David Liss - The Twelfth Enchantment - A Novel

“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 ball 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.

“Not an hour and a half,” he answered.

She would be at Mr. Gilley’s house by five o’clock. The sun would set likely about an hour after that, so she would have half an hour or so to spare—closer than she would have liked, but that did not matter. She would be there.

They crossed into London and Lucy found that a reckless man on a horse could move about the city far more readily than could a carriage. Soon they arrived at Mr. Gilley’s street. Byron dismounted and helped Lucy to the ground.

“I cannot thank you enough,” she said to him.

He was bruised and beaten and disordered from the road. His teeth were still stained with his own blood. Nevertheless, when he bowed he looked as regal as any king could wish. “The tables turned soon enough, and you did save me as well,” he allowed. “Yet, I think we can agree that mine was the more impressive rescue.”

“There is much I would know,” she said. “Mary would not explain her disposition toward you, and I feel you conceal things about Lady Harriett and her kind as well. We saw things today—impossible things—and yet I do not think you were as surprised as you should have been. I know you have secrets, Lord Byron, and yet I owe you more than I have ever owed any man save my father.”

He bowed again. “The secrets I keep are not my own. That is all I may say as a gentleman. As for the other matter, I have tried to impress upon you that there is nothing I would not do for you, Lucy. Perhaps now you believe me.”

“I do indeed.” Lucy laughed. She was perhaps vaguely giddy from the thrill of having survived what she had, of having escaped Lady Harriett and Mr. Whitestone and ridden all this way. Only a few weeks before, she had felt herself helpless in her life, and now look what she had accomplished! She had seen and done and learned so much, and she now possessed three more pages of the missing book. Along with the original two from the false Mutus Liber , that meant she had five of the twelve. Perhaps she truly was mighty.

Byron, however, turned quite serious. “I will not speak ill of Mary Crawford, Lucy. I can only say that lady’s heart can lead her to make judgments neither wise nor warranted. She may be a good friend to you, but in this matter, I would ask you not to heed her overmuch. And then there is the business of her abducting you.”

“She claims that something terrible is going to happen in London, that I am not safe.”

“I have not observed you to be safe anywhere but with me.”

Lucy felt herself blush. “Good afternoon, Lord Byron, and I thank you once more.”

He bowed. “I hope you will someday value me as you value my services.”

Lucy’s face felt hot, but she yet spoke what she felt. “Our disagreement is not regarding your worth.”

Byron stepped forward and reached out to touch her, but then withdrew. They were upon a public street. “Then come to me,” he said in an urgent whisper. “Come to me soon, or I shall die from this torment. I know what is in your heart, and you know what is in mine. What else matters? I beg you to come to me.” With this, he turned, mounted his horse, and rode off.

Lucy remained still for a moment, thinking of Byron, his beauty and valor and all he had done for her. Could she love a man such as he? She did not know, but she knew she wanted to be with him, and she did not know that she could risk being alone with him.

This was hardly the time to dwell on such things, however. Lucy turned and entered the house. She knew she looked terrible, and wished she had yet upon her tools that she might craft one last charm, something to help her get to her room unnoticed that she might wash and change and appear before all as clean and poised as they must expect. If they saw her now, she must tell some story of being knocked down in the street, and it would engender a great deal of fuss, and perhaps even make it more difficult to move freely, but she would meet that challenge when she came to it.