David Liss - The Twelfth Enchantment - A Novel

His reference to what he had already done for her filled her with a new wave of anger. “Fortunately, I had Lord Byron to help.”

Mr. Morrison’s eyes widened as though slapped. “It is well if you wish to make use of him, but it is only a matter of time before he turns on you.”

“He did not turn on me. He rescued me more than once in those two days.” She turned to look out the window, affecting an airy disregard for his feelings, but suddenly she turned back to Mr. Morrison. She wanted to look at him. She wanted to be near him, very near him. She stepped back in fright. Was he working some kind of love magic on her?

Then she understood. It was not he who entranced her. It was something he had with him, something strange and familiar and wonderful and intoxicating. She took a tentative step forward, trying to make sense of it, as though trying to identify a flavor she’d tried once, long ago.

He had pages of the book on him. She knew it. She could sense them. Lucy took another step toward him. “Where have you been?” she asked again.

“I could not have known. I have only now returned from Cardiff.”

The name of that city summoned an unexpected pang of sadness. Her sister Emily had returned from a sojourn there with friends only weeks before her death. Lucy pushed the memories aside. “Why were you in Wales?”

“Searching for pages of the book, which I found. Two of them.”

“Really?” said Lucy, trying to disguise her interest. “Where are they?”

“Upon my person. I was to bring them to Mr. Perceval, but then I heard the news, and I could think of no place safe enough to put them when any part of the metropolis might at any moment burst into flames.”

Lucy needed magic, strong, compelling magic, but she had no time to prepare anything. She had no time to fetch herbs and ingredients or make charms and draw out talismans. She needed something now.

Mr. Morrison was already somewhat in her power, and might be subject to her persuasion, but that would not be enough. She needed more than simply to make him do what she wished. And then she recalled that she had just recently learned the very thing she needed.

Much to his surprise, Lucy took Mr. Morrison’s hand. She was not entirely certain what she was doing, but she’d done enough, seen enough, to feel that she could manage her way through this on her own, even if she did not follow the instructions precisely. She had a feel for the push and pull of magic’s energies, and the pages of the Mutus Liber had shown her the way. She had wanted to use herbs or talismans or spells. She knew now that she needed only her own hands and her own voice.

“Mr. Morrison,” she said, “I want you to look into my eyes. Yes, just like that. And I want you to listen to me. Are you listening to me?”

He nodded slowly.

It all seemed so natural, like following the currents of a river. She did what she thought she ought to do, and it felt proper, correct, easy. “Very good, sir. I want you to listen to my voice, and as you hear my voice, I want your mind to clear itself of everything but my voice. That’s right. You are listening, just listening, but thinking of nothing but what I say, awaiting my next command. Are you still listening?”

He nodded once more.

“Are you ready to receive my commands?”

He nodded.

Astonishing. What a remarkably useful tool this was. Of course, Lucy had no illusions. She could not so easily compel Mr. Gilley to listen to her and allow her to stay, for, as she understood these things, he did not really want to listen to her or to let her stay. It was likely she would have had no power over Mr. Morrison if she had not already made him love her. Even so, this new hold she had over him seemed remarkable.

“Mr. Morrison, the two pages of the Mutus Liber . You have them with you?”

“I do,” he said.

“I want you to give them to me.”

Mr. Morrison reached into his jacket and retrieved a pocketbook. He opened it, and pulled from it two folded pages, which he gave to her. Lucy quickly concealed them within a hidden pocket in her gown.

“Who else knows you found them?” she asked.

“No one,” he said.

“Mr. Morrison,” she said, finding her way by intuition and sense. “I want you to forget you found these pages. I want you to forget you ever had them and gave them to me. You will recall only that you went to Wales and met with no success. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” he said.

“I shall presently let go of your hand. When I do so, you shall not recall that we have spoken of these pages at all. It shall be to you precisely as it was moments ago.”

“Yes, Lucy,” he said.

Lucy let his hand drop.

Mr. Morrison blinked. “I am very tired suddenly. I forgot what I spoke of.”

“That I must find my own way back to Nottingham. I know not what I shall do then.”

“You will still seek the pages of the book, I imagine. Just as I do.”

“And you’ve had no success?” asked Lucy, testing out her work.

“None,” he said, without hesitation. “My visit to Wales was as unsuccessful as our visit to Newstead. Now that Mr. Perceval is dead”—and here he paused, obviously moved by this loss—“there is no one to stop me from seeking out Lady Harriett and searching for the pages in her library. It will be a great risk to do so, but I know not what else to do.”

“Do be careful,” said Lucy, for despite what he had done to her in the past, she could not let Mr. Morrison venture into Lady Harriett’s estate unprotected.

“Have no worries,” he said. “We’ve had dealings with her before.”

“Then I shall make my own inquiries,” said Lucy. “When I return to Nottingham, I shall speak to my friend, Mary Crawford. I don’t know how much I can trust her. She has done things that are … well, they are complicated, but I believe she may prove to be of assistance.”

Lucy stopped talking because she observed that Mr. Morrison no longer gave any indication of listening to her. Instead, his hands were raised to his face, and he was slouched over slightly. When he, after a moment and some prodding by Lucy, lowered his hands, she observed that his face was red and his eyes were tearing.

“What name did you say?” he asked in a low, rasping sort of voice.

Lucy recalled that she had made it her habit to conceal such things from Mr. Morrison in the past. That she had neglected to do so now ought not to have posed any problems, but surely it did. Was it possible that he, like Byron, knew Mary?

Mr. Morrison took a step forward. “Say her name again!” he demanded, such rage in his voice that Lucy was afraid either to answer or to not answer.

Remaining quiet struck her as the more dangerous of the two options, and so she spoke. She needed to keep him calm at all costs, lest his rage shatter the hold of the love magic she had put upon him. “It is my friend, Mary Crawford.”

He put his hands to his face again and turned away. “My God, I could not have believed it. I would not have believed it. Is it truly possible?”

She took a halting step after him. “What is it Mr. Morrison? What has happened? Who is Miss Crawford to you?”

“Then you truly do not know?” he asked.

“I know nothing of her except what she is to me.”

Jonas Morrison lowered himself gently into an armchair and sat with his head down, wiping away tears without care to conceal them. When he raised his face to her, he appeared hardly recognizable. The stony, reserved face was now soft and moist and bloated with sadness. “Mary. Miss Crawford, as you style her, was my wife. It was she who was murdered, and she for whom I seek revenge.”