by David Liss
“If you can win his favor, even if only for a month, I shall not resent it.”
“I think she is being too clever,” said another lady, Miss Bastenville. “She wants him for herself, but will not say, lest she be disappointed.”
Lucy did not answer, for at that moment Mr. Olson himself walked into the room, and was immediately remarked by every unmarried woman there. Though his suit was unfashionable by London standards, it answered in Nottingham, and it was well cut and flattering to his squat form. He walked with a confidence that bordered upon grace, and he even bowed with a courtly air at the ladies he passed. As he did so, his eyes cast about here and there, searching the room, and Lucy knew he searched for her.
She felt cold, animal panic spread through her. She would not marry him. She would be a governess, or a serving woman. She would be like those characters in the novels who chose to do what is right and noble rather than what is expedient, and it was not because she was righteous, but because she now understood the easy thing is not easy at all. It is horrid.
She had been carrying Miss Crawford’s tiny book of talismans with her everywhere she went—tonight she had left it in her pelisse—and now, Lucy thought, was the time for her to make the attempt. It occurred to her that she might make Mr. Olson fall in love with Norah, but she quickly dismissed the notion. Miss Crawford’s words had affected her, and forcing two people to think themselves in love seemed to Lucy a cruel thing. Besides, that spell required hair and personal effects from both people, and obtaining these was not practicable. No, Lucy realized which charm she must use now. It would not solve her troubles forever, but if it worked, it would relieve her from the discomfort of dancing with Mr. Olson tonight. After this, she could throw herself on Miss Crawford’s mercy, beg that lady for some means by which she could save herself from both frying pan and fire.
She saw Mr. Olson look her way, and Lucy felt her legs turn weak. Their eyes met, so she understood she was committing herself now to a path from which there could be no retreat. So be it. This was her life, and she would live it her way. If she had to choose between Mr. Olson and Miss Crawford, there could be but one decision. Lucy turned and fled.
First she went to the card room, from which she sent one of the attendants to fetch her pelisse. While she waited, she found a pen, a little bottle of ink, and a fresh piece of paper. This task was made more difficult because she needed to avoid Mrs. Quince, but that lady was much engaged in a card came, and by keeping to her back, Lucy managed to escape her notice.
Once she had retrieved the book, Lucy proceeded to the kitchen. The work in preparing the refreshments had long since been completed, so there was only a pair of serving girls standing about and speaking to each other in animated whispers. Lucy smiled at the girls and then walked to a far corner and set her items upon a cutting block.
Lucy consulted her book to make sure she recalled correctly what she needed, and saw that she required a lemon. She found one deemed too shriveled and moldy to be fit for the punch, but Lucy could not believe its poor state would affect her purposes. She took the lemon and a knife, and returned to the cutting block.
Setting out the book, Lucy began to copy the talisman precisely, as she had practiced in her room. This one was made of five rows of five Greek letters each, and long ago, under her father’s tutelage, Lucy had learned to draw these letters, as well as Hebrew. Next came a circle containing a few words of Latin, and this surrounded the talisman.
On the surface, the writing out of a talisman was a simple thing—merely a set of symbols copied from one piece of paper to another. The reality was something else entirely. She intuitively understood it must all be copied precisely, the lines drawn in the correct order, this part before that, this word before that flourish. One way felt right, the others wrong. When she looked at the image in the book, she saw the natural process of the strokes of her pen. She used both hands, tilting the paper as she worked, keeping multiple things in her mind at once, solving and resolving puzzles, as though the talisman she copied were in perpetual motion, and she had to hurry to catch up to it before it escaped her.
Both Mrs. Quince and Miss Crawford had compared magic to music, and though the idea had made sense, only now did Lucy truly understand. She lost herself in the process, and yet, at the same time, she was focused, intense, thinking of the present as well as her next move, ideas moving together, yet independently, like hands upon the pianoforte.
The process took perhaps ten minutes. The resulting drawing seemed tensed and coiled with energy, almost pulsing like a wounded fly that vibrated its wings at impossible speeds but went nowhere. The talisman extended out from the page, pierced the air around itself, sharp as a blade. She’d written very carefully and lightly, so she did not need to blot, only wait a few minutes for the ink to dry. Now, holding the knife in one hand, the lemon in the other, she began to quiet herself, blocking out the images around her, blocking out the two serving girls and the noise from the card room, and the more distant music and muted conversation from the dance hall. All disappeared but the knife and the lemon and Lucy’s intent. Without commanding herself, but when the moment was right, Lucy cut the lemon in half, whispering, “Walter Olson,” saying it only once, but with intent and force and perhaps even malice.
A sensation passed through her, like her stomach lurching in a dream where she was falling. She felt something cold, or maybe hot, but jarring and strange and familiar. She raised one half of the lemon and squeezed the fruit gently, allowing three drops of juice to spill upon the paper, and she understood the charm was made.
Lucy drifted off from her quiet place and glanced down at her work, pleased with herself. Then she looked up and was startled to see a man in the doorway looking at her. As soon as she raised her eyes, he was gone, but there was something familiar about him that struck her. She had seen only a flash of him, but though she could not say how, she was sure she knew him. And she was sure of something else as well, something unmistakable she’d seen in his eyes. It had been only an instant, but it was long enough to see that. Whoever he was, he knew she was working some kind of magic.
14
THE MAN WAS GONE IN A TRICE, AND LUCY DECIDED SHE COULD NOT trouble herself with who he was or how she knew him. The notion that he understood what she was doing suddenly seemed absurd. She was like a child who, because she was naughty, believed everyone must know that she was.
Lucy folded up the piece of paper until it was no bigger than her thumbnail. Then, after finding her coat and placing the book with it, she strolled out to the dance floor.
Scanning the room, she saw that Mr. Olson was not dancing but sipping punch with Norah. His slightly stooped back was turned to her, and it seemed that it would be a simple thing to set the talisman upon him. She approached, hoping to avoid their notice, and slipped the piece of paper into Mr. Olson’s pocket. Quickly reversing course, she went back the way she had come but, despite all her art, Mr. Olson turned to her and began to follow. She had taken only a few steps when he put a hand on her shoulder and spun her around. “You avoid me!”
“Avoid you?” Her pulse pounded in her neck. “What ever can you mean?”
“You fled from me not a quarter of an hour before, and now you flee from me again.”
“When you first came in I was suffering a headache, and needed only a moment of quiet. After, you were in conversation with Miss Gilley, and I did not choose to disturb you.”
“Are you jealous?” he asked with something like a sneer.
“You may speak with whom you like,” she answered. “I’ve no inclination to intrude upon your conversations.”
“Nor, it seems, to announce to the world our intentions. Miss Gilley informs me that we are not to be married. Have I not troubles enough without hearing such things? A mill in Heanor has just been burned to the ground by Luddites. For all I know, I could be next, and now you—”
He stopped. Mr. Olson opened his mouth as if to say more, but then froze. He looked up
sharply, his expression like that of a man who has just, too late, realized he has bitten into a rotten egg. He took from his coat a handkerchief and wiped his forehead. “I—I do beg your pardon, but I am not well.”
Lucy could think of nothing to say, so astonished was she to realize that her charm might be working. Then, all at once, a wave of guilt washed over her. The talisman was designed to make him wish to flee, but what precisely did that mean? Would he wish to flee from the room in which he stood, or would he wish to keep running forever so long as he wore that coat? What if he could not stop running? Had she unleashed a curse as malevolent as the one she’d removed from Byron? She wondered if she ought to remove the paper from his jacket, but it was far easier to drop a small thing onto a gentleman’s person than it was to retrieve it.
All of these thoughts flashed through her mind in an instant, and then it was too late. Mr. Olson appeared to have something to say, but abruptly turned on his heel and walked with almost comical quickness from the hall.
Lucy stood staring after him, and then at the door through which he’d left, and whatever fear and guilt and regret she felt crumbled before the mighty power of her exultation. She had cast a spell. She had done magic. Such forces were true and vibrant and accessible, and she had commanded them. It was not her imagination or some silly fancy. It was all Lucy could do to keep herself from laughing out loud, from clapping, from jumping up and down like a little girl. She was not powerless and weak. Not anymore.
She was thinking to herself all the things she might now do, when a man passed before her. “Lucy Derrick, you do look pleased with yourself. I can’t think of a better way to express your happiness than with a dance.”
Lucy looked up and knew at once that here was the man who had watched her make the talisman. It took all her will not to cry out or gasp or stagger back or faint. A thousand incoherent thoughts burst in her mind, wild and discordant and impossible to sort. Standing before her was Jonas Morrison, the man who had convinced Lucy to run away with him four years earlier.
Lucy had not seen Jonas Morrison since he had left their neighborhood, but she had heard that he had married very well. Apparently a beautiful and wealthy woman had succumbed to his charms. She wondered how miserable this lady must be today.
Now he held out a hand and Lucy took it, hardly aware of what she did, too confused even to think of resisting. Before she could clear her thoughts, she was upon the dance floor with him.
“Bit of a surprise I imagine,” he said as they danced. “For me as well. Surprises all around, yes?” He reached up to her ear and seemed to produce a brightly colored egg, which he then showed her with a grin.
“You are much mistaken if you think your little tricks are of interest to me,” said Lucy.
“I thought it was rather a good trick. Egg from an ear? People usually like that sort of thing. People who aren’t humorless, I mean.” He spoke quickly, as he often did when he was excited, she recalled. Or perhaps he only affected excitement. If Lucy knew anything about Jonas Morrison it was that she had never really known him at all.
“However,” he continued, “I am far more interested in a different kind of magic. Tell me why you cast a spell upon that man.”
Lucy’s first impulse was to pretend to ignorance, but what need had she to justify herself to him? Four years earlier, Mr. Morrison had nearly seduced and ruined a sixteen-year-old girl. He had come into her life and destroyed it, altering her prospects forever. She hated him, hated him more than she hated anyone, and she owed him nothing.
“I would avoid creating a scene by condemning you in public,” said Lucy through clenched teeth, “so the moment this dance is over, you will walk away from me, and I will never see you again. I despise you, sir.”
He was silent for several steps. Once or twice he opened his mouth to speak, but it felt like a long time indeed before he found his words. Lucy dared to look at him, and what she saw surprised her. Like Byron, he wore London fashions, and his hair was only a few shades lighter, but they were very different in appearance. Mr. Morrison’s good looks were less monumental, less devastatingly magnetic than Byron’s, and he had a wry, ironic cast to him, as though he thought everything a great joke. He lacked Byron’s gravity, but he struck her as more grave than he had been in the past. He still had the same easy grin she recalled, but it was replaced, from time to time, by a somber expression.
He, apparently, had also been evaluating her. “I see you are not the girl you once were.”
“I have not been allowed to be.”
“Do you know what? I think you are right to be angry with me. I behaved horribly. Truly terrible stuff. And I am content for you to hate me all you like when we have finished speaking, but I am here upon a serious concern now that may be just a bit more important than who did what to whom many years ago. I wish to know why you cast your spell upon that man. And don’t pretend to misunderstand me. I don’t mean batting your eyelashes or simpering and acting coy. I mean a spell. Abracadabra! You meant to repel him, and now he’s gone.”
Lucy felt shame and confusion and fear, but did not wish to demonstrate any of these emotions. She wanted to know how Mr. Morrison had discovered what she had done—how it was that he knew about magic at all—but she refused to appear weak before him. Instead, she said, “It is no concern of yours, I promise you.”
“It is no concern of mine why you wish him gone. No surprise either. I had a good look at him. Bit pruney in the face, so ship him off, by all means. It is my concern, however, if you live or die, and you are placing yourself before dangerous and powerful forces.”
Despite herself, Lucy gripped him tighter Then she let go. “I hardly think Mr. Olson is dangerous,” she said with a forced laugh.
“No, he’s harmless, but he has crossed paths with some very bad … well, things I suppose is the right word. Things. Yes. You do not want your fortunes entangled with his.”
“Our fortunes are already entangled, for he and I are to marry,” Lucy answered, if only to demonstrate that he had no sway over her.
For a brief instant it seemed as though Lucy had genuinely surprised Mr. Morrison. He gave the impression of a man whose words had been quite knocked out of him. But he recovered quickly enough. “Your spell bodes somewhat ill for domestic happiness, I should think.”
Lucy could offer no response to this sound observation.
The dance was over, and Mr. Morrison bowed. “I haven’t the time or inclination to justify our past, but you must listen to me, Lucy. If you must continue to cast your country-witch spells, cast no more in Mr. Olson’s direction. You are putting yourself at great risk.”
With that he bowed again, and walked away, leaving the hall altogether. He had hardly stepped away, and Lucy had not had time even to consider anything beyond the fact that Jonas Morrison was here, in Nottingham, dancing with her, before Norah rushed over to her. “Dear Lucy, who was that? He is the handsomest man I have seen this age, and he had eyes for no one but you. I suspect dear Mr. Olson would be angry were he still here.”
Lucy had other concerns besides Mr. Olson, and even besides Jonas Morrison. Coming toward her from across the hall was Mrs. Quince, her face red with anger. Lucy made her way toward the door, lest Mrs. Quince grab her and drag her out as though she were a wicked child.
15
MR. OLSON WAS NOT KNOWN TO BE A DRINKING MAN AS A MATTER of habit. He was too concerned with his business to waste time and money upon such foolishness, but after Lucy had humiliated him at the assembly, he was in a state. He hadn’t wanted to go home, but rather the urge had come upon him to walk and walk and walk until he at last wished to settle, and settle he did at the Little John Tavern. There he drank silently and heavily until the publican told him he had to leave that they might both go to sleep. Mr. Olson managed to stumble home, and he fell into a thick slumber upon his bed with his clothes yet upon him. It was not until the next morning when he woke up, feeling a pain in his head at once dull and sharp, that he di
scovered the terrible truth: During the night, every stocking frame in his mill had been broken.
It was the work of machine breakers. He had no doubt once he saw the damage. If he did have doubts, they would have been put to rest by the message chalked upon his door in a surprisingly neat hand:
Sing not songs of old Robin Hood
His feats I but little admire
I will tell of our own General Ludd
Now Hero of Nottinghamshire.
Underneath this bit of doggerel was drawn a circle composed of a string of nonsensical runes, and within the circle was a grid of squares containing Greek letters. But Mr. Olson hardly knew what to make of it, and spoke of it to no one, not out of fear or confusion, merely out of indifference.
It took little time for word of the destruction to spread.
“This is your fault,” Uncle Lowell told Lucy. “Had he not been drinking away sorrows heaped upon him by you, he would have been home to protect what was his.”
“She snubbed him,” added Mrs. Quince. “In public too.” She looked directly at Lucy and smirked. Mrs. Quince knew she had been rude to Mr. Olson, and she also knew Lucy had danced with another man, though she did not know that the other man was Jonas Morrison. While Mrs. Quince might know his name, no one in Nottingham knew Jonas Morrison by sight, or so Lucy hoped.
She felt horrible guilt over what had happened to Mr. Olson’s mill, and yet Lucy could not help but feel elated and excited too. Her spell had worked, and Jonas Morrison, for whatever reason, had confirmed that she was working magic. She did not know what he was doing in Nottingham, and she did not love all his cryptic warnings, and she hated that fate had placed him in her way once again, but none of that mattered. What mattered was that Lucy could cast a spell that worked, and she wanted nothing so much as to finish her breakfast and return to her room to study.
