Emily had clearly brought Martha a full measure of happiness. Prior to having her baby, Martha had looked too thin and drawn and unhappy, but now she appeared plump and rosy and cheerful. She favored their father more than Lucy did, but she shared Lucy’s dark hair and rosy complexion. Her face was longer, however, more pinched, giving her the studious look she had taken so much to heart before her marriage.
She patted her baby’s back. “I do think she is the very image, though Mr. Buckles believes she favors his side of the family.”
“It matters not for a girl,” said Mr. Buckles, by way of greeting. He had walked in when Lucy was occupied with the infant, and was busy wiping a cloth along his forehead. “Were it a boy, it would be preferable that he favor his father.”
Lucy looked at Martha, for an instant forgetting that Martha did not know about her husband’s treachery. She expected that they would share a look of disdain or disgust, but Martha only looked away, appearing grave. She clutched her child closer to her breast. Lucy understood at once that Martha had come to hate her husband. It was there upon her face, and it made Lucy unspeakably sad. Even though such hatred was only just—even if Martha did not know that Mr. Buckles had altered their father’s will—Lucy did not want Martha to suffer.
She looked over at Mr. Buckles, who simpered foolishly at Uncle Lowell, and Lucy felt her face redden with rage. He had stolen what was hers, what was Martha’s, what was her father’s, and paraded about as though it were nothing. He made his insipid observations and commanded Lucy’s sister as though he were not a villain. She swore to herself that he would pay for his crimes. And then, because his hand was outstretched, she took it and welcomed him back to Nottingham.
Lucy spent the next morning in seclusion with her sister and niece. Often her thoughts turned to the aborted conversation with Mary the previous day. She had obviously said or done something to alarm her friend, and she wished more than anything else to know what it was before seeing her again.
So Lucy was relieved when she received a message from Mary asking her to meet her in the marketplace that afternoon. Martha appeared insulted when Lucy excused herself, observing that it must be a very particular friend who would call her away from her sister and niece, whom she sees so seldom. Lucy assured her she was, and that Lucy only needed a little time to assist her friend in purchasing a new hat for dinner that night. Martha clearly wished to be invited along, and Lucy dreaded that she would speak her desire aloud, but she did not, and Lucy comforted herself that she would have plenty of time to spend with her sister.
Lucy met her friend in the crowded marketplace at noon, and Mary took both of her hands somewhat awkwardly, for she held a little leather bag by a string in one hand.
“I know you have not much time,” said Mary, “but we were interrupted at such an awkward moment yesterday, and I wished to speak with you before more time passed.”
“I have longed for the opportunity,” said Lucy. “If I said something to offend you, Mary, I am so very sorry.”
Mary laughed and then hugged Lucy. “Offend me indeed. Hardly. You astonished me, that is all. I have never met anyone, heard of anyone, so perceptive as you.”
“But I hardly knew what I was seeing or what it meant.”
“I know,” said Mary, walking Lucy over to a little bench where they could sit. “You must understand that the pages of the Mutus Liber contain certain truths about the magic of the philosopher’s stone, about the principles that make it function. The pages, though in various locations, always seem to be grouped according to one of these important principles. It is almost as though the pages will not allow themselves to be separated. Perhaps it is not so surprising. We talk about the most powerful magic in the universe, for it is the ability to transform one thing into another thing. Most of the magic that even the most skilled cunning women or hermeticists practice is no more than the natural push and pull of the universe. But this is something different.”
“Is it dangerous?” asked Lucy.
“Oh, yes.”
Mary opened her leather bag and removed a piece of paper, an ink pot, a quill, a flat piece of wood, which Lucy divined was for her to write upon, a book, and a plump red rose. She then took the small volume and leafed through it briefly, looking for a page, which she soon found.
“This is a charm to kill plants,” said Mary. “It is dangerous magic, traditionally used for evil, and it involves changing the nature of something. Plants are made up largely of water, and this spell works by moving the water from one location to another. If you would make the attempt, please.”
Lucy examined the image in the book. It was a very simple square of seven boxes across, each containing a single Roman letter, the top line spelling out “KONOVON.” In form, it would be an easy charm, but she sensed there were tricks and hidden pitfalls. There were flares in the letters, and she understood almost immediately, purely as intuition, that the letters could not be written in order. Feeling almost certain she was copying it correctly, Lucy took several minutes to duplicate the charm. She then looked up at Mary, for there were no instructions upon the page.
“Toss it upon the rose,” said Mary.
Lucy looked around the marketplace. People hurried about their business, and no one paused to consider a pair of young ladies huddled in conversation. So, in that public setting, Lucy did as she was told. Nothing happened. She sat there for a moment, waiting for instructions.
“You copied the charm perfectly,” said Mary. “Have no fear upon that score. You have a wonderful hand and excellent instincts. The charm did not work because it is not powerful enough to work upon its own. It needs some added force, like a mule that requires a push to begin its labors. And that added force can be provided by a sacrifice.”
Lucy felt uneasy. She had images of mad Picts slitting the throats of lowing cows. “I do not know that I wish to perform a sacrifice of any kind.”
“I will not ask you to sacrifice living creatures,” said Mary, her voice soft. “I have no interest in causing any living thing distress, but there are other kinds of sacrifice. Your choices can constitute a sacrifice. Denying yourself something, or taking on tasks you would choose not to. For now, I will show you a more direct, simpler kind.”
She picked up Lucy’s charm and handed it back to her. “I want you to try again, but this time, pick that flower, and focus on converting its energy to the charm.”
Mary pointed to a dandelion that grew between the stones at their feet. It was a bright yellow and the weight of the flower burdened the stem so that it bent over slightly. Lucy knew from her reading that a tea made from the dandelion could be used as a diuretic, and the juice of the crushed plant was good for removing warts.
Lucy had never before hesitated to pick a flower, but thinking of it as a sacrifice made her uneasy. Picking it seemed suddenly brutal, barbaric.
“You wish me to sacrifice one flower to destroy another.”
Mary smiled. “It does seem a little tasteless.”
Tasteless indeed, but Lucy had a strong wish to see if there was anything to what Mary said, so holding the charm in her right hand, she picked the dandelion with her left, concentrating, as Mary had said, on its energy. The moment she picked the flower, she tossed the charm upon the rose.
There was no sign that anything had happened, but when she lifted the charm, she saw the rose had been reduced nearly to powder, and that it lay in a little pool of dampness. The water in the plant had been leeched out entirely.