“What now?” asked Lucy.
“She’ll come,” said Mary. “You should be in no great hurry.”
“I’ve faced her before,” said Lucy, attempting to summon her courage. She had seen Lady Harriett toss Byron across the room as though he were an unwanted pillow. What could they do to stop her now?
“You have not faced her when she is desperate,” said Mary. “She will do anything to get that book from you. You must know it. She will want you to gift it to her. It is not too late to gift the book to me, Lucy. I can protect it better than you.”
“Leave her be about the damn book!” said Mrs. Emmett, her voice sharp.
Everyone stared at her. Lucy had never heard her speak so, and it seemed to her, as it must seem to everyone, that this strange, meek woman, with her hair perpetually in her eyes, must be incapable of such passion.
Mary recoiled as though slapped. “I want only to help.”
“I know you do,” Mrs. Emmett answered. “You want to bear the burden for her, but you cannot. It has always been Miss Derrick. You must accept that. You resist it because you love her, but you must not permit her to doubt herself.”
They heard a door open and footsteps. They could not see across the mill, for the stocking frames obscured their vision, and in silent assent they agreed not to move. Soon Lady Harriett appeared, flanked on one side by Mrs. Quince, on the other by Mr. Buckles. So, Mrs. Quince had, all that time, been in Lady Harriett’s employ. Lucy should not have been surprised. Indeed, it all made sense, and she would have felt more indignation had not her attention been arrested by a far more urgent matter. Mr. Buckles held in his arms a baby, and Lucy knew it at once to be Emily. The real Emily, small and pink and sleeping sweetly in the arms of her father, who was so eager to sacrifice her to his mistress. Yet, she appeared calm and healthy and unharmed for the moment. Lady Harriett would use Emily’s life to bargain for the book. Of that there could be no doubt, and Lucy did not know that she would have the strength to resist. And yet she would have to, for Emily’s sake, for everyone’s sake.
The urge to step forward and grab the child was overwhelming. It roared in her ears and spots manifested before her eyes. She wanted that baby, wanted to protect her from her father and Lady Harriett, but she knew that was not the way. Attempting to take Emily by force would only endanger her. She would protect her niece, but she would have to be clever. Lady Harriett would try to force Lucy to choose between the child and the book, but Lucy could not. She would be worthy of the burdens placed upon her and find a way to leave with both.
Lucy looked over at Mr. Morrison, and he inclined his head in the most imperceptible of nods. He seemed to have deduced her reasoning, and agreed with it. Do not rush. Do nothing to put the child in danger. Wait for the moment.
Mary was less calm. “Dear Lord. She’s found Emily. I would not have thought it possible.”
Lucy had been so absorbed by her niece that she had hardly given Mr. Buckles a second glance, but now she observed that he was greatly altered. His skin appeared less sallow and more pale. His hair had turned far lighter, and his eyes were a peculiar blue. Gone was his expression of simpering foolishness. He looked at Lucy, and his countenance held nothing but cold cruelty. He was not what he had been before. Mr. Buckles had died and returned. He was now a revenant, and that meant none of them, not even Mary, could hope to be fast or strong enough to rescue the child by force.
Lady Harriett and her retinue stopped perhaps ten feet from them. “So, it comes to this,” she said. “All will be resolved tonight.”
“Lady Harriett,” said Mr. Morrison. “You look well. No, that’s not it precisely. Not well. Awful. That is what I meant. You look awful. Like the dead warmed over, so to speak.”
“Silence, Morrison,” said Lady Harriett. “You and your kind disgust me. You cannot hope I shall let you live.”
“What makes you think I shall let you live?” answered Mr. Morrison.
“Your shotgun shall not work on me. You must know that. I have ordered it so the revenant who leads is imbued with a special strength, and so resistant to those elements.”
Mr. Morrison scratched his head, as though genuinely confused. “I do recall hearing something about that, yes. On the other hand, I was told that your late husband would be impossible to kill, and I made short work of him. Or perhaps you did not know that was I.”
It seemed to Lucy Lady Harriett had not known that Mr. Morrison was responsible for the destruction of her beloved Sir Reginald. She blinked at this intelligence, and then glanced at Mr. Buckles. “Give them a taste of things to come,” she said.
Moving forward quickly, impossibly quickly, Mr. Buckles was no longer ten feet away, but directly before Mrs. Emmett. Mrs. Quince now held Emily, and Mr. Buckles, with his lips pulled back in a vicious sneer, grabbed the serving woman by the hair, and, gathering it all in his left hand, he lifted her off the ground. Mrs. Emmett’s eyes went wide, and her mouth opened, but no noise came out. Below her skirts, her legs kicked, and her arms flapped like a drowning woman’s. Below Mr. Buckles’s clenched fist Lucy could see, for the first time, Mrs. Emmett’s forehead, and she now understood she had kept her hair and bonnet low in order to conceal her flesh. Inscribed, just above her thin eyebrows, written seemingly in thick black ash, were three Hebrew letters: . Lucy struggled with what little she knew of Hebrew, and realized, once she remembered to read the letters from right to left, that the word spelled emmet.
Lucy searched her memory—for it was so familiar—and then it came to her. The Jewish story of the golem. She’d read of it in more than one of the books she’d had from Mary. In the legend, Jewish magicians were able to create a man out of mud, and upon its forehead was inscribed the word —emmet—meaning “truth.” To destroy the golem, the first letter was erased leaving only : met. “Dead.”
Mr. Buckles smiled, as though he saw that Lucy now understood. He raised his free hand and allowed it to hover over the .
“No,” said Lucy.
“It is mindless thing,” said Lady Harriett. “It has no soul. It is an abomination, but I know it is of some value to you, so I shall give you one opportunity to save it. Give me the book now, or I shall have Buckles destroy it.”
Mrs. Emmett’s eyes went wide. “I shall not be used against Miss Derrick. I could never allow it. The sacrifice I make, I make for her.” So saying she reached up and, shoving Mr. Buckles’s hand out of the way, wiped away the from her forehead in a clean and simple stroke.
It happened faster than the eye could register. Mr. Buckles held nothing in his hand. At his feet fell a tangle of wet, watery mud and clothing. It landed with a solid splash, heavy and sickening. Mrs. Emmett was gone.
Unspeakable sadness shot through Lucy. She felt Mary take her hand, and she squeezed it hard for a terrible moment, as though her friend’s cold touch was the only thing that prevented her from collapsing. She stood that way, like the victim of a lightning strike, absorbing electricity, and then it passed. She let go, for though the sadness was not diminished, it had receded. Anger took its place.
That anger was real and solid and heavy, but it was not all she felt. Lucy felt alive and strong, coursing with a new vitality. It was Mrs. Emmett’s words. She knew that. She had made a sacrifice of herself, and Lucy had gained something. She knew not what, but it was powerful, and it wanted to strike.
Mr. Buckles lifted his lips in a lupine approximation of a smile as he retreated to stand by Lady Harriett. He brazenly put a hand upon her shoulder, a gesture of startling intimacy.
“It is remarkable,” said Mrs. Quince. “I tried to make such a thing once. Jewish magic was always too devious for an honest Englishwoman like myself.”
“I shall teach you,” said Lady Harriett. “It is no difficult thing, even for a weak-minded woman like you, Quince. Though Mary made a particularly clever one. Still, even the cleverest of tricks can be undone, as we have witnessed. And what of the infant? Is not that baby but another trick, an ugly illus
ion of copulation and generation. It sickens me.”
“It was as vile in the making as it is now,” said Mr. Buckles.
“Dear God,” Lucy said. “I hate you for daring to touch my sister.”
“Oh, don’t be so sanctimonious,” said Lady Harriett. “You cared for that lifeless bit of clay, so what do your feelings for your sister or her wretched child signify? You will give your pathetic heart to anything who looks upon you. It is what has undone you, you know. Your compassion.”
Lucy felt black rage course through her. She had known people who were small and petty and selfish and vile, but never had she encountered pure evil. Whatever reservations she had had about destroying Lady Harriett, destroying her forever, were gone. She would do what she must. “My compassion does not extend to you,” she said.
“I do not fear you,” said Lady Harriett. “How could I, when your loyalties are so easily manipulated? Now, here is what happens next. You shall give me the pages of the Mutus Liber, and I shall give you your niece. If you do not, I shall make you watch while Mr. Buckles kills her. None of your spells will work here, girl. This building, like my home, is warded. You can give me the pages in fair trade, or I can take them by force, and you would not like that.”
Lucy had defeated wards before, but she did not think she could depend upon doing so. “How can I know you will give me Emily?”
“What care I for the baby?” asked Lady Harriett. “It was only ever of interest because it was important to you. But I am serious in my threat. Mr. Buckles, take the child, and be ready to strangle it when I command.”
Buckles took the baby from Mrs. Quince’s arms. He held it in the crook of his arm, but there was no tenderness in him. He might have been holding a log.
“You must not believe her,” Mr. Morrison told Lucy. “Do nothing on her terms.”
“I cannot see that I have a choice,” she answered. She turned back to Lady Harriett. “What will you do with the pages besides cast away Ludd?”
“That is my concern, not yours.”
Lucy stood still for a long moment, neither moving nor blinking. She then reached into the folds of her gown and pulled out a rolled tube of papers. Tentatively, she held them out while Lady Harriett stepped forward and snatched them from her hand, as though fearful that Lucy was a serpent ready to strike.
“No!” Mary and Mr. Morrison cried out at once, but the act was already finished. Lady Harriett had the pages.
Lady Harriett retreated back to her own people and examined the pages. “They are remarkable,” she said, leafing through them. Her chest heaved with her breathing, and her face colored. “You give them to me? These are mine?”
“Lucy,” Mary cautioned.
“Yes, I give them to you,” said Lucy. “They are yours for so long as you want them. Now give me my niece.”
Lady Harriett smiled at her. “No. I don’t think I will.”
“Why do you want her?” said Lucy. Her voice was shrill, even to her own ears. “You said she means nothing to you.”
“I want her for spite,” said Lady Harriett. “Perhaps it is because of your friend Mr. Morrison, and the debt I owe him for striking down Sir Reginald. Perhaps it is because I hate you enough for your own sake. Perhaps I want to keep her to punish you for standing in my way, and to mock you for agreeing so foolishly to trust me. Having her gives me pleasure in direct proportion to your pain, and it allows me to show you how poorly you played your hand. I now have everything, and you nothing. With this book I can destroy all of you, and there is nothing you can do. You have made a great blunder.”
Lucy could not help but smile. She did not think of herself as a vengeful person, as one who took pleasure in the suffering of others, but this was different. Here was Lady Harriett who had lost all shred of her humanity, who was evil beyond reckoning. She thought herself superior to everyone, but she was not superior to Lucy Derrick.
“I would have blundered indeed,” said Lucy, “had I given you the true pages.”
Lady Harriett looked through them again. “You lie. I have seen the false pages, and these are not the same, but they are of the same hand.”
“I had them of the artist who drew the true pages,” said Lucy. “They were a parting gift from a very wise man. I believe this is what Mr. Morrison would call sleight of hand.”
From the corner of her eye, she saw Mr. Morrison gazing at her with open admiration. She suspected that if she took the time to think about it, she would very much like the feeling.
Lady Harriett looked at the false pages. She stared at them and then sniffed them like a dog and rubbed them against her face. The truth of Lucy’s claim made itself known to her, and she tossed Mr. Blake’s drawings down in disgust.
“Very clever,” said Lady Harriett. “But I do not make idle threats. A father sacrificing a child on my behalf—a sacrifice on that order shall give me the power I need to force you to gift me the book. Kill the child, Buckles.”
“He shall not!” cried Mary. “Lucy, be prepared to take the baby.”
Lucy turned and saw that, while their attention had been on Emily, Mary had surrounded herself with something upon the floor, a circle that glinted and sparkled in the dim light. Lucy understood at once what it was—Mary had encircled herself in gold.
Casting her gaze to Mr. Buckles, she saw him standing in mute horror, the baby still cradled in his arm, but he appeared to have forgotten it. He made no effort to harm it. He merely stared in disbelief.
“No,” said Lucy, her voice cracking. She remembered the story Mary had told her, and she knew what the circle meant. “There must be another way.”
Mary shook her head. “No, my dear Lucy. There is but one way.”
Lady Harriett had her eyes fixed upon Mr. Buckles, and seemed not to have noticed the circle upon the floor. “Buckles, why is that child still alive? Sacrifice it to me.”
“Look at the Crawford woman,” he snapped back. “She’s drawn a circle.”
“Don’t be an idiot,” said Lady Harriett. “Spells won’t work here.”
“Not a spell circle,” hissed Buckles. “One of our circles.”
“It is far more elemental than a spell,” said Mary. “You should know that. It is the flow of the universe itself, and your wards will no more hold it than you could hold back the wind with a basket.”
Lady Harriett turned toward Mary, and seeing the thin line of gold upon the ground, she set her jaw hard, perhaps in defiance, perhaps in disdain. “You’ll not sacrifice yourself for that infant.”
“I cannot let you have the book. If you take possession of it, the age of the machine will be ushered in, and nothing will stop it.”
“No,” said Buckles, his eyes wide with understanding. He understood what Mary did, what it meant. “I won’t harm the child. Here, Quince, take it.”
Mrs. Quince shrank back. She wanted no part of the child either, and so, desperate, Mr. Buckles rushed forward and handed his daughter to Lucy. “Take it! Take it, and see that I do not harm it. Now stop your friend.”
“You blockhead!” cried Lady Harriet.
“Get behind me!” shouted Mr. Morrison, raising his shotgun. “This may not kill you, Lady Harriett, but I’ll wager it will sting.”
Lucy retreated behind Mr. Morrison. Emily was deep in infant sleep, but healthy and unharmed. It was her niece. She hugged her to her chest, feeling her warmth, listening to the low rumble of her breathing, smelled the yeasty odor of milk about her mouth. It was truly her niece in her arms, safe at last.
Lady Harriett stepped forward, but Mr. Morrison put his finger on the trigger, and she stopped.
“That’s right,” he said. “It’s hard to retrieve a baby when you are writhing upon the floor in pain. I recall that is how it was with your husband. The first blast did not kill him, but it made him much easier to manage.”
Lady Harriett balled her fists in rage. Her face turned red, and she whirled on Mrs. Quince. “Do something!”
“I don’t kn
ow what to do!” Mrs. Quince cried out.
Mr. Buckles was in full panic. “She hasn’t stopped. Why hasn’t she stopped? I’ve returned the child. One of you must stop her.”
Mary looked up, and her eyes were moist. Her hands trembled as she poured a sprinkling of sulfur atop the gold, but there was a smile upon her lips. “I cannot let you live while you are willing to destroy what Lucy loves best. You would harm your own daughter simply to gratify your mistress, and so that is why I have already done it. Can you not see that? I have contained myself in the circle. I cannot turn back.”
“Please,” said Mr. Buckles. “Miss Derrick, you have the child. Tell her to spare me.”
“Mary,” Lucy said softly, beginning to understand what her friend intended. “You may stop.”
“It is too late to stop.”
Lucy clutched her niece even more tightly, as if her hold on this infant could steady her while her world appeared to whirl around her. “Mary, you cannot. I have Emily. I have the pages. With your help, we can escape and defeat Lady Harriett another day.”
“It cannot be undone,” said Mary. “Gold and sulfur have been set down, and I have made this sacrifice. Like Mrs. Emmett, I make the sacrifice for you.”
Mr. Morrison turned to her. “No, Mary, you cannot.”
“Oh, Jonas, I am sorry you must see,” she said. “I tried to love you—to remember what it was to love you, but that part of me died with my flesh. Even so, I feel compassion for you, and I beg you not let the past stop you. And Lucy, you have been my friend. I have loved you, and I do this for you.”
“Oh, Mary,” said Lucy, “please don’t.”
Mary smiled at her. “It is better to be nothing than to become like one of them.” She looked at Lady Harriett and Buckles. “How long until I forget what I was, and care nothing but for my own pleasures? How long until, like her, I am willing to murder an infant for some strategic advantage or the pleasure of shocking my own sensibilities, to destroy a world if it will better suit my needs? How long until I become like those wraiths she shepherds, existing but hardly alive? If I can end my existence in an act of love, then how much better for me to face oblivion as some reflection of my true self, than eternity as a perversion of what I once was.” She took out a vial, this one containing mercury, and she began to pour it in a circle around her. “Thank you, Lucy,” she said.