by David Liss
When they were alone, Lucy turned to Mr. Morrison. “Where have you been? While you were off doing I know not what, I was taken prisoner by Lady Harriett and then Mr. Olson, and I had to fire a pistol upon one of the revenants. That is where I was.” That she had broken into Lady Harriett’s estate and stolen three pages of the Mutus Liber was beside the point; Lucy was angry now, though some part of her knew she had no business being angry with Mr. Morrison. Nevertheless, she wished to be angry with him. He was supposed to love her (again, her role in this was not relevant at the moment), and he had abandoned her to such misery. She was being irrational, but she wished to take shelter in her own irrationality
“Good God!” he cried out, his distress evident. “Lucy, I did not know. I could not have known. But if I had, I would have moved heaven and earth to come to your aid. I have done everything I can for you. You must believe that. And there is nothing in my power that I would not do.”
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 a
fter 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.”
There was obviously an error. “I am sorry to have mentioned a name so troubling to you,” Lucy said, choosing her words with great care. “Hers cannot be an unusual name.”
“It is not a name, it is she,” moaned Mr. Morrison. “Why did not I see it? You, Lucy Derrick, grown suddenly into a cunning woman. It was your friend who taught you what you know, wasn’t it? It was she who put you on this path, on my path, was it not?”
“She encouraged me and she was my teacher. But your wife is dead. You said she is dead.”
“She is dead,” he cried, rising from his chair. “Have you not been listening even to your own words? Do you not understand of what we speak? She is a revenant. She is spirit made flesh. She has come back, in a fragile, immortal form, and it is she whom I seek. She is the one who has set Ludd against the future. Can you not understand the horror of my situation? I loved her and I lost her, and now I must destroy her again, forever. I must destroy her soul.”
It was a mistake. It had to be. Mary, dead? Mary, a member of the very race she claimed to fight against? Lucy did not understand it. She could not even make herself think about it. Not now. Not yet. She had to restore some kind of order and meaning to the world.
He turned away from her, but Lucy knew it was her task to comfort him. In the past, he had treated her monstrously, but she had cast a spell so that he would cherish her, and surely in doing so she had inherited some responsibilities. She could not let him suffer like this.
As she approached, however, he spun around. “Dear Lord, how many times must I be humiliated? You cast love magic on me. You have been toying with me since—since Nottingham, the chocolate house. I see it all now.”
He gave her no time to answer, which was for the best. There was nothing to say.
“You would use me so? I must endure this as well?” He paused for a moment, wiped his eyes with a handkerchief, and then looked at her, his expression as hard and cold as any she had ever seen of him. “I know you are angry for what you believed passed between us so many years ago. I know you are angry, and I know you are determined, but never did I think you cruel.”
He left the room. She heard some forced conversation outside, and then the door shut. Beyond the other horrible feelings that swirled in her mind, Lucy understood that, in a capital on the threshold of revolution, she was now truly all alone without friends or protection. And yet, beyond all this, she thought that she had been exposed to Mr. Morrison, and he still did not recall that he had given her the pages of the book. She now possessed eight of the twelve pages, and to that one triumph she tried to cling, lest she collapse now in tears.
Lucy remained in that room, frightened and ashamed, unable to think of what to say or where to go. Mary was a revenant. She had lied to Lucy from their first meeting. She had tricked and manipulated her into ends Lucy could not now imagine. Lucy, who had felt friendless before, now felt utterly alone and without help.
Her coach to Nottingham had already departed, and she hardly knew what to do. She could arrange for another the next day, but would it be safe for her to travel the streets? What happened upon the streets? Was there violence and murder and riot? She did not know, and she hardly dared to ask her unwilling hosts for intelligence.
After perhaps an hour Mr. Gilley entered the room. Lucy now sat by the window, looking out upon the cool spring day. If Mr. Gilley noticed her distress, he did not trouble himself to acknowledge it.
“I trust we shan’t have any more of your gentleman friends trouble us today? All this coming and going brings in chill air, which is very bad for the lungs.”
Lucy did not turn her head. “I expect no more visitors.”
“You will do me the courtesy of looking upon me while you are in my house.”
Lucy turned to him. “I shall endeavor to try. I have missed my coach to Nottingham today. If the streets appear safe, I shall leave tomorrow.”
“You shall leave tomorrow regardless,” said Mr. Gilley. “I said you had three days to depart this house, and so you shall have.”
“And you’ll not trouble yourself if I step out into a riot.”
“You chose to behave without restraint. I cannot answer for the consequences. I have my daughter to think of, and it cannot be to her benefit to see the parade of rakes you bring through our halls, and it could prove detrimental to my constitution as well.” He rose, closed the door, and returned to her, sitting close upon the sofa. “However, as you are now of so generous a disposition as regards the favors of gentlemen, I think it may be possible for me to find a place to stay here in town, provided you are willing to be generous to me.”
Mr. Gilley put his hand on Lucy’s shoulder and smiled showing his very good teeth.
After all that had happened, Mr. Gilley’s proposal filled her with neither fear nor disgust. If anything, she welcomed his blatant expression of desire, his open willingness to state his terms. And what he wanted, what he wished to trade, was of no matter. There were charms she could use to protect her as she walked through the bloody streets. She could make herself safe—she was sure of it. If not, she could alter things otherwise to her liking. Mr. Gilley might desire her now, but it would take relatively little effort to make him love her, and once he did, his demands would be more easily controlled. Or she could make herself invisible to him, or feared by him, or any of a thousand other things. Maybe she was alone and abandoned, but she was not helpless. She had felt helpless her entire life, but she would not feel helpless today.
Lucy looked up at him. “No, I don’t believe I shall accept your offer. You may call me disgraced because my responsibilities demanded I travel from your home without your leave or knowledge, but I have done no wrong. I can assure you, Mr. Gilley, if I could resist Lord Byron’s charms, I shall have no difficulty resisting yours. Now, I beg you, remove your hand from my shoulder. You wish me gone by tomorrow, then all shall be as you wish. I shall tend to the coach, and if I must brave riot and mayhem, then so be it.”
Her words, direct and calm, horrified him. He took a step back. “You are brazen.”
She shook her head. “Shall you tell me so?”
“Perhaps not even another night under my roof is acceptable,” he said.
“As you like,” she responded as she rose to her feet. She would give him no satisfaction. She had nothing to fear. His mind was not his own, but hers to use as she wished. She did not love to use magic to alter people’s inclinations, but in this case, she would do so quite happily.
Just then came a knock upon the door, and Mr. Gilley’s urbane serving man bowed by way of greeting. “Sir, I regret disturbing you, but the young lady has another caller.”
“I can hardly affect surprise,” said Mr. Gilley. “What manner of debauched devil shall we expect this time?”
“He is a rather plain-looking tradesman sort of fellow,” said the servant, “and quite old.”
“I do not think Miss Derrick is so discriminating as a young lady ought to be.”
“What is the man’s name?” Lucy asked.
“He gives his name as Mr. William Blake, an engraver.”
Mr. Gilley made it known that he did not care for her welcoming more men into the house, let alone men of this Mr. Blake’s sort, and that he had no interest in her turning his house into some sort of bagnio, but Lucy nevertheless prevailed upon him—more through silence than through words—to politely withdraw.
Though she had me
t him but briefly, and under curious conditions, Lucy was nevertheless delighted to see Mr. Blake once again. He was still little more than a stranger, but his was nevertheless a familiar face and a kindly one, and there were few enough of these in London now.
“We met at Newstead, so I would know you when the time came,” Lucy said. “Is this the time?”
“I believe it is,” said Mr. Blake with a great deal of good cheer. “It is very exciting.”
He settled himself into his chair and looked about the room, but not with the wonder of a poor man in a rich man’s abode. No, he gave every impression of watching things that were interesting but not unfamiliar. And his eyes suggested he watched things that moved.
“Miss Derrick, do you know what they are?”
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Blake. Do I know what what are?”
“Those creatures that swarm about you. They are unpleasant to look at. I am used to seeing far more beautiful things. There is no shortage of angels in London, you know, and there are other creatures far less grand. But these things are very unusual.”
Lucy smiled indulgently. “I do not see them myself.”
“No, I suppose not. You give every impression of being a lady who might, otherwise I would not ask. I know others do not see what I see, and I do not expect them to.”
“One must be indulgent when your world is larger than that of those around you.”
He nodded enthusiastically. “That is exactly right.”
“Tell me, Mr. Blake, what can I do for you today? I am told that it is dangerous to travel just now, so something important must have occurred to bring you here. Why is this the time I am to know you?”
“The streets are tense in the wake of the assassination, but my brother Bob assured me I would be safe, and I have come to trust him.”
“Is he in a position to know such things?” Lucy asked.
“He is dead, Miss Derrick, and sees with the eyes of the dead.”
“Oh,” she answered. She had seen too much herself to dismiss anything out of hand, but even so, this man strained her credulity just a little.
