David Liss - The Twelfth Enchantment - A Novel

Lucy opened her mouth, but she could not even think of the words she would say if she could.

“You must wonder why,” said Mary. “And I shall tell you. If you do not sign this, the revenants will kill you. If the pages are left to me, they will not. It is that simple. I am your friend, and I would do anything to help you. You must believe me. I want you to leave me the pages for that reason and for no other—because your enemies would risk anything than that I should become the true owner. To protect you, we must make the consequence of your death terrible to those who seek to harm you. If you have ever trusted me, trust me now. I know not what I can do for you if you will not.”

There was such pleading in her voice, such desperation, that Lucy could not but believe her. This was Mary Crawford, the one person in the world who knew her secret, the one person, besides her own sister, she trusted. Though unable to understand the request, Lucy decided she had to believe in her friend’s good intentions. She signed where Mary directed her. They blotted the signature, and then Mary rolled up the paper and handed it to Lucy.

“I do not need it. I would not have you think I am about some deception with it. Only, keep it safe. The will must exist to protect you.” She hugged Lucy again. “Remember, I am your friend. Do not doubt me.” She then handed Lucy the copy of the Mutus Liber she had shown her previously. “Hold on to this. Add pages to it as you can.”

Dazed, Lucy stepped out of the coach, and watched it drive away, holding in her hand a paper that granted, upon her death, the most powerful book in the world to her only friend.

Lucy rushed inside, only wanting to retire to her room, but Mrs. Quince confronted her on the staircase. She had been avoiding Lucy since the encounter with Mr. Morrison at the Gilley house, but now she stood, blocking her way, a disdainful expression upon her face. She knew something. Lucy was sure of it.

“Some secret nighttime assignation, Miss Derrick? What do you have planned? I wonder. What do you think to do? No money, no husband, no friends? Do you believe your little tricks will work forever?”

Rather than retreat, Lucy took a step forward. The knowledge that Lady Harriett had been scheming against her for years made her angry, and her anger emboldened her. She leaned into Mrs. Quince’s face and said, in a bold whisper, “Jonas Morrison.”

Mrs. Quince flinched and stepped away. “You are brazen,” she said, attempting to act unperturbed, “to flaunt your whoredom before me.”

“I had no wish to see him, and hope I never set eyes upon him again,” Lucy said, stepping close again, “but you fear him. Why?”

“You are mistaken,” said Mrs. Quince as she smoothed her apron.

“Then go tell my uncle,” said Lucy, wishing to test Mrs. Quince, perhaps wishing to hurt her. “Tell Mr. Buckles. Tell them all with whom I danced. Go on. Tell them.”

Mrs. Quince did not move.

Lucy pushed past her, entered her room, and closed the door.

Her triumph over Mrs. Quince, glorious though it may have been, left Lucy more confused than happy. What was Mr. Morrison to her that she should be so frightened? And what did it mean that Lady Harriett had been seeking someone to identify the Mutus Liber in the past few years? Was there some link between that and Mrs. Quince’s failed efforts to teach Lucy to read the cards? And now came this will that Mary has asked her to sign. She did not suspect Mary of trying to cheat her, but she did believe her friend knew more than she was saying, and that made Lucy uneasy.

Lucy slept badly and was awakened by the baby, whom she could hear fussing through the walls. Martha was not at the table when Lucy went downstairs for breakfast. There was only Mr. Buckles and Uncle Lowell, who appeared very angry indeed. Lucy glanced at Mr. Buckles, but he offered only a foolish smile before turning away. Was it hard for him to look at her, she wondered, to see the young lady whose life he had stolen? Lucy doubted his thoughts were ever troubled by such things. She did not believe him even conscious that he had done wrong. He had done it, and now it was over, so he thought no more of it.

After a brief period of silence, and then the baby began its shrill wail again. Mr. Lowell slammed down his fork. “I cannot see what your baby is doing, crying so violently.”

“It is usually very placid,” said Mr. Buckles. “Even Lady Harriett has condescended to observe how very … how, ah, very placid it is.”

“It weren’t placid last night,” said Uncle Lowell.

Lucy set aside her breakfast and went up to see Martha, who was still in bed, but quite awake. The bags under her eyes testified to the difficulties of her night, but she brightened considerably when she saw Lucy.

“I shall go quite mad,” said Martha. “Poor little Emily is really not herself. She’s never been like this, and I fear she may be ill.”

Lucy brushed some unruly hair from Martha’s face. “Does she nurse?”

“Like nothing I’ve seen.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “I am quite bruised. Emily is ravenous, and has taken to biting me with the little teeth she has. Why, it seems she has grown more teeth overnight, which may explain her sadness. In truth, if she does not cease hurting me, I will have to hire a wet nurse after all.”

Just then the door opened, and the nurse came in with little Emily wrapped in a blanket.

“How is she?” asked Martha.

“She won’t settle, mum,” said the woman. “I reckon she wants her milk.”

“It cannot be,” said Martha. “She has done nothing but eat.”

“She’s been trying to nurse off me, mum.”

Martha reached out and the woman handed her her baby, and as she did so, some of the blanket fell away. It was all Lucy could do not to scream, for instead of little Emily, there was a monster, a foul thing of skin so white that its bulging, pulsating blue veins showed through. It had pink eyes, little tufts of black hair curling from its head, sharp and narrow eyes, pointed ears, and a predator’s sharp teeth. It looked at Lucy and grinned.

Lucy looked to the nurse and then to Martha, but neither of them noticed anything unusual about the child. Neither observed that it was not Emily at all.

Lucy saw what was invisible to the others—that baby Emily had been replaced by some foul thing, by a changeling. But how had it happened, and where was the real Emily?

“My sweet, you must not hurt your mama so,” said Martha to the thing as it suckled greedily upon her breast.

Lucy swallowed hard, and tried to speak. She failed and made the effort again. “Martha,” she said a ragged voice, “when did the baby begin to fuss?”

“Now that I think on it, it was right after we went to visit your friend, Miss Crawford.”

Lucy took another step backwards. “You saw Mary? When did you see her?”

“After we returned from Newstead and you retired to your room—to nap, I presume. Your friend sent her coach around, inquiring after me. She said she had no wish to disturb you, but she longed to meet her friend’s sister and niece. I cannot believe I neglected to tell you, but it is almost as though I forgot about it until this moment. How odd.”

A secret meeting between her sister and Mary—a meeting her sister happened to forget! And Mary had said nothing to her when she had seen her after this meeting had taken place. Now Emily was gone, replaced by a changeling. And all of this after Mary had insisted Lucy leave the still-undiscovered pages of the Mutus Liber to her in a hastily composed will. Could Mary have been deceiving her all along? Lucy found herself trembling with the realization that the one person in the world she trusted, other than Martha, had betrayed her.