The Magicians and Mrs. Quent (60 page)

The place was frightening. Their room was a dank cell with no glazing over the window, only iron bars and a rotted shutter. There was a bed, but the thing was so infested with vermin that they leaned it in a corner and slept on a pair of wooden benches instead. He used one of the tattered blankets he had scrounged as a curtain to close off half of the room for Sashie’s privacy, but it was hardly needed; they slept in their clothes, for the place was damp and cold.

The only advantage of the boardinghouse was that there was little chance of Sashie venturing out while he was gone and encountering Westen; she was terrified to leave the room. Especially at night, the boardinghouse was filled with moans, hard laughter, and often the distant sound of screaming. They kept the door bolted at all times, and Sashie would admit him only upon seeing his face through a crack in the door.

The other advantage was that he doubted Westen would think to look for them in such a wretched place. Whether that was the case or not, he saw no sign of the highwayman during the three awful weeks they spent there. At last, when they were down to their final pennies, Eldyn had obtained the position at Sadent, Mornden, & Bayle. He had removed Sashie from the boardinghouse at once and had let the small apartment over the shoemaker’s shop.

Nor was it a moment too soon. The next week, in one of the broadsheets, he read how a fire had swept through that very same boardinghouse, killing more than a dozen of its residents who could not escape their rooms. He had not told Sashie.

In the months since, he had sometimes wondered if he should move them again. Westen might find them if they remained in one place for too long. However, as the weeks went by and he saw no sign of the highwayman, his dread lessened. He began to think it likely that Westen was no longer in the city. Perhaps he had even been shot and killed by soldiers or one of his would-be victims, though Eldyn was fairly certain he would have read about such an incident in the broadsheets.

Besides, Eldyn did not want to make Sashie move again. Nor did he think he could find them a better place given his current salary. As the weeks became months, he had even begun to think Westen had forgotten about them. Surely the highwayman had other schemes and concerns to occupy his attention. And what was a hundred regals to
him
? He had only to rob another coach to earn thrice that.

Leaving the busier thoroughfares behind, Eldyn walked among the shadows of Cowper’s Lane, climbed the back stairs to their apartment, and unlocked the door.

“There you are!” Sashie gasped as he entered, rising from her seat by the little window that looked out over the street. “I didn’t see you come up the street. Though I don’t know how I didn’t see you. I’ve sat here for hours and hours staring out.”

He grimaced. Out of habit, he must have unwittingly woven the shadows around himself as he walked along the lane.

“I expected you hours ago,” she said, without giving him a moment to speak. “I was on the verge of going out to look for you.”

Alarm filled him. “You know you aren’t to go out alone. Not in this part of the city. It isn’t—”

“I don’t care what it is. You can’t keep me shut up in here. The sound of hammering comes right through the floor. You don’t hear it—the shop is closed by the time you come home—but I hear it all day, every day, for hours and hours. They pound on the shoes, pound,
pound
.” She lifted her hands to her temples. “It’s driving me mad.”

He moved to her. “I’m sorry, dearest. I know it’s hard to be here alone. But my free day is soon; I’ll take you out. We can go for a walk along the Promenade. Or I’ll take you to Gauldren’s Heights. We’ll go to one of the shops Uphill and buy you a new dress.”

“I don’t need another dress,” she said, pawing at the pale blue frock she wore, which he had bought her with a full three days’ wages. She looked very pretty in it despite her anguish. “What need have I of dresses in
here
where no one can see me?”

He winced as she flung these words at him. It had distressed him at the Golden Loom when she refused to speak to him, but he was not certain her new manner was an improvement. For a time, after they moved here, she had been so grateful to leave the boardinghouse that she had been a meek, even docile thing, showering him with kisses each time he returned home. However, that appreciation had not lasted, and over the last months her tongue had grown increasingly sharp.

“I need to go out,” she cried, then her anger became pleading. “Please, dear brother, please take me out. I’m so lonely here, I cannot bear it!”

Sobbing, she flung herself into his arms, and he could not say this did not please him. He held her close, petted her, and murmured little things to soothe her: how one day soon she would put on her prettiest dress, and he would take her out to the grandest street for all the world to see, and they would sit in the window of the most fashionable shop and have cakes and tea.

“Why can I not go out tomorrow?” she sobbed against his gray coat. He tried not to worry that her tears might ruin it, for he had only recently bought it.

“You know it is not proper for a young lady of worth to go out alone,” he said, gently chiding.

Yet it was more than that, for how could she be trusted? Sashie was a sweet and impressionable creature. Despite all of Eldyn’s admonitions, what would happen if she were to encounter
him
on the street? A few pretty words from
him,
and all Eldyn’s warnings might be forgotten in an instant.

“Soon,” he promised her again. “I will take you out soon.”

She nodded but said nothing, and pushed away from him. He noted that her face was not at all wet with tears, and his coat was unspoiled. She returned again to her seat by the window, listless now that her outburst had subsided, and gazed out into the night.

Eldyn went to the nook behind a curtain that served for his bedchamber and carefully hung his new coat on a chair. He poured water into a bowl, splashed some on his face, then regarded himself in the scrap of mirror. He had gotten very pale for lack of sun, and these days his shoulders, like his fingers, were habitually curled. He made an effort to force them back, then stepped around the curtain.

“Is there anything to eat?” he asked softly.

Her eyes still on the window, Sashie made a vague gesture toward the table. There, beneath a cloth, he found a cold pork pie and a plate of stewed apples. A woman came in regularly to do the cooking and cleaning, for Sashie could not be compelled to do anything. While Eldyn sometimes fretted at the cost, he did not regret it at that moment, for he was fiercely hungry. He sat, poured himself a cup of thin red wine, then ate until there was not a speck of food left. Belatedly, he wondered if Sashie had supped.

“You have already eaten, haven’t you, dearest?”

“I have no appetite,” she replied. “I am going to bed.”

She rose, crossed to him, and brushed her cool lips across his cheek; then she went to the door of the little antechamber that served for her private room.

“Would you mind, then?” Eldyn said, swallowing. “That is, if you are retiring, would you be disappointed if I went out?”

His sister shrugged, then went into her room. The sound of the latch being drawn was loud amid the silence.

Eldyn winced, but if she was going to shut herself in her room, what use was there in staying here? He retrieved his coat, made certain his hair was arranged, then left the apartment, locking the door behind him.

E
LDYN HAD NOT meant to come here.

He had thought to go to the old church of St. Adaris, to gaze at the statue of the martyr St. Andelthy, and then perhaps venture to the Sword and Leaf. If the sight of an angel did not lift his spirits, perhaps a cup of the devil’s brew would. However, the route from Cowper’s Lane to the corner of the Old City where St. Adaris stood took him across Durrow Street. The theaters were just opening for the night, and light and chiming music filled the air.

Eldyn meant to cross the street and continue on. Only then he passed a young man in a powdered wig and a red coat standing on a corner. Tiny birds the color of jewels flitted about the other’s head and alighted on his hands. Sometimes they vanished in a flash, then reappeared moments later, opening their throats to emit a sweet trilling music.

“Do you want to come in?” the young man said, his lips, as red as his coat, parting in a smile. One of the birds flew from his hand and into the open door of the theater. Eldyn realized he had been staring. “It’s only a quarter regal to enter.”

Eldyn shook his head. “I don’t have that much money with me.” He had brought ten pennies—just enough to buy a pot of punch. A quarter regal was half a day’s wages! He started to move away.

“Are you certain you don’t have enough?” the young man said. “Why don’t you check your pockets?”

Eldyn gaped, not understanding.

The other laughed. “Would you like me to check them for you?”

Now Eldyn did understand, and he blushed. He reached into his coat pockets, thinking to turn them out so the young man would leave him alone.

His left hand came out with a silver coin.

Eldyn turned the coin over in his fingers. The two sides caught the shimmering light in alternation: first the sun, then the moon, then the sun again. He had forgotten about the coin; he must have put it in his pocket when he traded the old coat for this new and had not thought of it since. Now he recalled that night at the Sword and Leaf and how the pretty young woman had given it to him. Only she hadn’t been a woman at all.

Eldyn looked up at the other, startled. The young illusionist smiled.

“You need no other token than that,” he said, taking the coin from Eldyn’s hand. “Why did you not show it to me sooner? You are an honored guest here at the Theater of the Doves! Come inside, come inside.”

And before Eldyn could think to resist, the young man led him through the doors of the theater, into the dimness beyond.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

I
T WAS EARLY, and the gates were not yet open.

Ivy paced on the street, pausing every few moments to look through the iron bars to see if anyone was coming. The narrow yard was empty, the building beyond silent.

She had left Whitward Street in the dark, but the lumenal was to be brief, and the air had already gone gray by the time the hack cab dropped her off at the end of a shabby lane in Lowpark. Elsewhere in the city, the buildings crowded against one another, jostling and vying to occupy a sliver of the high ground above the river. However, here the various structures shrank away from the gray edifice at the end of the lane, leaving a void around its walls.

Again Ivy peered through the bars, but she saw no one. It had been five days since her return to the city, and waiting this long to see her father had been unbearable. However, she had been given no choice; these gates opened to visitors only once each quarter month. All the same, she would wait not a moment longer than she had to and so had come early, to be here as the gates were unlocked.

Not far beyond the city’s edge, a rooster called out. A ray of sunlight sidled down the lane, and though it seemed to shun the colorless stones, it set ablaze a bronze plaque on the wall. In contrast to the rust-specked bars, the plaque was polished to a sheen. The words inscribed on it read:
THE MADDERLY–STONEWORTH HOSTEL FOR THE DERANGED
. Not that anyone in Invarel called the building by that name. If one ever had the misfortune to come to this place, it was said of them only, “They’re up at Madstone’s now.”

A groan of metal startled Ivy. Dazzled by the sunlight off the plaque, she had not seen as a man approached the gate. Or perhaps she had not seen him because he wore a suit the same color (or, rather, similarly lacking in color) as the walls of the building. The man withdrew a large key from the lock, then pushed the gate partway open.

Ivy managed to draw a breath. “I’m here to see my—”

“I can deduce who you’re here to see.”

She shook her head, too puzzled to reply.

“Only the newest ones get visitors,” he said, fitting the large key back onto the ring at his belt. “That’s how I knew. Come this way, Miss…?”

“Mrs. Quent,” she said, and followed him through the gate.

Ivy did not discover the man’s name, but as they entered the building she learned that he was the day warden at the hostel and that he had been in the position for twenty years. His face was neither cheerful nor sorrowful, weary nor curious; indeed, it bore little expression at all.

They reached a door. A pair of large men in gray smocks stood to either side; their necks were brutish, the backs of their hands thick with coarse hair.

“It is best if you do not look into the cells,” the day warden said, pulling another large key from the ring and fitting it into the door. “Walk directly behind me, and keep to the center of the corridor. Do not stray toward the bars. Above all, do not respond to anything you might hear. Do not nod, do not glance, do not speak in reply no matter what is directed toward you. Do you understand, Miss…?”

“Mrs. Quent,” she gasped, but the day warden had already opened the door and passed through. She hurried after. He shut and locked the door behind them, then started down a corridor.

It was dim, as she had imagined it would be, and the air was oppressive with foul scents, as she had also imagined and for which she had prepared herself. It was the noise she had not expected.

The sound assaulted her at once: a tumult of shouts, of keening, of laughter, of howls and groans, moans and grunts, and wordless jabberings whose purpose or cause—or even the very mechanism by which they were formed and uttered—she could not begin to guess. The clamor echoed and reechoed off the arched ceiling, doubling, trebling, cementing itself into a wall of sound as solid, as imprisoning, as any structure of stone.

Ivy halted, stunned for a moment by the din, but the day warden had kept moving. He was already several paces ahead, and she started after him. As she did, arms snaked out between the bars to either side. So narrow was the corridor that only by walking in the very middle could she avoid their reach.

Remembering the day warden’s admonitions, she kept her gaze fixed on his back. All the same, out of the corners of her eyes, she was aware of forms huddling or writhing in the dimness beyond the bars. Nor could she prevent herself from hearing the things that were screamed or wailed or hissed as she passed—terrible things, the imploring no less so than the violent. They would give her anything if she would help; they would slit her throat if she would not. They could see through her skin; she was gray as ash inside. She should strike the warden down and take his keys; she was an angel and must do the work God had sent her here to do—she must set fire to this place.

At last the day warden turned down a side passage. This was narrower and lined not by open cells but rather by shut doors, each with a small iron plate set into it. The cacophony did not fade, but it lessened a bit, such that Ivy could hear the day warden when he said, “Here it is—Number Twenty-Nine-Thirty-Seven. Violent fits and hallucinations alternating with periods of profound catatonia.”

Ivy stared at him. “Do you not know his name?”

“We find it is better to catalog our patients according to the order of their arrival, as well as the nature of their affliction.”

“But how can you help a person if you do not know who he is?”

“It is not people we are here to help but rather their conditions. It is not the patient that is important but rather the symptoms he or she manifests.” The warden’s face, previously impassive, became animated. “By setting aside consideration of the person and reserving all attention for the affliction, we can reach a purer understanding of the essence of the malady and can examine it impartially, without any distraction. It is the latest medical technique. We are a very modern facility, as I’m sure you will agree, Miss…?”

“Mrs. Quent,” she whispered, her throat tight.

But he had already turned his back to her. He slid the iron plate in the door to one side, revealing a window—or a hole, rather, too small to put even a hand through.

“You’re in luck,” he said, peering inside. “The subject appears to be awake.” He stepped away from the door and motioned for her to approach.

“Can I not enter?”

“That’s quite impossible. We can’t allow anything that could interfere with the subject while he is in the initial stages of observation. It might contaminate his behavior and thus lead to a misunderstanding of the nature of his affliction.”

These words were a blow. Ivy could not believe it was observation he needed. All the same, observe him she must, to see for herself that he was, if not well, at least alive. She drew a breath and peered through the opening in the door.

Shock struck her anew. “He is bound! But why?”

“It is for his own well-being that he is restrained. He was very agitated when he was brought to us.”

Of course he was agitated,
Ivy wanted to cry out. He had been removed from his home, separated from his family, forced beyond the door through which he had not set foot in over ten years. If he had struggled, then it had been only as anyone struggles when subjected against their will to pain and terror. However, she did not say these things; they would be wasted upon the day warden. She made herself become calm. If he saw her face in the opening, then she wanted it to be the familiar and reassuring thing he knew. Again, she approached the door.

“Hello, Father!” she called out softly. “It is your daughter—it’s Ivy.”

If Mr. Lockwell heard her, he did not show it. He sat slumped in a chair, which was the only object in the room and to which he was bound by strips of cloth around the chest, the wrists, the ankles. His hair was matted against his skull, and he had not been shaven. His face was slack and drooping; his eyes stared without focus.

Ivy wanted to weep; instead, she affected a cheerful tone. “I’ve come back to the city, and I won’t be leaving again. You needn’t worry about Lily and Rose. They are well, though they miss you very much. We all miss you. And I have news to tell you—such wonderful news.” It seemed he lifted his head a bit, and this heartened her. “I’m Mrs. Quent now. Are you surprised? No more than I am, Father. He will be coming to the city soon, and when he does we will all dwell together and be happier than you can imagine. So do not worry. In no time at all you will leave this place and come to live with—”

The day warden slid the iron plate shut so quickly she barely had time to step back to avoid losing part of her nose.

“Telling the subject lies is not to be tolerated,” he said. “It can only reinforce his delusions.”

“Lies?” she gasped. “What lies have I told him?”

“That he will leave here anytime soon is impossible. His derangement is of the severest nature. You must not give him hope.”

“How can it harm him to have hope? Why should he not believe that he is leaving here, that he is going home?”

He shook his head. “I can see your cousin was right to have your father consigned to us. I only hope it is not too late. He told me that he suspected the subject’s delusions had been reinforced by his family for years—an intelligent man, your cousin. It is a sad fact that often, in the desire to aid, the subject’s intimate relations only inflict more harm. You do not seem to understand that your father is a very ill man, Miss—what was it?”

This time it was
her
voice that rang off the hard ceiling. “My name is Mrs. Quent!”

The day warden’s eyes narrowed as he regarded her, then he nodded. However, all he said was, “You may come back next quarter month if you wish.” Then he turned and started back down the corridor.

Ivy cast one last glance at the shut door, then followed after the warden, back toward the screams and the laughter.

S
HE RETURNED TO Whitward Street to find it as silent as the hostel had been cacophonous, and in its way as oppressive. Fearing the housekeeper or her husband would be lurking in the kitchen, she hurried up the stairs. As she passed the parlor she heard Mr. Wyble call out to her in greeting. Her every instinct was to keep climbing, but as they were required to dwell with him for a short while longer, she knew she must be civil with him. She stopped in the door of the parlor but did not go in.

“I know why you were going upstairs so quickly,” he said. He sat in a chair by the window, a book open on his lap.

“You do?” she said, wondering if he had at last come to apprehend the grievous blow he had struck to them all.

“Indeed,” he said cheerfully. “It is my job as a lawyer to understand the motivations of others. You are aware it is not your day to have the parlor, and so you were concerned that entering to greet me might make it appear as if you had a wish to spend time in here. Out of propriety, so there could be no misconstruing, you thought to hurry past. You are very conscientious, cousin, but we are family. You need not be
so
formal. If you would like to come in and sit for a quarter hour, I should hardly mind it at all.”

Ivy gripped the door frame to steady herself. “Thank you for your offer, but I must see to my sisters.” Without waiting for a reply, she turned and dashed up the stairs.

She found them in Rose’s room. Lily was tearing off the ribbons from one of her gowns, while Rose sat by the window, Miss Mew on her lap.

Ivy took off her bonnet. “I saw Father,” she said. “He is very—” She thought of the day warden, of what he had said about telling lies to appease. But, no—she would not hold anything
he
had said in regard. “He is very well. You must not worry for him, and remember what I said: Mr. Quent will be coming to the city soon. When he does, he will bring Father to us, and we will all live together.”

Rose said nothing, only continuing to pet the tortoiseshell cat, while Lily swore an oath.

“I can’t undo this knot. It’s ruined, the whole frock is ruined. Not that it matters. No one will ever see me in it anyway!” She crumpled up the dress, then stood and brushed past Ivy. “I’m going to my room.”