by David Liss
“I am afraid, sir, that I can do nothing for your guest,” he said at last.
Lucy heard herself gasp, and though she put a regretful hand to her lips, the damage was done. Mrs. Quince turned to sneer at her.
Uncle Lowell leapt from his chair with the vigor of the genuinely wronged. “You mean he is to die here? I’ll not pay for his burial, I can assure you.”
Mr. Snyder prodded the fraying fringe of the rug with the toe of his shoe. “What I mean, sir, is that if there is anything to be done, I cannot do it. His suffering is not of a medical nature.” He placed his hands behind his back and stood erect, as though preparing to say something momentous. “I believe the man suffers from what is … is commonly called a curse.”
A silence, heavy and vibrating, filled the room. Lucy had seen the man vomit pins, but even so, she could not have been more astonished if the doctor had said he suffered from the ill effects of a voyage to the moon.
Uncle Lowell stomped his foot like an angry child. A cloud of dust rose up in reply. “A curse, Snyder? Are you an old woman to say so? My opinion of you is no longer what it was.”
Mr. Snyder bowed. “You have in the past done me the honor of heeding my advice, and I urge you to do so in this case.”
“I thought you a natural philosopher, not a superstitious fool,” Uncle Lowell barked.
“Natural philosophy, above all things, concerns itself with what can be observed,” said the doctor in the sort of calming voice medical men use to convince others that they know of what they speak. “If I were to presume I possessed the skill to cure that man simply because I have trained as a physician, then I would be guilty of irrational belief in what no evidence has demonstrated. I would, in point of fact, be guilty of clinging to superstition.”
During this exchange, Lucy sat pressing her hands together hard enough to make her knuckles ache. It all seemed so unreal, and yet it concerned her as nearly as anything ever had. She looked over to Mrs. Quince, who was now turned away from Snyder. She might know something of curses if anyone did, but she volunteered nothing.
Lucy ventured to speak her mind. “Sir, we have all heard tales in which the vomiting of pins signifies bewitchment, but perhaps he simply swallowed them?”
“No,” said Snyder. “I—I saw things during my examination. I will not discuss the particulars—I will never speak of what I saw to anyone. Suffice to say I have no doubt in my mind that this gentleman suffers from an affliction medicine cannot remedy.”
“And so you plan to desert me?” asked Uncle Lowell. “You cannot cure him, so you walk away and leave this man in my care?”
“Not quite,” Mr. Snyder said. “In my youth there were several cunning women with excellent reputations in the county, but they have since died. However, I know of a lady recently come to town—not a cunning woman, but a respectable gentlewoman learned in such matters.”
“You tell me to invite a witch into my home?” Uncle Lowell cried incredulously.
“She is no witch, but a lady of means.”
With great reluctance, Uncle Lowell listened to the information about the woman and suffered Mr. Snyder to depart. He then turned to Mrs. Quince and commanded her to go fetch this woman at once. “Tell her I will brook no delay,” he said, apparently forgetting or disregarding Mr. Snyder’s comments about the lady’s status.
“It is dark, and I am quite disordered by these events,” Mrs. Quince said. “I should like to take Miss Derrick with me.”
Lucy never wished to go anywhere with Mrs. Quince, but under these circumstances, she wished it less than any time she could recall. It was extremely uncharacteristic for Mrs. Quince to request Lucy’s presence unless there was some difficult or unpleasant work to be done, but Lucy was not now surprised to be summoned. Given the unusual circumstances, they would now have to speak of private things, of the one secret they shared. There was no helping it. Best to get it out of the way, for though there was nothing but bitterness between them, fate had conspired to place them in a position in which they must protect each other.
3
WITH THE DULL MOTIONS OF A SOMNAMBULIST, LUCY PUT ON HER gloves, a warm bonnet, and a plain muslin pelisse. She stepped out of the house with Mrs. Quince, and they both walked in silence for a brief while. It was cool and crisp, and the Nottingham streets were lightly trafficked. Lucy believed it unlikely the rough men who caused so much trouble in the country would dare molest two such as they, walking upon the fashionable lanes in the shadow of the castle, but in the spring of the year 1812, it was difficult not to be frightened. These once-placid streets were now haunted by luckless men, hulking and impoverished and starving, skulking about with their shovels and hammers and spades. They sought to destroy, to beat back into its proper shape a world that had betrayed them with war and famine and rising prices. Twice before Lucy had seen bands of these Luddites, though only at a distance, and they had shocked her with their sunken eyes and animal desperation.
After several minutes of silence, Mrs. Quince finally spoke without bothering to turn to Lucy. “Shall I presume you are the cause of that man’s difficulties?”
Lucy could not help but laugh. “You know far more of these matters than I.”
“Now you would call me a witch?” snapped Mrs. Quince.
“I only suggest that what little I know I have learned from you.”
“I hardly know anything myself. Perhaps you have studied elsewhere,” said Mrs. Quince.
“Of course not,” answered Lucy, and this was mostly true—certainly true for all practical effect. Lucy had once secretly purchased a book, The Magus by Francis Barrett, with money from her meager annuity, but this volume had proved utterly unilluminating. In any case, she could not quite make herself believe in the seriousness of these things. Did Mrs. Quince truly suspect Lucy cooked up hexes and spells like a witch in a fairy tale? What they had done together those years before now seemed silly, no more than a girls’ game, and they had not attempted anything so implausible as a curse. Yet Lucy knew learned men had believed in such things for millennia. Her father had directed her to read about the lives of Paracelsus and Cornelius Agrippa and Isaac Newton—great thinkers and natural philosophers who also delved into magic and alchemy and the summoning of spirits. Only in the modern world had the educated begun to reject such beliefs. Yet, here she was, walking the streets of Nottingham at night to find a mysterious woman who might help lift the curse off a handsome stranger.
Three years ago, it was Mrs. Quince, then her friend, who wished to explore such matters, who said it would be fun, who laughed with her about the secrets they might discover. Now that business was being thrown in her face, as though Lucy were to blame.
The doctor had informed them that the woman they sought, Miss Mary Crawford, lived on High Pavement, which was among the most desirable streets in Nottingham, but her house was modest, very narrow and lower in height than those surrounding it. They walked up the steps, and Mrs. Quince turned to Lucy. “I shall speak. Pray do not trouble the lady.”
Within moments of their knocking, the door opened, and a curious sort of woman greeted them. She grinned widely and absurdly, showing a mouth of perfectly white and even teeth. She was plump and of indeterminate age, with a dingy complexion, narrow eyes, and a round face that would conceal many wrinkles, assuming she was old enough to possess them. This woman might have been thirty or she might have been fifty. She wore a shapeless, mouse-colored frock, and her bonnet was so low upon her forehead that it rested just above her eyebrows, and its odd placement gave the woman the look of a simpleton.
“It is Miss Lucy Derrick!” the woman cried out with evident joy, and grabbed Lucy by the hand. “Oh, you must come in. Miss Crawford will be so happy to hear of your arrival.”
Lucy did not try to escape the woman’s firm grip, but her mind raced in confusion. She did not often forget faces, and she believed she must recognize the woman if they had previously met. Now, with her accusation only minutes old, Mrs. Quince stare
d at Lucy with cold fury.
“I am very sorry,” Lucy said, “but I do not believe I know you.”
The woman waved a plump hand dismissively. “Do not trouble your mind, my dear. We’ve not met, but how could I not know a young lady as sweet as Lucy Derrick?”
Lucy had no answer to this question, and for entirely different reasons, neither did Mrs. Quince, but they allowed the peculiar woman to lead them into the sitting room, which was a small but comfortable space.
“I am Mrs. Emmett,” the woman said to Lucy, ignoring Mrs. Quince entirely. She reached out and took Lucy’s hand in both of hers. Her skin was warm, almost hot, and as soft as a baby’s. “Mrs. Emmett.” She pronounced each syllable with much exaggeration. “You’ll recollect it, I hope, Miss Derrick. You’ll not forget me now.”
“Indeed, I shall not,” said Lucy.
“I am so happy.” She released Lucy’s hand. “I shall fetch Miss Crawford at once.”
She then hurried out of the room, muttering to herself and waving her hands excitedly.
Mrs. Quince, who did not love to be slighted, turned hard to Lucy. “You claim to have no knowledge of curses, and yet the cunning woman’s servant knows you.”
“She does appear to, but you heard that she did not expect me to know her. Perhaps she foresaw my arrival in the cards,” Lucy said, enjoying the moment of sauciness.
Mrs. Quince snorted and turned to examine the gilt wallpaper, which she said she thought rather shabby for a gentlewoman’s.
After a few moments, they heard the approach of feminine footsteps, and in walked a strikingly pretty woman of perhaps five-and-twenty, tall and graceful, with fair skin, hair so blond it was nearly white, and extraordinarily pale green eyes. She wore a fine tunic of green and gold, cut square in the front, and cut low, as was also the London fashion, and it showed her shape to great advantage. She dressed as though she were entertaining or prepared to go out, though Lucy could see no signs that either case was true.
She did not hesitate to take Lucy’s hand. “Miss Derrick, I am Mary Crawford. I hope my woman’s excitement did not trouble you. She has seen you about town and admired you. Mrs. Emmett has her peculiarities, but she is a good woman and means no harm.” There was something about her—not her appearance certainly, but some elusive quality—that made Lucy think at once of her late sister, Emily. It may have been the way she tilted her head when she spoke, or in the kindness of her words. Perhaps it was the hint of cleverness that revealed itself in even the most banal statements.
That had been the essence of Emily—not merely her remarkable, if unusual, beauty, with her nose slightly too large, her lips too thin, her chin too long—not merely her wit or charm or winning conversation. Emily always gave the impression of being thoughtful and clever. She projected warmth and friendliness, and at the same time she had seemed superior, yet she appeared utterly insensible of her superiority. This remarkable confluence of appearance, demeanor, and ease had made her loved by virtually all who knew her. Some friend or other was forever inviting her to travel, and she spent nearly half the year, every year, away from home, off to London, York, Bath, Brighton, even Edinburgh and Cardiff. Everyone had wanted to be near Emily, and Mary Crawford had, if not precisely the same charm, something very like it.
“I assure you, I took no offense.” Lucy made the deliberate decision not to introduce Mrs. Quince, in part because it felt quite pleasant to slight her, but also because she could not help but feel that she wanted this lady all to herself. “I come upon truly unusual business, Miss Crawford, and I hope you will forgive me.”
“I am certain whatever you have to say will require no forgiveness. Please, sit down. Perhaps your woman will wait in the kitchen? Mrs. Emmett can fetch her a pot of small beer.”
“I am content where I am.” Mrs. Quince met Miss Crawford’s eye, but she was not so bold as to sit herself.
“Of course,” said Miss Crawford, who gave Mrs. Quince a sidelong glance that, to Lucy, suggested she understood everything.
Mrs. Quince had said she wished to do the speaking, but now Lucy believed it fell to her to explain her situation as best she could. “I hardly even know how to state this business, but there has been a strange incident at my uncle’s house, and we have been advised to seek your aid.” She went on to provide a summary of the evening’s events, beginning with the arrival of the stranger and concluding with Mr. Snyder’s recommendations.
“I have not the pleasure of knowing Mr. Snyder well,” said Miss Crawford, “and I met him only briefly, so I fear he misunderstood the nature of my experience with the old knowledge. While I am something of a student of the hidden arts, I have no skill as a practitioner.”
Lucy leaned forward, fascinated. “But you believe in magic? You think it real?”
Miss Crawford laughed, not unkindly. “If you had seen all I have seen, you would understand that it is not a matter of belief. From what you describe, you have seen remarkable things this night as well.”
“What we saw was indeed remarkable,” admitted Lucy, “but I am convinced there must be some manner of explanation.”
“Certainly there is,” agreed Miss Crawford. “Most likely, this man is cursed.”
“What we have thus learned,” said Mrs. Quince as she airily looked out the window, “is that you claim this man is bewitched, but you can do nothing about it. If that is so, I see no reason we should trouble your quiet any longer.”
Lucy felt herself flush with shame, but Miss Crawford’s smile remained fixed and kind and entirely directed at Lucy.
“I do not know that I shall be able to help this man, though I shall be able to tell you if he suffers a bewitchment or no with a high degree of certainty. Once we establish that, well … then we shall see.”
Miss Crawford had a carriage at her disposal, which she insisted they take the short distance to Uncle Lowell’s house. They rode in uneasy silence, and Lucy could not help but suspect that Mrs. Quince, with her glowering mood, was the cause of it. Even in the dark, Lucy saw Miss Crawford cast her the occasional kind and conspiratorial smile, as though they were allies together against Mrs. Quince, and Lucy had the strangest feeling that she and this lady were friends, and that they had been for a great while. She knew it was but a flight of fancy, but she clung to the idea of having such a friend.
Upon their arrival, Lucy introduced Miss Crawford, believing her uncle must be charmed. He was, however, unimpressed. “Pretty for a witch, I’ll warrant, but pretty don’t signify,” he said, apparently oblivious to Miss Crawford’s presence or his unpardonable rudeness. “I’ll not pay a farthing for gypsy tricks.”
Lucy felt her face burn. “Miss Crawford wants no money” she said, using her most soothing voice. “Only to help if she can.”
“It is what they say,” replied Uncle Lowell. “If there is a bill to be delivered in the end, present it to the vomiting vagabond. I promise to pay nothing.”
Lucy took a candle, and the four of them ascended to the guest room, which was cold for want of a fire, and was lit by only two small oil lamps. There, in the gloom, they gazed upon the shadowy form of the stranger, who lay on the bed, curled up like a kitten on top of the counterpane, breathing in uneven rasps. Lucy took the opportunity to observe his uncovered misshapen foot—hooked and twisted like a beast’s wounded claw. It was awkward to be so close to so handsome a man in a state of undress, and Lucy turned away.
Miss Crawford took the candle from Lucy’s hand and crept forward to examine the stranger. She came within a few feet of him, held out the light, and then nearly dropped the taper. She stepped backwards, and her face twisted with surprise or perhaps fear.
Lucy ran forward to take her elbow. “Are you unwell?”
Straightening out and affecting a calm demeanor, Miss Crawford shook her head. “It is nothing, thank you. It is only that … I cannot say. There is something very wrong here.”
“And it is now, I suppose, that you say you shall make everything right for a gu
inea!” cried Uncle Lowell. “You must think me the greatest fool who ever lived.”
“I shall show her to the door,” offered Mrs. Quince.
Lucy knew better than to apologize for her uncle. Instead she relied upon the tools she had always used to survive in his and the serving woman’s company, which is to say, she ignored them as best she could. “What must we do, Miss Crawford?”
Even in the dark of the room, Lucy could see the concern upon the lady’s face. “I cannot say what there is to be done. I can—I can try to do something. I must have some quiet. I beg you all to leave the room. All but Miss Derrick. You will stay with me, won’t you?”
Lucy wanted to stay with Miss Crawford, certainly, though she did not know how she felt about staying with this undressed stranger.
“I shall remain too,” announced Mrs. Quince, “to protect the interests of the household.”
“I must request otherwise,” said Miss Crawford to Lucy, ignoring Mrs. Quince entirely. “I do not think your woman’s proximity will aid my concentration.”
Mrs. Quince turned to Miss Crawford, and something hot and angry burned in her eyes, but she swept from the room, and Lucy indulged in a little thrill of triumph. It was childish, yes, but she did not care. She was the favored one now, and she watched with pleasure as Uncle Lowell and Mrs. Quince stepped away, so that only the two young ladies remained in the dimly lit room with the door closed.
Miss Crawford sighed as she set her candle down upon a little table near the fireplace. “Now I must do what I do not love. I must attempt to practice.”
“Does it hurt you?” asked Lucy.
Miss Crawford laughed good-naturedly. “No, it is simply something for which I have no talent. I also hate to play at the pianoforte, for I am very bad at it, and the attempt makes me feel useless. I understand the principles of magic, just as I understand those of music, but I was not formed to excel at either. Even so, for the sake of your household, I will try.”
