The Magicians and Mrs. Quent (37 page)

It was not at me they were looking. Instead, their faces were turned toward the east, and both had gone quiet.

“What is it?” I asked.

Chambley started to speak, but Clarette grasped his hand—hard, by the cry he let out. “It’s time to get back,” she said. “That’s why we were calling for you.” She pulled her brother, and they started back along the path.

I looked to the east, but I saw nothing save empty heath all the way to the scraggly line of the old Wyrdwood atop its own ridge a half mile off.

W
HEN WE RETURNED to the house, I directed the children to play quietly in their room. I had thought this might elicit protests. However, Clarette only smiled, took Chambley’s hand, and led him up the stairs.

I removed my bonnet and, deciding a cup of tea was in order, turned to make my way to the kitchen.

“You take them outdoors a great deal,” Mrs. Darendal said. “Should they not be spending that time studying instead?”

I gasped, for I had not seen her there in the shadow beneath the staircase. Her sudden speech had startled me, nor could I help but think that had been her intent.

“Vigorous exercise clears one’s thoughts, and a fresh mind learns more quickly,” I said.

“But the little master’s lungs are—”

“Are quite capable of drawing in air and will only get better at the task the more they are given the opportunity to do so.” It was rude to interrupt, but I would not allow such talk when he could be in earshot. “I observe him closely, and I would halt our walks at the first sign of any distress, but he does very well.”

Mrs. Darendal said nothing. Her face was as motionless as one of the portraits on the wall. At last she nodded and started up the stairs, and I continued to the kitchen.

However, I could only imagine that Mrs. Darendal was pleased when it rained all the next day, forcing us to stay indoors, and after that there were several short lumenals in a row. With little sun to burn it off, a fog settled in around the house, so that even by day we had to resort to candlelight to read.

The children grew cross, and Chambley jumped at every noise. Nor did Clarette help in this regard, for I caught her more than once telling her brother fanciful stories: how quickly greatwolves could gobble a person up; how the eyes of the trophy animals in the front hall watched you no matter where you went; how there was something awful in one of the rooms upstairs, and that was why they were forbidden to go in there.

I did my best to counteract such stories when I was a witness to them. However, given the sly looks Clarette gave me—and how apprehensive Chambley appeared—I could only believe he was audience to many more such tales when I was not present.

My only hope was to fill his mind with other, better thoughts, and as we could not go outside we spent most of our time together reading in our parlor. Sensing their natural interest in things ancient and legendary, and hoping to direct that interest away from Clarette’s macabre imaginings toward something more worthwhile, I took from the shelf a book of old Altanian epic poems.

At first the children could hardly be made to look at the book; to them, poetry was a punishment. However, I told them not to think of these as poems but rather as stories intended to be sung. I instructed them to picture a bard in a thatch-roofed hall, thick with the smoke of braziers onto which honeyed herbs had been thrown, strumming his lute while he sang of legends that were ancient even in those ancient days.

“We aren’t going to have to sing, are we?” Chambley asked with an alarmed look.

“No,” I said with a laugh. “You would find my singing to be very ill, I am sure. But let us imagine we are bards of old, telling tales to a chieftain in his hall, or perhaps to Queen Béanore herself.”

This thought seemed to engage them, particularly Clarette, and after that they read with interest. We were thus kept occupied over several days as we read some of the oldest true Altanian literature.

Chambley particularly liked the story of King Atheld. He was lord of one of the petty kingdoms in southern Altania, in the time before the Tharosians sailed to these shores. In the first year of his reign, a greatnight came, longer than any that had ever been known before. On and on the umbral went. The world grew cold. Crops withered in the fields, and cattle froze to death.

Atheld knew his people would perish as well. So, alone except for his loyal squire, he sailed westward in a small coracle looking for the Isle of Night. At last he found it and there took back the coal of the sun from the magician who had stolen it. The greatnight ended; light and life returned to the world.

“But that’s just a myth,” Clarette said, crossing her arms. “It didn’t really happen. The sun isn’t a hot coal.”

I smiled at her. “No, but astrographers have made the calculations, and they determined that an unusually long umbral—one lasting over two hundred hours—did indeed occur during the time of King Atheld. So you see, behind a myth can lie a greater truth.” Then my smile faded, for I thought of the similar words you had written to me, Father.

“Is something wrong, Miss Lockwell?” Chambley was looking at me, his head tilted to one side.

I drew a breath. “Not at all. I was only thinking how to reply to Clarette. It
is
true that myths are stories. But for people who lived long ago, myths were also truth—and a way to explain and make sense of the world around them.”

Clarette leaned over toward her brother. “Do you hear that, Chambley? Myths can be true. You know what
that
means, don’t you?”

Chambley sat up straight in his chair. “That means there can be ghosts.”

“On the contrary,” I said in as cheerful a voice as I could manage. “While scientists have studied the heavens and can predict when a greatnight will end, they haven’t found one whit of evidence that indicates there are ghosts.”

“But if there aren’t ghosts, then who’s the Pale Lady?”

Clarette let out a hiss and seized her brother’s wrist. “Chambley!”

“Clarette, let go of your brother,” I said. And to him, more gently, “What lady do you speak of?”

“The lady out in the fields. The one who waves to us.”

Clarette squeezed his wrist. “Stop it, Chambley.”

“Clarette,” I said, making my voice sharp. “Release your brother at once.”

“She wants to make us into ghosts, doesn’t she? That’s why she keeps waving to us. She wants us to come to her.”

“Stop it,” Clarette said, his flesh turning white beneath her fingers. “Stop it now.”

“Clarette, release him this instant!”

I started toward them, but at that moment Chambley’s eyes went wide, staring at the window behind me.

A scream rang out. It was Clarette. She snatched her hand back and covered her eyes. She screamed again, and Chambley cried out as well, and then both of them together screamed again and again, making a shrill racket. I tried to move, but I was a thing formed of cold clay; I could not bring myself to look at the window, for a dread of what I would see there had come over me. Only by great will did I finally manage to turn my head, to move to the window, to gaze through the glass.

I saw only fog and my own white reflection.

Still the children screamed. I went to them, trying to pull their hands from their eyes, but they were rigid, their limbs filled with uncanny strength. Their hands were making red marks on their faces.

“Stop it!” I said, but my voice could not be heard over their cries. “There’s nothing out there. Stop it at once!” But they were hysterical, rocking in their chairs. Chambley’s breath came in gasps. I went to him, grasping his shoulders. I fear I would have shaken him, except for at that moment a deep voice spoke behind me.

“What is going on in here?”

At once the children fell silent, slumping in their chairs like castoff dolls. Their faces were white beneath scarlet splotches. Their eyes were wide, only this time they looked not at the window but at the door of the parlor.

I turned around. A man stood in the door. He was not particularly tall, but there was a substance to him that made him seem larger than he was, so that when he stepped into the parlor his presence was felt as a heavy weight. I laid a hand on the back of a nearby chair, as if, without this grip, I might otherwise have fallen toward him.

His eyes were dark beneath scowling brows, his mouth a line set deep in a curling beard. His hair was wet against his forehead, as if he had just come in from outside. Indeed, his brown coat, which was cut for riding, and the mud spattered on his boots left no question to the matter. Nor could there be any question as to who he was.

“Mr. Quent, it is good to meet you,” I said, having recovered the ability to think. I took a step from the chair and held out my hand to him.

He did not take my hand. Instead, he turned his gaze on the children. “Leave us,” he said. “I must speak with Miss Lockwell alone.”

Clarette and Chambley said nothing. They did not look at him. They rose from their chairs. Clarette took Chambley’s hand and led him from the parlor.

“Go play in your room,” I called after them, but I received no answer; they were gone, and I was alone with Mr. Quent. He said nothing, but I could not feel it was
my
place to speak first. Nor did I have any idea what I would say. I was still trying to understand myself what had happened. I went to the window and drew the curtains shut, then gathered up the books on the table, which had been scattered in the commotion.

He cleared his throat. “Is everything well, then?”

“Yes, very well.”

A silence. Then, “The children seemed very excited just now.”

I could not bring myself to look at him. “They were so, I confess. I was trying to calm them. They have very strong imaginations.”

“Those books—what were you reading to them?”

“We were reading from the old Altanian epics.”

I could feel him glowering.

“And you feel such topics are appropriate for young children?”

“I read the same stories myself when I was their age. A knowledge of the classics can only form a solid foundation upon which to base a study of more-modern works. Though I admit, it is possible the story today encouraged their minds more than I intended.”

I carried the books to the shelf and returned them to their places.

At last he spoke. His voice was so deep I could feel it as a vibration on the air. “You were brought here to keep order and quiet, Miss Lockwell, not to encourage their minds.”

It was foolish. He was my employer and I had only just met him, but an indignation rose within me at these words. The way he had been so short with the children—had not even greeted them after so many days away—how could he not expect them to disobey him? I turned and looked at him directly.

“Is that the case, Mr. Quent? Then I must be in error. You see, I was under the impression that I was brought here to teach them. How that can be accomplished without encouragement is, I confess, beyond me. Perhaps you can instruct me in the matter, for it seems you have very particular thoughts on the topic. Indeed, so particular that I can only wonder how you ever wanted for a governess at all.”

I thought he would raise his voice with me or express his displeasure. Instead, he regarded me in silence, and I could only regard him in turn.

He was not so old as I had thought he would be, though he was over forty, I was certain, despite his dark hair. His figure was athletic rather than fine, being somewhat barrel-chested. As for his face, it was stern and squarish, with a high forehead: not handsome, though it might have been described as strong, even well-crafted. However, fashionable observers would also have pronounced his visage utterly ruined by weather, for it was deeply tanned, with lines incised across his brow and around his eyes. To me his face seemed as wind-hewn as the landscape around Heathcrest Hall. I could no more imagine a smile blossoming upon it than flowers upon the moor.

At last I could endure the force of his dark eyes no longer. If he was not going to speak, I could not imagine a need to remain in the room with him. I started toward the door.

“You are very sure of yourself, Miss Lockwell.”

I halted at the door, gripping the molding so he could not see my hand tremble. How could he have been more wrong? At that moment I wished I was back on Whitward Street, back with my sisters, and with all my familiar things. I felt a child myself.

All the same, I stood straight and looked back at him. “Will you be joining us for supper tonight, Mr. Quent?”

“I seldom know what my business will allow. It is most unpredictable. That I might be called away in a moment is all I can say. I fear I can tell you nothing more about it.”

Despite myself, I smiled. “I did not ask you about your business, Mr. Quent. Only about supper. I hope you will be able to join us.”

Without waiting for his reply—indeed, if my patience would ever have rewarded me with one—I left him in the parlor.