David Liss - The Twelfth Enchantment - A Novel

“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.