“What must I do?” she asked.
“You will start by opening this book.” Mary held it out. The untied red ribbons dangled free.
Lucy took the book and knew at once she did something momentous and important. With a trembling hand, she leafed through the pages, few that they were, and saw the book contained a series of engraved prints, images of men, angels, animals, and all sorts of odd beings. Expressions were curious, often pained or amused or oddly lascivious, and often without cause. Men flew through the air on wings. Animals rode horses or baked bread in ovens. Activity of some sort abounded, though it was hard to tell precisely what these figures were attempting to achieve. They poured liquids in bowls, weighed substances, mixed and measured, and while all of the illustrations had clearly been done with the same hand, some seemed to Lucy silly and trivial, and some struck her as serious, even important. They demanded her attention.
“This is the Mutus Liber,” Mary said, sitting at last across from her. “The wordless book. It was published in La Rochelle in the seventeenth century, and it is said to be the most precise book ever printed on the creation of the philosopher’s stone. Do you know what that is?”
“Is it not the key to alchemy?” Lucy asked. “I understand it to be a stone in name only, but I’ve seen it represented as the key both to transmuting base metals to gold and to achieving eternal life.”
“Yes,” said Mary. “The stone is not a stone at all, of course. It is sometimes said to be a powder, sometimes said to be a process with no physical shape—a spell or a set of actions, a state of being, or even the body or mind of the alchemist who understands the workings of these secrets. The Mutus Liber dared to set down processes never before committed to print, because it set them down metaphorically. Only someone who is attuned to the hidden arts could understand the instructions embedded within the pictures. And what is more, the pictures make themselves known to those who have the right of understanding. The book is said to favor the wise and the learned, particularly if someone wise and learned is the book’s rightful owner. It is always most powerful in the hands of the person to whom it belongs.”
“Do you mean to say that once I understand these images, I would have the secret?” asked Lucy as she turned the pages, noticing the particulars of each print. Some appeared pregnant with meaning, but others struck her as merely odd. “That I could, with enough study, make the philosopher’s stone, whatever that may be?”
“No,” she said. “Because this book, the one printed at La Rochelle, is not the true Mutus Liber. It is always thus, isn’t it? Secrets within secrets. There are dozens, perhaps hundreds of copies of this book in circulation, but they are all false. The true book contains only twelve prints, not sixteen like this one. It is said that three of those found here are real, but no one is certain which three. That this edition is not the true Mutus Liber is a secret possessed by very few, and even those in possession of that secret cannot say which of these prints are genuine.”
“Prints five, ten, and thirteen are true,” Lucy said, not a little pleased with herself.
Mary stared at Lucy, her face unreadable. “How can you know that?”
“How did I know which spells were real in that book you gave me?” she asked. “It is the same. I cannot prove that I am right, but I know it.”
She did. Those prints felt different to her. It was as though they gave off heat, but it was not heat at all. It was as though they sang to her, but there was no sound. It was a kind of energy, almost like the feeling that someone’s eyes are upon you, even though you have not yet turned to see that it is so.
Mary smiled. “I doubt it is the same. What you have done here is far more impressive. These pages are designed to elude detection. And yet, I knew you could solve this riddle, even if I did not believe you could do so with such ease.”
Ease was not precisely the word Lucy would have chosen, for it had not been easy so much as it had been natural, like struggling to remember something long forgotten. But now that she saw these pages for what they were, she found she wanted to see more. Perhaps she would have done a great deal to see more. “Where is the true book?” she asked. “The complete one.”
Mary shook her head. “I can only tell you what is rumored. There was said to be a whole copy in this kingdom, perhaps the only one in the world, guarded by the Brotherhood of the Rosy Cross—the Rosicrucians. You know who they are?”
“I have heard of them,” Lucy answered, afraid to say more.
“I have heard that the leader of a powerful Rosicrucian lodge had the book, but he believed dark forces would use the book against England, and so, to protect it, he had one of his agents take the book apart and hide its pages. If there is a true Mutus Liber left in the world, the pages are separated by great distances.”
Lucy was only half-listening, because as interesting as were Mary’s words, the pages were so absorbing. There was something in the curious etchings, something she could almost see. The first thing she observed was that these pages somehow went together. It was no coincidence that these three were left in the book. They were a set, and someone who perhaps believed he might choose pages at random could choose these three, not seeing how they belonged with one another. But there was something else, too. The patterns, the images, took hold of her thoughts, pulled them, led them like a boat upon a river’s strong current. There was meaning here, clear meaning, though it took her a moment to see it.
At last she looked up at Mary. “There is a principle of magic we have not discussed,” Lucy said. “The principle of sacrifice.”
Lucy understood at once that she had said something significant, for Mary dropped her teacup. It struck the floor and shattered, while the lady herself gripped the sides of her chair as though preparing for a great wind that might rip her from where she sat. Mary said nothing, merely stared at Lucy in wonder. Lucy was afraid to ask what it meant. They sat there, frozen in the moment, until roused by a pounding upon the door. Lucy listened as Mrs. Emmett answered, and then, after a moment, Mrs. Quince rushed in, with Mrs. Emmett behind her. Lucy had only enough time to close the Mutus Liber before Mrs. Quince could glance in its direction.
“Miss Derrick must come home at once,” announced Mrs. Quince.
“What is it? Is something wrong?” asked Lucy.
“You will worry about anything,” said Mrs. Quince. “No cause for alarm, except as it affects our peace. Your sister and her family have arrived, and Mr. Lowell does not wish to have them about without you present.”
“Oh,” said Lucy, who was still so intrigued by Mary’s reaction that she momentarily forgot to be thrilled at the news that her sister was there at last. Thus she allowed Mrs. Quince to lead her away without saying a proper good-bye or even understanding precisely what had happened.
18
ALL THE STRANGENESS OF HER MOST RECENT ENCOUNTER WITH Mary was forgotten the moment she walked into her uncle’s house and saw her sister in the front room, holding her baby, little Emily. Lucy rushed over and carefully hugged her sister, so as not to crush the baby, and then peeled back the blanket to afford herself a better look at the child, who was awake but gurgling peacefully, swaddled as she was in a blue blanket embroidered with silver lace.
Lucy looked at her sister and her niece, and hugged them both again. She felt the tears running down her cheeks, but she did not care. She was so happy to see them. This was her only remaining family, and how she loved her sister, and how she loved her niece. “Oh, Martha, she looks just like our Emily. The resemblance is remarkable.”