David Liss - The Twelfth Enchantment - A Novel

They were silent for some time. As was her habit in the coach, Mrs. Emmett fell into a deep sleep at once, snoring in a loud, rasping manner. Lucy did not believe she would be able to sleep so easily. She lay awake and still and frightened she knew not how long. She had presumed Mr. Morrison to be asleep when he, at last, spoke.

“They change,” he said.

“I beg your pardon.” It came out too clipped and formal, for he had surprised her.

“The revenants. They are not what they once were. They are not the people they were before their alteration. It is why I cannot love her, nor she love me. That part of us is lost.”

“I am sorry,” Lucy said. She recalled what Mary had told her about the revenants—that mortality is a fundamental part of humanity. Lucy had no notion at the time that Mary had been speaking of herself.

“What is she like now?” asked Mr. Morrison. The strange flatness of his voice betrayed a pain Lucy could not contemplate.

“She was lovely to me—kind and patient and understanding. She always said what I most needed to hear. Even now, when I consider all I have seen and done, the places I have gone, the enemies and dangers I have encountered, I know that I could have done none of it had she not prepared me.”

“Then you trusted her? You trust her yet, though you know she deceived you?”

“I do not know,” said Lucy. “Perhaps she had her reasons, but I have come to see that, for all her goodness to me, she is cold and calculating and ruthless. She is, in some ways, unknowable.”

“I understand you,” he said. “We spoke once, you know. After she returned.”

“Mr. Morrison, you do not need to tell me these things. I can hear in your voice that it is painful for you. I thank you for your consideration, but you owe me no candor in this manner.”

He laughed. “You are a sweet girl. I cannot imagine how you have come so far and remained so innocent. I do not tell you these things because I wish to unburden my heart. I tell you what you may need to know if you are to survive what comes. You can have no illusions about Mary Crawford, as she now styles herself. It may come to pass that we must destroy her.”

“I will not destroy her,” said Lucy. “Though she lied to me, she is my friend.”

“She has been good to you, and she may even, in her own way, care for you, but she will not be your friend if it is not in her interest. She knows better than all of us that death is not the end, and she will not hesitate to send you on your journey should she believe the situation requires it. Some part of her hates you for your mortality, that you can move on and she cannot.”

“I don’t know that I believe you.”

“I think you had better learn to believe me,” he said. “I cannot go in with you if you are not willing to destroy her if you must.”

For a long time, he said nothing more. In the dark she heard him stir, as if trying to grow more comfortable. He coughed softly, the sound muffled by a handkerchief. Somewhere outside the cart they heard the lonely howl of a dog.

“You cannot know how I loved her,” he said. “At first what I felt for her was more moderate. It was time for me to marry, and she was suitable in so many ways, and I suppose what I felt for her was love, after a species. She loved me, and I hoped that would be enough.”

“She told me of her husband, though she was certainly vague. But she said that he’d been in love with someone else.”

Mr. Morrison said nothing for a moment. “When I met her, I thought I would never love again. I was heartbroken, but I came to love her more than I can say. She was clever and witty, and she understood me better than anyone I had known. And she loved me. Only someone utterly coldhearted could be so adored and unmoved by it. And, of course, she was beautiful. Now she is even more beautiful than she was. Her hair, her eyes, her complexion—they are different, as I am told sometimes happens. Her new nature fairly radiates something so compelling that when we were reunited I was all but lost in an instant, but she did not want me to be lost. When she spoke to me—I know not how to describe it. For all that she resembled my Mary, for all she retained her beauty, and that beauty had grown, it was as though I spoke to the dead. She is not soulless, but the soul is no longer human. I saw in her eyes that she felt nothing for me, that she could hardly remember having felt anything for me. And I knew that my feelings were for someone who was gone forever.”

“How did she come to be what she is?” Lucy asked. “One does not simply … return.”

“No,” he said. “The tale is strange and terrible. It is hard for me to speak of it, so you will forgive me if I pause from time to time to collect myself. I would rather not say any of these things, but I have already withheld too much for too long. You must know everything.”

Mary Crawford had come from Northamptonshire with her brother Henry. They had been before in London, but circumstances had required a move, and there Mary had, if not quite fallen in love with a neighboring gentleman, at least imagined she was in love for a while. Then that gentleman had thrown her over for his penniless cousin, something of a simpleton, and Mary’s brother had become involved in a scandalous affair. The whole business was unpleasant, and at times sordid, and when it reached its conclusion Mary found herself unhappy and vulnerable.

It was then that she met Mr. Morrison, who was also unhappy and vulnerable in his own way, and at once she fell in love. They had met at a mutual friend’s house in London and, before they had parted ways on that first occasion, Mr. Morrison believed he wished to marry her. He saw something in her, in her soul, perhaps.

Soon enough they had married, and relocated to Mr. Morrison’s estate in Derbyshire, though they returned to London for the season, and it was there that the trouble began. Mr. Morrison and his wife came to be acquainted with a young nobleman who mistook Mary’s social graces for an interest greater than what she entertained. He began to press his case to her, and when she flatly refused an improper relationship, he chose not to accept defeat. He appeared in her way often, speculating upon whom she might visit, what events she might attend, even what paths she might walk. He would attempt to visit her at her house when he knew Mr. Morrison was away. In short, this man would not be discouraged.

Mr. Morrison visited him and warned him that he must stay away, but the young nobleman laughed in his face. He would not duel. He would not stoop to take Mr. Morrison’s complaint seriously.

Before events could unfold in this way, the nobleman took a more drastic course. He assaulted Mary’s coachman one afternoon, knocking him quite insensible. He then threatened Mary with his ferocious dog, and forced Mary to drink a tincture of opium, which put her into a deep sleep. With his beloved in the back of the coach, he drove her far outside London to his country estate. The nobleman had convinced himself that, once she awoke there, away from London and her unworthy husband, she would not only accept her fate, but embrace it. She would recognize that she wanted to remain there and be happy.

It did not happen that way. Mary was angry and outraged and terrified. She feared for her life and her virtue, and attempted to run away and seek help. She broke free, escaped her prison, even killed the man’s dog. But the villain, now that he had her, could not let her go. He caught up with her and a struggle ensued. Perhaps he never meant to hurt her, and perhaps, in the passions of the moment, he lashed out, but either way he struck Mary’s head against the ancient stone of his hall, and she fell to the ground, dead.