David Liss - The Twelfth Enchantment - A Novel

“Monkshood,” she told Mr. Morrison when she was done. “The wolf won’t like it.”

“Very clever, bringing that with you,” he said, “though we’re in some trouble should we decide to leave the circle.”

“What happens then?”

“Then,” said Mr. Morrison, “then we shall resort to other means.”

The wolf moved closer to them, and Sophie gripped Lucy’s arm. Mr. Morrison, for his part, remained motionless and apparently unperturbed.

“You are most calm, sir,” said Lucy.

“I have taken you at your word that it is monkshood,” he said. “You are certain it is?”

“My father taught me to recognize and distinguish plants,” she answered.

“Then it is monkshood,” said Mr. Morrison.

The wolf walked slowly, casually, around the furnishings, and approached the circle with a cautious snort. It stopped and sniffed again at the thin line of monkshood and let out a whimper, taking a few steps back. When it was perhaps twenty feet distant, it stopped and turned toward the door, but it did not move. Instead it watched something else with great interest, and it took Lucy a moment to see that there was a light approaching, moving raggedly as whoever came ascended the stairs. Then a figure appeared in the doorway holding a candle in one hand. It let out a whistle, and the wolf ran to it.

“Ah, well done, boy,” Byron said to the wolf, patting it upon the head with his free hand. “You have caught the intruders.”

Byron’s delighted grin reflected the two lights. He wore a dressing gown, open to the waist, revealing his muscular chest. Lucy noted the gown was unusually long, trailing to the ground so as to conceal his clubfoot.

Sophie began to breathe heavily, and she pulled away from Lucy. The wolf, seeing this, turned and growled at her. Lucy grabbed the girl to keep her from leaving the circle, though she pulled wildly and began to let out low animal noises.

“What have you done with your books?” Mr. Morrison demanded.

“I do make Newstead available from time to time that the commoners might view it, but I assure you that this is not a convenient hour. And Miss Derrick, I am surprised to see you here in such company. Last time we spoke, you made it clear you did not wish to see your name compromised. I cannot think late-night excursions with such a man to be wise.”

“Byron, don’t poison this lady with the sounds of your voice,” responded Mr. Morrison coldly. “Tell me, where are the books?”

Even in the poor light, Lucy saw Byron’s face darken and his expression contort into pure rage. He jabbed a finger toward Mr. Morrison as though he thrust a sword. “You don’t demand anything of me!” he shouted, sounding very much like a madman. “This is my home. Mine! You are an intruder. Thank me for not shooting you dead, Morrison.”

In her surprise and fear, her grip slackened, and Sophie broke away, running toward Byron. The wolf turned and leapt at her. Lucy wanted to look away, but she forced herself to look and saw Sophie unclench her hand and toss a handful of something at the wolf. It must have been monkshood, because it was as though the wolf struck something in mid leap. It yelped and fell to the ground, where it began licking its haunches. The girl, meanwhile, had hurled herself at Byron and clung to him. He put his arm around her and patted her affectionately, like a man with his child. There was something else there too, Lucy thought. His movements were slow and sensual and knowing, and Lucy understood that Byron had already taken full advantage of this girl’s devotion to him.

“Lord Byron,” said Lucy, somehow emboldened by his outrageous behavior with Sophie. His defiance of all morality made her trespassing seem insignificant. “We should never have come here without your leave if we thought you were home, but we believed you in London, and the matter too important to wait. Please, you must tell us. Where are the books?”

“Oh, Lucy. If you had come to me, I could deny you nothing. You know what is in my heart. But I cannot abide your aiding this man.”

“Your heart?” Mr. Morrison demanded. Now he retrieved from his pocket a pistol, which he pointed at Byron. “What feelings do you pretend to have for this lady?”

This, clearly, was the “other means” to which he had alluded. “Please,” Lucy said to Byron. “I know not what is between you and Mr. Morrison, but you must understand this is a matter of the utmost importance to me . It is for my sake that we have come here. I beg you send away the wolf and tell us what we want to know.”

Byron appeared to soften at this. He said something to the wolf that Lucy did not understand, but apparently it did. It rose upon its legs and trotted out of the room.

With his arm still around Sophie’s shoulders, Byron faced Lucy and Mr. Morrison. “My means are not what I would wish. Consequently, I sold my library.”

“To whom?” demanded Mr. Morrison.

Byron grinned at him. “I shan’t tell you. Now, what shall you do about it?”

Mr. Morrison snorted. “You think we won’t be able to find out?”

“I suppose we shall see.”

Sophie refused to go with them. When Lucy approached the girl, she simply clung tighter to Byron and turned away.

“This is unworthy of you,” she told him.

He smiled at her. “This is who I am , Lucy. I live by my own law, not the world’s, but I like to believe my code is not without honor. I do not harm or deceive her. She wishes to be with me upon such times I find agreeable, and I cannot tell her that she ought not to wish it.”

“She loves you,” said Lucy. “What will her life be when you walk away with hardly a recollection of her?”

“She knows I will not remain,” he said, “and she chooses to stay.”

They turned to go and Sophie ran over to Lucy, giving her a warm hug. When they broke off, she scribbled something on her slate. Thank you. I will be well .

“I hope so,” Lucy said.

Sophie took her chalk once more, her hand moving quickly over the slate. She held it out, this time at such an angle that, even at a distance, Mr. Morrison would be unable to see. It read, Books sold to Hariet Dier, Kent .

Lucy struggled to keep her face from showing her surprise. She knew at that instant that she would not tell Mr. Morrison. He wanted those pages for his order. He wanted to stop the Luddites. Lucy was still uncertain about the Luddites themselves, and how wholeheartedly she endorsed their cause, but she knew that even if Mr. Morrison wanted to help her, once his order took hold of the Mutus Liber she would never have another chance to take the pages herself.

She hugged Sophie again, wished her well, and departed with Mr. Morrison, adopting his mood of disgust and defeat.

Outside Newstead, Lucy walked with Mr. Morrison, neither of them speaking for some time. At last he said, “I don’t recall you mentioned that you knew Byron.”

“Nor did you,” she answered. “You and he appear to loathe each other.”

“And you and he appear to have feelings of another sort.”

Lucy felt herself stiffen with anger. “How dare you presume to judge me, sir! After what you did to me. And—and I was only sixteen, and you—” She turned away, shaking, feeling tears burning upon her face, and not wanting him to see.

She did not hear him walk toward her, but when he spoke, she sensed he stood directly behind her. “I am sorry, Lucy.”

“You are sorry,” she said, not troubling to turn to him. “You have the luxury of apologizing and forgetting, but I have not. I am reminded of it nearly every day of my life.”