The Twelfth Enchantment: A Novel by David Liss Read Free Book Online Page A

interest in what she read, or if she read at all.
    “I like novels,” she said.
    “Novels are fluff,” he said, hardly allowing her to finish speakingbefore he passed judgment. “Do you read anything else? History, philosophy, books upon the natural world?”
    Lucy brightened, because she believed she could answer to his satisfaction. “I am now reading Mr. Lunardi’s account of his balloon voyages in Scotland.”
    His eyes, long red from crying, grew wide, and faint creases grew at the side of his mouth. “Why do you read upon that? What is it that interests you?”
    “There are machines that allow people to fly,” Lucy said, filling her voice with wonder—perhaps intentionally, perhaps not. She was sixteen, and the distinction between performance and sincerity was not always clear, even to her. “How could I not be interested in marvels?”
    He took Lucy’s hand in his, and he wept unabashed tears, copious and silent. When he was done, he wiped his eyes with a handkerchief, smiled at Lucy, and let go of her hand. “I should very much like,” he said, “to hear more upon the subject of ballooning.”

    From that afternoon until his death, Lucy had been his new favorite. She visited his library daily, talking to him of the books he gave her. He exposed her to the rudiments of ancient languages, Greek and Latin and especially Hebrew, upon which he instructed with an endless vigor. He directed her studies in astronomy, history, and particularly botany, keen that she be able to identify all manner of plants. He demanded that she learn the lives of medieval and Renaissance thinkers—dabblers in new science and old alchemy. She would struggle through these books all morning, and then her father would quiz her throughout the afternoons.
    Then, after a few months of that, came the walks. Papa had always valued his privacy and quiet in his study, but now he took Lucy out into the woods surrounding their estate. He would bring his botanical books and test Lucy on her ability to identify barks and weeds and flowers and plants, making certain she could distinguish between common, Persian, and Algerian ivy or fringed, smooth, or hairy rupturewort. He talked of his love for those woods, of how he treasured the animal life, even theinsects. Once he made her watch as an army of ants devoured a sliver of apple, for even when disturbingly savage, nature was always beautiful.
    Never, not once, did he ask Martha to join them, and when Lucy suggested that she come along, he had dismissed the notion with a wave of the hand, as though the idea was too absurd to warrant a serious reply. Lucy found she wanted Martha’s forgiveness for this sudden and unexpected elevation, but Martha refused soothing. “He’s found comfort in you,” she had said. “And so have I. And I’m glad it is you and not me.”
    “This is silly,” Lucy answered. “It can be both of us.”
    “I am not like you and Emily,” Martha said.
    “I am not like Emily either,” Lucy protested.
    Martha had hugged her again. “You must not think I am jealous. I am only happy. Emily was bright, like the sun, and we could not see each other when she was here. But we see each other now.”
    It was true. In the weeks since Emily’s death, Lucy and Martha had become inseparable. The idea that they had once been distant, while undeniably true, now felt absurd. It was why Lucy felt betrayed when Martha, shortly after their father’s death, accepted a proposal of marriage from their relation, a clergyman named William Buckles. Harrington, the family estate, was entailed upon male heirs, and Mr. Buckles, a distant cousin, inherited the property. Martha believed she was looking after her sister as best she could, and when she’d broken the news to Lucy, they’d hugged and cried as though they had suffered yet another calamity. Lucy had looked at her sister, her quiet, bookish sister who never asked for anything, who never resented her siblings, who never dreamed