. This one was made of five rows of five Greek letters each, and long ago, under her father’s tutelage, Lucy had learned to draw these letters, as well as Hebrew. Next came a circle containing a few words of Latin, and this surrounded the talisman.

On the surface, the writing out of a talisman was a simple thing—merely a set of symbols copied from one piece of paper to another. The reality was something else entirely. She intuitively understood it must all be copied precisely, the lines drawn in the correct order, this part before that, this word before that flourish. One way felt right, the others wrong. When she looked at the image in the book, she saw the natural process of the strokes of her pen. She used both hands, tilting the paper as she worked, keeping multiple things in her mind at once, solving and resolving puzzles, as though the talisman she copied were in perpetual motion, and she had to hurry to catch up to it before it escaped her.

Both Mrs. Quince and Miss Crawford had compared magic to music, and though the idea had made sense, only now did Lucy truly understand. She lost herself in the process, and yet, at the same time, she was focused, intense, thinking of the present as well as her next move, ideas moving together, yet independently, like hands upon the pianoforte.

The process took perhaps ten minutes. The resulting drawing seemed tensed and coiled with energy, almost pulsing like a wounded fly that vibrated its wings at impossible speeds but went nowhere. The talisman extended out from the page, pierced the air around itself, sharp as a blade. She’d written very carefully and lightly, so she did not need to blot, only wait a few minutes for the ink to dry. Now, holding the knife in one hand, the lemon in the other, she began to quiet herself, blocking out the images around her, blocking out the two serving girls and the noise from the card room, and the more distant music and muted conversation from the dance hall. All disappeared but the knife and the lemon and Lucy’s intent. Without commanding herself, but when the moment was right, Lucy cut the lemon in half, whispering, “Walter Olson,” saying it only once, but with intent and force and perhaps even malice.

A sensation passed through her, like her stomach lurching in a dream where she was falling. She felt something cold, or maybe hot, but jarring and strange and familiar. She raised one half of the lemon and squeezed the fruit gently, allowing three drops of juice to spill upon the paper, and she understood the charm was made.

Lucy drifted off from her quiet place and glanced down at her work, pleased with herself. Then she looked up and was startled to see a man in the doorway looking at her. As soon as she raised her eyes, he was gone, but there was something familiar about him that struck her. She had seen only a flash of him, but though she could not say how, she was sure she knew him. And she was sure of something else as well, something unmistakable she’d seen in his eyes. It had been only an instant, but it was long enough to see that. Whoever he was, he knew she was working some kind of magic.

14

T HE MAN WAS GONE IN A TRICE, AND LUCY DECIDED SHE COULD NOT trouble herself with who he was or how she knew him. The notion that he understood what she was doing suddenly seemed absurd. She was like a child who, because she was naughty, believed everyone must know that she was.

Lucy folded up the piece of paper until it was no bigger than her thumbnail. Then, after finding her coat and placing the book with it, she strolled out to the dance floor.

Scanning the room, she saw that Mr. Olson was not dancing but sipping punch with Norah. His slightly stooped back was turned to her, and it seemed that it would be a simple thing to set the talisman upon him. She approached, hoping to avoid their notice, and slipped the piece of paper into Mr. Olson’s pocket. Quickly reversing course, she went back the way she had come but, despite all her art, Mr. Olson turned to her and began to follow. She had taken only a few steps when he put a hand on her shoulder and spun her around. “You avoid me!”

“Avoid you?” Her pulse pounded in her neck. “What ever can you mean?”

“You fled from me not a quarter of an hour before, and now you flee from me again.”

“When you first came in I was suffering a headache, and needed only a moment of quiet. After, you were in conversation with Miss Gilley, and I did not choose to disturb you.”

“Are you jealous?” he asked with something like a sneer.

“You may speak with whom you like,” she answered. “I’ve no inclination to intrude upon your conversations.”