by David Liss
Newstead Abbey offered many dangers, but among the things Lucy feared most were the animals that Byron, in his lordly indulgence, allowed to roam the grounds. Most frightening among these were the wolf, which they had already once faced, and the bear, which might have been only local myth. That Lord Byron included a tortoise in his menagerie was well known, but it had never occurred to Lucy to fear it. She had been shortsighted in this regard.
It came down the hallway at a gallop, as fast as any horse, and then leapt into the air, its thick and stunted front legs stretched out, clublike. Mr. Morrison attempted to push Lucy out of the way, but it was intent on her, and appeared to change its direction in mid leap. It was as large as a pig, and almost as broad as it was long. And its shell made it heavy, so heavy it ought not to have been able to leap at all, but then it opened its mouth and snapped at him with its birdlike beak, and saliva flew from its jaws.
Lucy was on the ground, landing so hard that for a moment she could not breathe. Both of her hands pushed on the bottom of the tortoise’s shell while it stretched around its thick, leathery neck, trying to bite her, and though its teeth were small and blunt, its power and rage made the creature ferocious. Gaining no ground in its efforts to reach her neck, it attempted to peck at Lucy’s eyes with its pointed beak. She heard it snort, felt its hot reptilian breath upon her face, clogging her nostrils with its thick mustiness. She turned her head aside, but not in time to avoid the creature entirely, and she felt the heat of tearing flesh across her cheek, dripping salty blood into her eye. Smelling this blood, the tortoise hissed and wheezed, then tasted the air with its tongue, and jabbed at Lucy’s face once more.
All of this happened in a matter of seconds. From behind the tortoise, Mr. Morrison grabbed the creature’s head, clamping its jaws together in his hands. Lucy watched in amazement as he pulled the animal’s head backwards until it began to bend toward him. The creature could not open its mouth, but it made a mewling sound between its clamped jaws and let out a series of rapid snorts from its flaring nostrils. With a sharp jerk, he pulled outward and upward, and ripped the tortoise’s head from its body. Lucy managed to roll away in time to avoid a spray of blood as the beast collapsed. Mr. Morrison dropped the head near the body and took a step backwards.
Lucy crabbed her way backwards and then scrambled to her feet. She panted hard as she wiped at the blood on her face, and then dusted herself off as though wishing to remove any taint of indignity that comes with having been assaulted by a great turtle.
Mr. Morrison took her chin in one hand and dabbed at her cut with his handkerchief with the other. “Not so bad,” he said. “I’ve seen worse results from a turtle attack.”
“It is my own fault. I neglected to bring my turtle bane,” Lucy said. She did not know how necessary were Mr. Morrison’s ministrations, but she was in no hurry for them to end.
Mr. Morrison smiled. “Lesson learned, eh, Miss Derrick? Do you need a moment?”
“She needs no time,” said Mrs. Emmett. “The beast is dead. We must move forward.”
“Keeping us upon our toes?” Mr. Morrison let go of Lucy, put away his handkerchief, and gestured down the corridor. “I suggest we make our way back to the drawing room. It is, in its barbaric way, the most habitable portion of the estate.”
Mr. Morrison took hold of the lantern once more, and they ascended the stairs that would take them to the dining room. Lucy felt her breaths come short and gasping. Behind her, the flickering light flashed on Mrs. Emmett’s pacific expression. They made their way along the darkened abbey, hearing the vague and distant sounds of movement, but seeing nothing. Then, past the dining hall, they climbed the brief stairway and entered the drawing room, where they had encountered Byron during their previous visit.
At the center of the room she saw a dark figure, alone and unmoving. Mr. Morrison walked closer, moving slowly, and she saw that it was someone in a chair. Another few steps and they saw the person’s back was toward them and that his hands were tied behind his back. He wore no hat, but it was upon the ground near the chair. There was a string of cloth tied across the back of his head, and Lucy realized the man was gagged.
Lucy started to move forward, but Mr. Morrison held her back. “No,” he said softly. “We go slowly.”
At a great distance they circled around him, not wishing to approach until they saw everything that lay between them and him. When they reached the far side of the circumference, and believed the approach unhindered, they took a few steps forward. Mr. Morrison held the lantern out as far before him as he could manage. In the dim light of the room they saw that sitting in the chair in the center of the great hall, bound and gagged, was the owner of the estate, Byron. And upon his lap were two sheets of paper that, even at this great distance, Lucy recognized as the final two pages of the Mutus Liber.
This would have struck her as good news had the whole thing not been so very convenient, and had not Byron’s eyes been so wide with terror.
34
LUCY MOVED FORWARD, BUT MR. MORRISON, ONCE MORE, STOPPED her by putting a hand on her shoulder. His touch was gentle and hesitant, and even in these terrible circumstances, it had a tentative shyness that thrilled her.
“Wait,” he said. “Let us not do anything hastily.”
“We can’t leave him bound like that,” Lucy said.
“Can you explain why not?” Mr. Morrison asked.
It seemed a good question. Lucy had no wish to set Byron free, not after the way he had treated her, but letting him suffer because he was a scoundrel hardly seemed right. “Because as vile a man as Lord Byron is, he is not our enemy right now, and I should very much like to know who put him there and set out those pages for us.”
“Hold the lantern,” Mr. Morrison said, thrusting it out to Mrs. Emmett. “I want to make certain there is not some trap upon the pages. Then we shall see to Byron.”
While Mrs. Emmett held the lantern aloft, Mr. Morrison carefully approached the baron. Byron’s eyes were wide and wet. He rocked back and forth in his chair, and he mumbled under the gag. Perhaps he feared Mr. Morrison would harm him, but somehow Lucy did not think that would happen. Mr. Morrison had been tempted before and resisted, and he was not the sort of man who would take pleasure in revenge against so helpless an enemy. It was possible that Byron would not recognize that, being the sort of man who would take revenge against a helpless enemy.
Mr. Morrison approached, examined with his eyes the pages upon Byron’s lap as best he could, and then snatched them up in a rapid gesture. Nothing happened. No monsters attacked and no trapdoor opened. He walked back to Lucy and handed her the pages. She did not even need to look at them to know that they were real. She felt their harmony with the ones in her bag, and she put them in to join their brothers. She saw the familiar images now, which she associated with Mr. Blake—the men at work, struggling against bonds or busy at their labors. One man, nearly naked, held a great boulder upon his back. A woman lay upon her side, suckling wolves. A divine arm extended from the heavens, giving something to the people below, or perhaps unleashing punishment.
As she held them, she felt an energy course through her, but their message was harder to understand than that of the other pages—not because it was less significant, but because it was more complex. Deciphering these pages, let alone the entire book once assembled, would not be the work of hours, but days or weeks. She knew that at once, but she did not know if she would have such time.
“I am going to untie him,” Lucy said.
“For what reason?”
“So we know how he got there. Do you not think it important?”
“No,” said Mr. Morrison. “We have the pages. We should go.”
She shook her head. “I cannot believe it will be that easy, that we will be permitted simply to walk away. Someone has orchestrated this for their benefit, and I would know who.”
“Then for God’s sake ungag him, but do not let him go.”
Lucy walked over to Byron an
d grabbed the gag from behind his head. He grunted as she tried to pull it off. Clearly it hurt him, but Lucy could see no alternative.
She found the slack and pulled it off. Byron gasped and spat and swallowed and then gulped down the air. He breathed hard, but grinned wildly. “Thank you, Lucy. I knew I could depend upon your goodness.”
“I have very little goodness left for you. How did you get here? Who tied you thus?”
“Oh, I cannot recall,” he said. “Perhaps my memory will return when you free me.”
“Perhaps if I cut off his nose he will recall,” Mr. Morrison said drily.
Lucy went to her bag and retrieved a knife. “If I cut him free and he refuses to help us, you may cut off as many pieces of him as you like. For now I will depend upon his humanity.”
“That is a poor prospect,” Mr. Morrison said.
Lucy cut free his hands and then his feet. Byron rubbed his hands together and raised and lowered his legs as he attempted to restore circulation.
“Ah,” he said. “That is the most gratifying thing you have ever done for me, Lucy. There is some hope for you yet.”
“Shut your mouth,” Mr. Morrison snapped. “Tell us what we want to know. How did you get in this state?”
“ ‘Shut your mouth’?” Byron repeated. “ ‘Tell us what we want to know’? Once again, Morrison, you are an intruder in my house, and it seems to me you have no business ordering me to do anything.”
“Lord Byron, please,” said Lucy. “I know you have done terrible things, and there must be a reckoning, but I have also seen you be brave and selfless. Set aside what you feel for one moment, and do what is right. Tell us.”
He sighed. “Only because you are so much kinder than this dullard. Alas, I can tell you almost nothing. I do not know who brought me here. I came from London in search of some personal effects. Once I left, I was upon the road and then abducted. A bag was placed over my head, and I saw nothing of my attackers. They brought me here and kept themselves hidden from me. I have been waiting in that chair since this morning, and, if I may be so bold, I must piss at once or I shall die. Will you excuse me?”
“The quality of this meeting, much to my surprise, continues to deteriorate,” said Mr. Morrison. “And that is keeping in mind how basely it began. Let us go, Lucy.”
Then came the voice from behind them. “I packaged him for you like a present, and you let him go. I am disappointed, Jonas.”
They turned to see Mary Crawford.
She seemed to glow in the near darkness. Her skin was like ivory, her hair almost white, and her gown as white as her hair, but she was not a figure of loveliness. Like her widower, Mary was prepared for war, and she bore two shotguns upon her back in the precise manner Mr. Morrison did. It occurred to Lucy that she knew almost nothing of their lives together. Had they gone on adventures, faced magic and monsters? What had passed between them had been real and true and lived, not like the silly infatuation she had felt for Mr. Morrison when she was sixteen or the foolish attraction she’d felt for Byron. Theirs had been a true love, forged and built and earned. She could see that in Mr. Morrison’s eyes as he gazed upon her. He swallowed hard, and appeared to look away, but then turned back, determination in his eyes. He would be telling himself that this was not his wife, not his Mary, Lucy thought. She could not imagine the suffering.
She would have imagined Mrs. Emmett would have reacted more strongly to seeing her old mistress, but she only stood, gazing almost stupidly, awaiting the next situation that would require her attention. This one, evidently, did not.
“I’ll not murder him in cold blood,” said Mr. Morrison. “Not like that.”
“He deserves no better,” said Mary.
Mr. Morrison gritted his teeth, and then took a deep intake of breath. “Perhaps not, but I shall have to live with what I do, and I cannot be so base as he. But you don’t need me. You could do what you like for yourself.”
She shook her head. “I have no fear of consequences. No fear of God or damnation or my immortal soul. I am my immortal soul, and if I kill, even once, then why shall I not do so again when it is convenient or when I am angry or looking to amuse myself? I will save this world if I can do so, but I will not take a life except to save another.”
“Perhaps you are more like what you once were than I credit,” Mr. Morrison said in a quiet voice.
“No,” she answered. “If it were you to whom he had done this, my old self would have slit his throat in that chair and never regretted it.”
“You killed Spencer Perceval,” said Lucy. “You have murdered already.”
“I merely put his murderer in Perceval’s way,” she said. “It is not the same.”
“Ahh,” said Byron, who had gone off to a corner to make use of a necessary pot. Lucy tried to ignore the sound of splashing. “That is just the thing. Almost better than deflowering a virgin.”
“And so you thought to deliver to us Byron and the last two pages,” said Lucy.
Mary laughed. “Lucy, you are so sweet. You must understand that those were the only pages I had the means to find, that I ever had the means to find. I did not give the last two pages to you. You have brought the first ten pages to me. Now I must ask you to make them mine, so I can best use them.”
Lucy felt her face burn. She felt dizzy, as though the floor had vanished beneath her and she tumbled through space. She thought about the will she had written, leaving the book to Mary. Had this been her strategy all along? Did she mean to kill Lucy now? Lucy had some notion of how to kill revenants, and she had the means upon her, but Mary was strong and quick and clever, and she did not believe she could defeat her in a fight.
“All along, you lied to me,” Lucy said quietly. “You used me. You are no better than Buckles or my uncle or Lady Harriett.”
“Do not say it, Lucy. I have withheld information I did not think you ready to hear, but it was always with your interests in mind. And in this matter, I have been truthful. It was your destiny to gather the leaves. It was your duty to fight this war by my side. I have always said it, but I will not ask you to do what comes next. I do not wish to trick you, but to fight for you. If you will give me the pages and let me do what needs to be done, I will not take human life, but I will grind Lady Harriett and her kind into the dust. I would fight on behalf of those who labor with their hands, not those who would own that labor and crush those hands. Tell me I am wrong, Lucy, that what I do is in error, and mean it, but if you cannot say it, and have not the will to fight by my side, I do not judge you. I only ask that you step away.”
“You may ask,” said Mrs. Emmett, “but you may not command.”
Mary smiled at the serving woman. “I have instructed you well, I see. You are Lucy’s now, as I wished. But Lucy, you will have to act decisively, and you cannot hesitate. You cannot show compassion for Lady Harriett. You cannot think to spare her or hope she reforms herself. You must have the strength to kill her.”
Lucy understood that Mary was right, but she did not like the implications. There were many revenants after all. “It will not end there, will it? Those others, the strange men and women I saw at her estate, they are like you, are they not? If you destroy them, you destroy them forever.”
“There is no other way,” said Mary. “This is the time of reckoning. Now, Lucy. Tonight. We shall not do things by half measures. We shall not simply destroy Lady Harriett and hope that magic and machines can find some balance. No, Lady Harriett and her kind will fall. Those who have been her toad eaters, like that monster there, with his foolish grin”—she pointed, of course, to Byron—“shall fall with them.”
“With you as the new ruler?” asked Mr. Morrison.
“Do you know nothing of me?” she asked. “I know I am not what I was, that I cannot feel as I felt, but am I so alien to you that you think I seek only power? I want only to live in a world worth living in. I will fade into obscurity when this work is done.”
“Nevertheless, you’ve indulged you
r power, haven’t you?” said Byron from across the room. “Someone sent me to warn little Lucy off marrying her intended. Someone made me believe I had feelings for her. That tenderness could not have been mine.”
Lucy turned to her. “Is it true? Did you use me so?”
Mary looked down. “I did not use you. I used Byron, and I shall not repent of it. I put him in your way because you needed your world to change. Though I despise him, I knew Byron’s appearance and his clumsy affections would have that effect. There was never any real risk to your heart, Lucy, and I cast no love magic upon him. That was you, Lucy. It was your charm, your own magic. You brought out in him what was best even in so base a creature.”
Mary’s reasoning was cold and logical. She had toyed with Lucy’s feelings to effect the end she wanted. It frustrated her because, as terrible as Mary’s actions were, they were not so different from what she herself had done to Mr. Morrison.
None of this was about her or her pride, however. She would examine her resentment more closely another time. “And Ludd, whom you have summoned into this world?” she asked. “What does he care for?”
“This island,” answered Mary. “This land. The people in it. Nothing more. He cares not for power, nor for empire, or dominion over nations—which has been the care of your little band of Rosicrucians, has it not, Jonas? We have no care if England is the weakest or the strongest nation in the world so long as its people have bread and their share of happiness.”
“The Mutus Liber is strongest in the hands of the person to whom it belongs,” Lucy said. “You want me to gift you the book because you do not think I will do what must be done.”
“I would spare you from doing it,” Mary said.
“Spare me nothing,” said Lucy. “This is my task, and I shall endure it, I hope with your help. But for now, let us take the book and go while we still can.”
“Hold,” said Mr. Morrison. “If her intentions are no more than she says, then why did she send her monster to attack us?”
