The Magicians and Mrs. Quent (42 page)

“Do you know how to ride, Miss Lockwell?”

I could only confess that I did not.

“You need not fear,” he said. “She is a gentle creature.”

Before I could say anything more, he had lifted me into the saddle. This seemed barely an effort for him. Despite his words that day, it could only have been an easy thing for him to carry me downstairs. My cheeks burned, and I felt fresh shame at what I had done, but I bent my head under the guise of stroking the mare’s silvery mane.

“Hold them like this,” he said, putting the reins in my hands—an action that required both of his own. His fingers were rough but not ungentle, and the dexterity of his left hand appeared little reduced by the lack of the fourth and fifth fingers. Once he was done showing me how to hold the reins, that hand was quickly returned to his coat pocket.

Those first few times I rode, I went at a slow walk, with Jance leading the mare by the bridle. However, she was such a docile creature there could be no chance of my falling. It was not long before I was able to ride on my own and even urge her into a trot if I felt brave.

Soon I looked forward to those rare hours when I could send the children to play or rest quietly in their room. Jance always seemed to know when I would need her saddled, and within moments of leaving the house I would be riding out from Heathcrest, over moor and down, reveling in the feel of the wind against my face. Sometimes I felt I could ride all the way to Invarel. It was a foolish notion, but when I was riding I forgot the confining dimness, the stifling silence that dwelled within Heathcrest.

“You are getting very freckled,” Mrs. Darendal said to me one night as she brought a plate of parsnips into the dining room. Since my collapse she had been all but silent in my presence, but it seemed the urge to direct me had overcome her reticence. “You should not go riding so much.”

I smiled, determined to be pleasant. “I wear my bonnet.”

“A bonnet cannot protect you from the wind. It will ruin your complexion. It is already hardened, I can see.”

“I see no such thing,” Mr. Quent said. Whatever his business was, it had not called him away of late, and he had dined with us more frequently. “In fact, I would say I have never seen her look so well.”

The housekeeper treated him to a look I was glad not to have received myself. Mr. Quent, however, seemed not to notice, and Mrs. Darendal retreated.

I could not speak for my complexion, but that the exercise and fresh air had done
me
good, I was certain. My mood had improved; the malaise I had suffered under—without really knowing it—had lifted. I was sure the fit I had experienced in the room upstairs would not happen if I were to enter there today. It had been an effect of melancholy and a weakened spirit.

“Tell me, Clarette, Chambley, how do your studies go?”

I looked up. Mr. Quent had addressed the children. However, Clarette was not looking at him but rather at me, her mouth open. Chambley clutched a piece of bread.

I set down my fork. “Tell Mr. Quent what you have been reading, Clarette.” My voice was encouraging, but I could hardly have been more surprised than the children. However, once I prompted them to discuss what we had been learning of Tharosian history—their favorite topic—they chatted and chirped, and Mr. Quent listened for a quarter of an hour to accounts of ancient battles and the treachery of emperors.

At last I gently urged the children to finish their meal. Then I sent them upstairs with the promise I would follow.

“Thank you, Miss Lockwell.”

I turned in the doorway. I could not read his expression or the look in his brown eyes. “For what, Mr. Quent?”

“For your work with the children. They are much improved since you came. I fear my instinct was always to be stern with them, but a gentle word from you achieves more than all my most serious lectures.”

These words took me aback. That he should be thanking me after what I had done was hardly comprehensible—that after I had violated his will and trespassed upon his most private sanctum he could express gratitude was almost unbearable.

“I must see to the children,” I said, and hurried from the dining room.

As I climbed the stairs, I could not feel so certain as the master of the house that my charges were improved. It was true they had been quiet since the day of their argument in the front hall, even subdued, but I did not take that as a sign of their well-being.

Riding had improved
my
condition, but I could not think what could be done for
them.
They seemed to grow more wan by the day, and Chambley’s breathing had become a constant labor. However, I could rarely convince them to go out of doors. Clarette, I felt, might have been coaxed, but she would not let herself be parted from her brother, and he was reluctant to leave the house except for the briefest intervals.

“Please, let’s stay inside,” I overheard him whisper to Clarette one day as I returned to our parlor with their coats. “It can’t be a good thing to go out. Not if
she
wants us to do it.” For some reason I did not think it was me he was speaking about.

Now I opened the door to their room. As I did, Clarette turned suddenly from the window. Outside, a lingering twilight draped the moor. Chambley sat on his bed. He was shivering, though the room was warm. I hurried to sit next to him and put my hand to his forehead. It was clammy with sweat.

“Clarette,” I said, “what happened? You brother was very well when I sent you upstairs.”

She did not move from the window. Her eyes appeared black in the fading light.

Chambley let out a whimper and leaned against me. “Did something happen just now, Clarette? Answer me at once.”

“But I can’t answer you!” she burst out.

“On the contrary, you can and will.”

“You said I was never to say again that I saw things outside.”

“No, I said you were not to tell a falsehood, Clarette.”

“But you’ll say it’s a lie, even when it isn’t. So I can’t tell you what happened. You’ll scold me!” Her back had gone rigid. I could not tell if she was frightened or angry. Chambley threw his arms around my neck.

“Clarette,” I said, making my voice low but firm, “I will never scold you for speaking the truth. Now tell me what happened.”

She turned and pointed to the window. “We saw her. Standing out there below our window.”

“Whom did you see, Clarette? Was it Mrs. Darendal? Or was it Lanna?”

“No, it wasn’t them. It was
her
.”

Now
I
was growing angry. I had had enough of this behavior. Chambley could not stop shaking. “Who do you mean, Clarette? It was not myself. And if it was not Mrs. Darendal or Lanna, then who could it be?”

Her eyes narrowed. “I told you that you wouldn’t believe me.”

“I
will
believe you, Clarette, if you tell the truth.”

She only shook her head, taking a backward step toward the window.

My voice rose. Such open disobedience could not be tolerated. “Clarette, answer me at once. Who did you see out the window?”

Chambley pushed away from me. “It was
her
,” he cried out. “It was the Pale Lady. She was standing outside the window and looking up at us. Clarette said she wanted us to come down, but I said I wouldn’t go.” He leaped off the bed and glared at his sister, his small hands clenched into fists. “I don’t care what she says to you. I won’t go out to her.
I won’t!
”

At last I understood. Clarette had been telling him stories again, frightening him. I stood and advanced toward Clarette.

“Is this true?” I said. “Is this what you told your brother?”

She looked up at me. “Yes. It
is
true. We saw the lady in white outside the window. We watched her run from the old wood. She came from the trees on the other side of the wall.”

Now I went cold. For a moment I was back in the forbidden room. I saw again the painting of the trees, and the woman in a pale, tattered dress caught among the branches…

I took a breath to clear my head. Clarette must have seen into the room after my collapse; the door would have been open. She had seen the painting. She was being cruel, that was all, teasing me as she had her brother.

I fixed her with my gaze. “You will take back your words, Clarette. Tell your brother you are sorry for what you said.”

“But I’m
not
sorry!”

She started to turn away, but I caught her wrist.

“Tell your brother you are sorry for frightening him.”

She said nothing. I tightened my grip around her wrist. I saw her face go white; I knew I was hurting her.

“Tell him, Clarette!”

Her jaw was set, her mouth a thin line. Behind me I heard Chambley sniffling. A haze descended over my vision. I do not know what I might have done in that moment; I fear it might have been something terrible, something I would have regretted ever afterward. However, before I could act, something moved outside the window. It was pale in the gloaming below.

Like a flutter of white cloth.

I let go of Clarette’s wrist and was dimly aware that she rushed away from me, to her brother. The window drew me forward. I leaned on the sill and bent close to the glass.

I had not imagined it! Something moved in the gloaming, away from the house and toward the east. Was it a sheep strayed from its field? No, it went upright, threading over the ground, white tatters streaming behind it. Then, in the time it took to blink my eyes, it was gone. Full dark fell. I saw nothing in the window save my own startled expression.

I turned around. Clarette and Chambley sat on the bed, their arms circled around each other, their eyes wide as if they beheld some horrific sight. Only they were not staring at the window. They were staring at me.

I drew the curtain over the window with a trembling hand. “It is time for bed,” I managed to say. Unable to utter anything more, I left them alone in the room.

T
HE NEXT MORNING I carried a breakfast tray up to their chamber. It was early; the night had been short, and the sky bore just the faintest blush of dawn. However, I had not been able to sleep all night.

I knocked gently and entered. They lay without moving in their beds. Chambley was fast asleep, his small face at peace, his breathing deep and steady. Clarette, I felt, was not sleeping, though her eyes were shut. I set the tray down on the table in the corner, opened the curtain, and sat on the bed beside her. With a hand I smoothed her hair; it was soft and dark, as if spun from shadows.

“I know what it is like to be on one’s own,” I said in a quiet voice. “My father is very ill. He does not know who anyone around him is, not even me. And my mother passed away not long ago.”

There was a rustling across the room as Chambley sat up in bed, his face bleary. “But it’s not the same for you,” he said. “You’re very old.”

I could not help a smile. “I’m not so much older than you, really. Besides, it is hard to be left by one’s parent at any age.”

He rubbed his eyes with a fist. “I want Mother to come back.”

“You know she can’t, Chambley. But she’s watching over you and waiting for you. One day—a long time from now, but one day—you’ll see her again.”

“You mean in Eternum.”

“Yes, in Eternum.”

He shook his head. “But I don’t want to go there. It’s full of ghosts.”

Clarette sat up and looked at her brother. “You’ll be a ghost too, silly, so what will it matter? They can’t scare you if you’re one of them.”

While I could not argue with Clarette’s logic, I did not entirely appreciate her encouraging discourse on the topic of ghosts. However, Chambley laughed.

“Yes, I shall be a ghost too!” He wrapped the bedclothes around himself and made groaning noises while Clarette giggled.

I indulged them for a minute in this play, then held out a hand and urged Chambley to come to me. I put my arm around him as he sat on the bed.

“I owe you both an apology,” I said. “I am very sorry for being so cross with you last night. It was wrong of me. I know you were doing your best to tell me what had happened.”

Clarette looked up at me, frowning. “Do you believe me, then?”

Before I could answer, Chambley was on his knees, bouncing on the bed. “You saw her, didn’t you? You saw
her
out the window.”

I chose my words carefully. I did not want to excite their emotions unduly. “I confess, I did see something—though I could not tell exactly what it was or even if it was a person. Yet it was white and moving east away from the house.”

“I told you,” Clarette said. Her expression was, I thought, a trifle smug.

I did not correct her. “You
did
tell me you had seen something, and I should have taken your words seriously. I promise to do so in the future. But I need you to promise me you will always tell me exactly what you see, no more and no less. Do you promise?”

“I swear it,” Chambley said, crossing his heart.

I looked at Clarette. For a moment she did not move. Then she gave a mute nod. If that was all I was going to get, I would take it.

“You do not need to be afraid,” I said. “You are not alone. If you ever see something that frightens you, you have only to let me know. Do you see? We will keep one another safe.”