“I have not the pleasure of knowing Mr. Snyder well,” said Miss Crawford, “and I met him only briefly, so I fear he misunderstood the nature of my experience with the old knowledge. While I am something of a student of the hidden arts, I have no skill as a practitioner.”
Lucy leaned forward, fascinated. “But you believe in magic? You think it real?”
Miss Crawford laughed, not unkindly. “If you had seen all I have seen, you would understand that it is not a matter of belief. From what you describe, you have seen remarkable things this night as well.”
“What we saw was indeed remarkable,” admitted Lucy, “but I am convinced there must be some manner of explanation.”
“Certainly there is,” agreed Miss Crawford. “Most likely, this man is cursed.”
“What we have thus learned,” said Mrs. Quince as she airily looked out the window, “is that you claim this man is bewitched, but you can do nothing about it. If that is so, I see no reason we should trouble your quiet any longer.”
Lucy felt herself flush with shame, but Miss Crawford’s smile remained fixed and kind and entirely directed at Lucy.
“I do not know that I shall be able to help this man, though I shall be able to tell you if he suffers a bewitchment or no with a high degree of certainty. Once we establish that, well… then we shall see.”
Miss Crawford had a carriage at her disposal, which she insisted they take the short distance to Uncle Lowell’s house. They rode in uneasy silence, and Lucy could not help but suspect that Mrs. Quince, with her glowering mood, was the cause of it. Even in the dark, Lucy saw Miss Crawford cast her the occasional kind and conspiratorial smile, as though they were allies together against Mrs. Quince, and Lucy had the strangest feeling that she and this lady were friends, and that they had been for a great while. She knew it was but a flight of fancy, but she clung to the idea of having such a friend.
Upon their arrival, Lucy introduced Miss Crawford, believing her uncle must be charmed. He was, however, unimpressed. “Pretty for a witch, I’ll warrant, but pretty don’t signify,” he said, apparently oblivious to Miss Crawford’s presence or his unpardonable rudeness. “I’ll not pay a farthing for gypsy tricks.”
Lucy felt her face burn. “Miss Crawford wants no money” she said, using her most soothing voice. “Only to help if she can.”
“It is what they say,” replied Uncle Lowell. “If there is a bill to be delivered in the end, present it to the vomiting vagabond. I promise to pay nothing.”
Lucy took a candle, and the four of them ascended to the guest room, which was cold for want of a fire, and was lit by only two small oil lamps. There, in the gloom, they gazed upon the shadowy form of the stranger, who lay on the bed, curled up like a kitten on top of the counterpane, breathing in uneven rasps. Lucy took the opportunity to observe his uncovered misshapen foot—hooked and twisted like a beast’s wounded claw. It was awkward to be so close to so handsome a man in a state of undress, and Lucy turned away.
Miss Crawford took the candle from Lucy’s hand and crept forward to examine the stranger. She came within a few feet of him, held out the light, and then nearly dropped the taper. She stepped backwards, and her face twisted with surprise or perhaps fear.
Lucy ran forward to take her elbow. “Are you unwell?”
Straightening out and affecting a calm demeanor, Miss Crawford shook her head. “It is nothing, thank you. It is only that… I cannot say. There is something very wrong here.”
“And it is now, I suppose, that you say you shall make everything right for a guinea!” cried Uncle Lowell. “You must think me the greatest fool who ever lived.”
“I shall show her to the door,” offered Mrs. Quince.
Lucy knew better than to apologize for her uncle. Instead she relied upon the tools she had always used to survive in his and the serving woman’s company, which is to say, she ignored them as best she could. “What must we do, Miss Crawford?”
Even in the dark of the room, Lucy could see the concern upon the lady’s face. “I cannot say what there is to be done. I can—I can try to do something. I must have some quiet. I beg you all to leave the room. All but Miss Derrick. You will stay with me, won’t you?”
Lucy wanted to stay with Miss Crawford, certainly, though she did not know how she felt about staying with this undressed stranger.
“I shall remain too,” announced Mrs. Quince, “to protect the interests of the household.”
“I must request otherwise,” said Miss Crawford to Lucy, ignoring Mrs. Quince entirely. “I do not think your woman’s proximity will aid my concentration.”
Mrs. Quince turned to Miss Crawford, and something hot and angry burned in her eyes, but she swept from the room, and Lucy indulged in a little thrill of triumph. It was childish, yes, but she did not care. She was the favored one now, and she watched with pleasure as Uncle Lowell and Mrs. Quince stepped away, so that only the two young ladies remained in the dimly lit room with the door closed.
Miss Crawford sighed as she set her candle down upon a little table near the fireplace. “Now I must do what I do not love. I must attempt to practice.”
“Does it hurt you?” asked Lucy.
Miss Crawford laughed good-naturedly. “No, it is simply something for which I have no talent. I also hate to play at the pianoforte, for I am very bad at it, and the attempt makes me feel useless. I understand the principles of magic, just as I understand those of music, but I was not formed to excel at either. Even so, for the sake of your household, I will try.”
Miss Crawford closed her eyes and stilled her breathing.
“You quiet yourself.” Lucy had not intended to say anything, and she regretted the words the instant she spoke them. She hated when words escaped against her will. It was a feeling she knew too well. With Mrs. Quince, the consequence for a slip of this kind might be a pinch or a slap or a public scolding, and Lucy winced out of reflex.
Miss Crawford turned to her, the surprise visible upon her face even in the feeble light, but there was nothing dark or angry. “You know more of the cunning woman’s craft than you admit.”
“Only… only a little,” she answered. “I attempted to learn to read the cards once, but I was not very good at it and—and it ended in a quarrel.”
“With whom?” asked Miss Crawford.
Lucy surprised herself by telling the truth, though she had never before spoken of how Mrs. Quince treated her. She hated that the world would know how helpless she was, but now she found she wanted to tell Miss Crawford. “Mrs. Quince. She was kind to me once, long ago, but since that quarrel, she has not been my friend.”
Miss Crawford clucked her tongue. “I don’t believe I much care for your Mrs. Quince, so we may safely forget about her. I would like you to look for the source of this man’s curse.”
Lucy felt cold fear grip her. It was a near-blinding panic. Was it fear of Mrs. Quince or something else? She did not know why, but she did not want anything to do with helping this man. “I can’t,” she sputtered. “I know nothing of these things.”
“You know how to quiet yourself,” said Miss Crawford. “I cannot do it. At least I cannot do it well, for I have not the concentration. You must simply grow quiet and then, with your mind rather than your eyes, have a look about.”
Lucy shook her head like a child. She had not attempted to enter this state of concentration, not since that afternoon, the last time she’d tried to read the cards with Mrs. Quince. She recalled it now in a jumble of images—Mrs. Quince’s freckled complexion turning bright red, cards flying across the table, a crystal pitcher shattering. Mrs. Quince accusing Lucy of plotting against her. A slap across the face, shocking in its force and suddenness. Lucy had been unable to comprehend. She’d only known magic as something silly and trivial, something for street performers, or a kind of parlor trick practiced by wags like Jonas Morrison. She’d never understood why Mrs. Quince had taken the matter so seriously.