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 illusion 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.”