He shook his head. “I will not discuss it.”
“I do not mean to cause you pain,” she said quietly. “I only wish to understand.” It was so odd, she thought as she looked at him. She had spent years hating him, thinking him the most vile of men, but he was never that person. He had only been a kind and loyal man serving Lucy’s father—and serving Lucy herself.
To distract herself, she decided it was time to find the pages. Lucy turned slowly about the room, like a sluggish child at absent play. She ran her hand along the shelves as she walked, hoping for some kind of spark or warmth or feeling of nearness. Then, in some noiseless way, she heard its cry. Lucy walked toward a shelf and there she found her father’s copy of Purchas, his Pilgrimage, just as she had always remembered it, and she opened it up. Inside its pages, folded and neat, were two more sheets from the Mutus Liber.
Lucy looked at them. They were as beautiful and strange and inexplicable as the others. On the pages were trees transmuting into vines and into animals, plant and creature alike twirling and twisting upward and down. It was all about transformation and change and melding. It was about the future and the past. It was about insight, Lucy realized, about seeing the truth behind veils of deception and disguise. There was more than that, however. The philosopher’s stone was the source of transformation and alteration, and such power required wisdom and judgment and patience, and these too were embedded in these images. Lucy stared for a long time, hoping she might become wise and insightful enough to know what to do next.
And then she did.
She turned to Mr. Morrison and Mrs. Emmett. “I need you to keep my sister away from me. I need you to keep her downstairs no matter what.”
“Where do you go?” asked Mr. Morrison.
Lucy swallowed hard, working up the courage to say what would be far more difficult to do. She turned to Mrs. Emmett and straightened herself in a display of determination. “I go to speak to the changeling.”
Perhaps she heard someone upon the stairs, for when Lucy reached the baby’s room, the wet nurse—a plump and pretty fair-haired woman in her early thirties—emerged. Her eyes were red and heavily bagged, and her posture somewhat slumped. Everything about the woman suggested fatigue and dejection.
“I wish to be alone with the—the infant,” said Lucy. “I am the aunt.”
“I don’t care who you are, mum,” the woman said hurrying down the hall. “If you want to be alone with her, she’s yours as long as you’ll have her.”
Lucy stepped into the room. It was dark, with only a small fire burning. This had once been Lucy’s own room, but it was unfamiliar now, with pictures of animals upon the wall, a new rug of plain weave, and entirely different furnishings. Near the fireplace rested the baby’s crib, but Lucy did not have to approach and peer into it. The creature had already pulled itself up and clutched the railings in its narrow, clawed fingers. Its large, reptilian eyes followed her as she moved into the room, and then, as she drew too close, it hissed in alarm, showing its sharp teeth. Its forked tongue darted out, tasting the air.
Lucy took another step forward. It cocked its head and hissed again. So, it was afraid of her. That was interesting.
“Can you speak?” she asked.
“Can you?” it asked, its voice raspy and low.
“Clearly,” said Lucy as she took another step forward.
The thing hissed again and swiped at the air with its claws. “No further, witch.”
Lucy stopped, but more as an experiment than out of fear. She was surprised to discover she was not afraid of the creature. She found it vile, but not terrifying, perhaps because it was so clearly afraid of her. “Why do you fear me?”
“You would send me back if you knew how,” it said.
“And you do not wish to go back? You enjoy tormenting my sister?”
“I am charged to not let you send me back,” it said. “For the baby’s sake. It is what my mistress has commanded, and I obey her.”
“Your mistress is Mary Crawford?”
“Yes,” it hissed.
“How do I find my niece?” Lucy asked.
It opened its mouth, and then only hissed again.
“You were going to tell me,” Lucy said. “But you did not. Because you were commanded not to tell me?”
“Yes,” it said, evidently unhappy.
“But otherwise you seem inclined to answer my questions honestly. Why?”
The creature turned away from her, rubbing its long hands over the rough skin of its head, as if trying to puzzle something out. It mumbled something Lucy could not understand.
“Speak so I might hear you,” Lucy said.
It turned to her and flashed its teeth. “It is the pages of the book. They compel me to tell the truth.”
Lucy smiled and approached closer. “Is there anything you can tell me to help me get my niece back?”
“No, you cannot force me to speak of that.”
Lucy took a moment to think of what she might ask next. She could not stay here forever. The men downstairs might awaken, or Martha might come in to discover what Lucy did. She needed to hurry. “What must Mary Crawford do to banish you?”
“Even she cannot banish me now, not until certain conditions are fulfilled. Not until your niece is safe.”
There must be something it could tell her, Lucy thought. Some truth she could extract that did not directly involve the rescue of her niece but would help effect that rescue. She made another attempt. “Then what of the pages yet missing? Mr. Morrison said that Mary Crawford knew the location of pages. Though why would she not tell me?”
“All she does, she believes is right,” the changeling said.
Lucy realized it had answered part of her question, but not all of it, so she tried again, asking more precisely this time. “Do you know where I will find the last pages of the book?”
The creature backed up in the crib. It looked this way and that and appeared so desperate that Lucy almost felt sorry for it. But she pressed her case and pointed at the changeling. “Tell me.”
And it did.
Downstairs Mr. Morrison rushed toward her, evidently concerned. “Is all well?”
“No,” said Lucy. “It seems you were right about Mary. She did deceive me. She had pages hidden away all along, and now, unfortunately, I know where.”
“Why is that unfortunate?” he demanded.
Lucy turned to study his face carefully, hoping for some clues, some explanations. “Because it seems we were all along deceived, Mr. Morrison. The remaining pages are to be found where we first looked. They are within Newstead Abbey.”
They found Martha sitting near the fire in the sitting room. She held some sewing, but did not appear to have done much of anything with it.
Lucy approached her and took her hands. “I am sorry, Martha, but we must go at once.”
“What shall I tell my husband when he returns?” asked Martha, now sounding alarmed.
“Tell him the truth,” said Mr. Morrison. “With any luck, it shall not matter.”
Lucy gathered at once that Martha feared Mr. Buckles. “I would take you with me if I could, Martha, but where I go is far more dangerous than here. When … when all this is finished, I shall take you then, if you like. I shall save you.”
Martha laughed. It was a bitter, barking sound. “Save me. How shall you do so? You have no money, Lucy.”
“I have other resources.”
“If you want shelter,” said Mr. Morrison, “or if you want money to go where none may find you, then you need but ask. I shall never again neglect to be a friend of your family.”
Martha stared at them. “You have set yourself against Mr. Buckles, haven’t you?”
“Lady Harriett has made herself my enemy,” answered Lucy. “She has, in ways I cannot begin to explain, inflicted terrible harm upon both of us, and she has used Mr. Buckles as her instrument. I am sorry to say this. I do not wish to speak ill of your husband, but it is so. I have not set myself a
gainst him, but he has chosen to follow a mistress who has declared me her enemy. I hope you will recollect that I act not against him, but to defend myself. To defend all of us.”
Martha shook her head. “I wish you would say what you mean, what you really mean, instead of speaking in riddles all the time.”
Lucy smiled. “When there is more time, I shall tell you all.”
Martha turned away. “I have this terrible idea in my head that Mr. Buckles will not survive what is coming. Am I all but a widow?”
“Is the wife of the condemned man a widow before he hangs?” asked Mrs. Emmett.
Martha let out a gasp.
Lucy gave a harsh glance at Mrs. Emmett, who only smiled in return. She turned back to her sister. “I do not know what is going to happen. I know only that everything I’ve done, everything I will do, is for you and your child. I beg you to believe that.”
Martha rose and hugged Lucy. “I am afraid.”
Lucy returned the hug and stepped back. “For yourself, you have nothing to fear.” She did not know that it was true. But it would all be over soon. Lucy would find those final pages, and then all would be set right.
“You sound so sure of yourself,” Martha said. “What do you have to fear?”
Lucy forced a smile. “Everything.”
It was to be a long and awkward ride to Nottinghamshire. They would necessarily have to travel slowly once it grew dark, and so be vulnerable to highwaymen, but they dared not stop until morning. There was too much at risk. Both Mr. Morrison and the coachman primed pistols, and they began their long and slow trek that would probably not bring them to their destination until after dark the next day.
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.
Lucy sat listening in silence. It was a horrible story—chilling and terrifying—but only now did she believe, truly believe, that the woman whom she had called her friend those many months in Nottingham had been dead, a revenant, something inhuman. Before it had been an idea, a notion; now she felt the truth of it. She saw the truth of it on Mr. Morrison’s face.
“This man,” said Lucy. “What has happened to him?”
“You know him,” said Mr. Morrison in the dark.
Lucy felt at once unbearably cold. It seemed that the carriage had disassembled all around her and she was floating unmoored through space. “No,” she whispered. “It can’t be.”
“It was Byron who killed my Mary. On looking upon what he had done, he was filled with—I cannot even guess how his mind functions—remorse, terror, disgust, grief? I shall not trouble myself to speculate. But he wished, as so many in his place have wished throughout time, that he could undo what cannot be undone.”