The Magicians and Mrs. Quent (7 page)

Why his father had brought him past this place long ago, Eldyn couldn’t remember. Certainly it hadn’t been to hear the priests speak; as far as he knew, his father never willingly crossed the threshold of a church in his life. More likely he had come here to see one of his dodgy acquaintances, someone to whom he owed a gambling debt, or who owed him. He would often drag Eldyn along on such encounters, perhaps with the thought that men were less apt to be violent with a child about. However, more than once Eldyn had seen his father come out of some back room with his jaw dripping red and his grin less a tooth than it had possessed upon entering.

“Come, boy,” he’d say, grabbing Eldyn by the scruff of the neck and shoving him out the door. “Don’t you cry now, or I’ll give you something to truly weep for later.” And with that he would spit blood onto the street, head for the nearest tavern, and drink until he ran out of money. After he was thrown out into the gutter, Eldyn would have to lead him staggering back to whatever dank house they were letting at the time.

It was on one such occasion that they passed by the church of St. Adaris and Eldyn spied the statue. That time his father left him outside while he called on his business associate—some men, Eldyn had learned by then, had no qualms at all about doing violence when a child was watching—and he stood for an hour, staring through the iron fence. A holly tree grew behind the statue, and a pair of branches spread out like dark green wings. Eldyn supposed that was what had made him think the statue was an angel.

As he gazed at it, he wondered who would shoot so beautiful a creature, why it hadn’t spread its wings and flown away, and whether it wept because it hurt or—and Eldyn still didn’t know why this thought had occurred to him—if it wept for the men who had shot the arrows.

The statue wasn’t truly weeping, of course. It was rainwater dirtied by soot, running from the timeworn pits of the statue’s eyes, that had made the black trails down its marble cheeks.

All the same, the statue still held some of that same magick it had for him as a child. Yet it was altered as well, just as Eldyn himself was altered. Despite the black tears, despite the arrows that pierced his side, the expression on the angel’s face no longer seemed one of pain to him but rather one of ecstasy. The ribbon of cloth, so delicately wrought in stone, flowed about his body, clinging between the legs, obscuring but not completely hiding the fullness there.

A noise disturbed him from his trance, and a wedge of dirty yellow light cut across the churchyard. A door had opened in the side of the church. Even as Eldyn watched, one of the priests came out, wearing a black cassock and carrying a basket in his arms. Likely the basket contained the leavings from the night’s meal in the refectory and was bound for the poor box in the alley behind the church.

As the priest drew closer, Eldyn saw that he was not old, as Eldyn had expected for some reason, but was instead a young man. His hair was blond and curling, and his face smooth and not so unlike the angel’s. Eldyn must have taken a step back from the fence, for the priest halted and peered at the shadowed street.

“Who’s there?” he called out.

Eldyn turned, ready to hurry back down the lane.

“You need not fear, friend. The church is open to all. If you wish for God’s blessing, you have only to enter and ask for it.”

Though he did not know why—he had nothing to say to a priest—Eldyn turned back. He had never attended church as a boy. But a few times, on those occasions when Vandimeer had brought him into the Old City only to abandon him, he had slipped inside the doors of St. Galmuth’s and watched from the niche of some nameless saint while the priests performed their rituals.

He could not understand the words they spoke, chanted as they were in high Tharosian, but it seemed to him the sounds that soared up among the arches were somehow beyond words: purer, truer—a language that spoke not to the mind but to the heart. Most of all he had loved the pageantry. He loved the scent of the incense, the vestments of gold and white and scarlet, the candles, and the silver font on the altar. He loved the way the priests moved: slowly, deliberately, as if even the slightest flick of a finger carried meaning.

When he was sixteen, he told his father he wished to enter the priesthood. That had earned him a laugh and the back of a hand across his mouth. “No son of mine will ever be a priest,” his father said. “I’d sooner break your neck than give you over to those simpering prats. Get that idea out of your head, boy. You’ll follow me to the pits of the Abyss, you will—if I don’t send you there first.”

He had never asked his father about it again, and in time Eldyn had forgotten about his wish to enter the priesthood. But now, as he stood there in the gathering dusk, the forgotten desires came back to him. Was that why he had come here? He longed to breathe in the incense again, to touch the cool water in the font, to let it wash away the taint upon him.

Eldyn stepped from the shadows. The young priest appeared startled, but only for a moment; then he smiled, and so beautiful did the expression render him that he seemed a statue himself. Eldyn opened his mouth to speak, but at that moment another figure appeared in the doorway.

“What are you doing, Brother Dercent?” This one was short and squat, and his voice was coarse. “Are you talking to someone out there? Who is it?”

Whatever magick had gripped Eldyn was dispelled. What had he been thinking? A peaceful life within the walls of a church was closed to him. Even if the priesthood would accept one as old as he, he had not the funds to pay the required endowment. Besides, who would take care of Sashie? Eldyn shrank back from the fence. The younger priest seemed about to speak, but the newcomer was faster.

“Has one of them come again from Durrow Street to mock us? You should have called for me at once.” The priest hurried down the steps and pushed past the younger man, the one called Dercent. He shook a fat fist in Eldyn’s direction. “I see you lurking there in the shadows. They cannot conceal you from the light of God. Begone, daemon. By all the saints, I command you. Go back to your houses of sin and trouble us no more!”

A shame welled up in Eldyn, as it had earlier that day outside the moneylender’s office. Surely the elder priest had mistaken him for someone—something—he was not. All the same, the full force of those words fell upon him, and as if there was power in that invocation, as if he were indeed a wicked thing deserving to be cast out, Eldyn found himself retreating.

“That’s right,” the elder priest called after him. “You have no power here, fiend. Begone!”

Folding the shadows around himself, Eldyn turned away from the priests and the angel and slunk into the night.

CHAPTER FOUR

H
ALF A MONTH had gone by since the unexpected visitors appeared at the door of the house on Whitward Street. Though each twilight Ivy looked out the window, she never saw a pair of tall men in dark capes walking up the street, and no one called at their front gate.

A few times she considered asking her mother about the men. Then she remembered the fearful look she had seen in Mrs. Lockwell’s eyes that night and held her tongue. Nor could she ask Mr. Lockwell. He never answered her questions, and the one time she did mention that some men had come to the door, he grew agitated, snatching books from the shelves in the attic and tearing out their pages, and it took her over an hour to calm him.

Just after the turn of the month, there came a series of particularly long nights interspersed by brief days. The weather grew chilly with so little sun to warm the world, and a mist rolled out of the west. By the fourth such night—an umbral of twenty-two hours—it grew so cold that the rain turned to snow, and when dawn finally came it found all of Invarel glazed with white.

They kept to the parlor on the second floor as much as possible so they would not have to heat the upper stories, save for Mr. Lockwell’s room. Since it was too cold to be out of doors, they found what activities they could within. There were linens to mend, and Lily’s charity basket had languished in a corner for so long that Miss Mew had taken it for a bed. Ivy urged Lily to remove the cat and pull out the basket of half-finished shirts so she might complete some of her work.

“Mighty Loerus!” Lily exclaimed as she pricked her finger for the third time that day. She had copied the bad habit of swearing by extinct Tharosian gods from a romance she had read in which the hero did the same. “It’s so dark in here I can’t see what I’m doing. Did you misread the almanac, Ivy? I thought you said nightfall was hours off.”

“It’s the fog that makes it so dim,” Ivy said, peering at her own sewing in the wan light. “But tonight is to be a long umbral and tomorrow short again, so we’d best sew as much as we can while we have any sun at all.”

“We could light candles,” Lily said.

“Candles are for night, not day.”

“Well, it’s nearly dark as night, so I think we should light some.”

“Not when they cost as much as they do. Move closer to the window, and you’ll be able to see better.”

“It’s too cold by the window.”

“You can share my lap blanket. Now, come here and sit down.”

With much dragging of feet, Lily did so, plopping her basket down beside her. “I don’t know who would want to wear these ugly shirts anyway.”

“There are many who will be grateful to have new garments, however simple,” Ivy said. “Not everyone in the city is so fortunate as we are. Besides, Rose’s shirts aren’t ugly at all. They’re quite handsome.”

Rose looked up from her work and smiled at Ivy. No matter how dark the room, her needle always set neat, even stitches in the cloth. “I always have light when you’re near, Ivy,” she said.

Ivy smiled back at her, then bent her head over her sewing. Before long Lily let out a sigh, crumpled her shirt back into the charity basket, and went to the pianoforte, where she commenced practicing all her most dolorous chords.

Mrs. Lockwell entered a short while later, huffing for breath after coming up the stairs. “Oh, it’s so dark in here!” she exclaimed. “I can hardly see my hand if I wave it before my face. Light a candle, Lily. Or two or three. And put more wood on the fire, Ivy. We shall freeze to death!”

Lily gave Ivy a smug look, then flounced about the parlor, lighting candles. Ivy said nothing and did as her mother asked.

After that, their work proceeded more easily, with more laughter and fewer needle pricks, and Ivy tried not to think of the extra cost of the wood and candles. She decided a little tea would be a welcome reward for their work—Lily had finally been coerced into finishing a shirt—and went down to the kitchen to prepare a pot.

As she started up the stairs, she heard the bell at the front gate ring; the post had come. Ivy wrapped her shawl around her shoulders, braving the bitter air to retrieve the post from the box, then hurried up to the warmth of the parlor.

“Here’s the tea,” she said, setting the tray on the table. “And the post as well.”

Lily leaped up from the bench at the pianoforte. “Is there anything addressed to me?”

She always seemed to think there would be a letter for her, though from whom it might come, Ivy couldn’t imagine. The cold had been so shocking, Ivy hadn’t taken time to look at the post. She picked it up from the tray. There were two letters, neither of them for Lily.

“There’s one here for Father,” she said in surprise.

Ivy held up the letter. The address was written in a formal—if rather cramped—hand and was sealed with a circle of red wax. Before Ivy could turn the letter over and read the sender’s name, Mrs. Lockwell plucked it from her grasp.

“I’ll take that,” she said, and without looking at it tucked the letter into the pocket of her apron. “Now, pour the tea, Lily, before it turns to ice.”

“Who is the other letter from?” Rose asked.

Ivy tried not to think of the letter her mother had whisked away and picked up the other. “It’s from our cousin, Mr. Wyble,” she said.

“A letter from Mr. Wyble?” Mrs. Lockwell said in a tone that might have frosted the windowpanes if they hadn’t been already. “What an unexpected pleasure. Usually he chooses to inflict himself upon us in person.”

Lily giggled but clapped a hand to her mouth at a sharp look from Ivy. “Would you like to read it, Mother?” Ivy said, holding out the letter, but Mrs. Lockwell shook her head.

“You read it to us, Ivoleyn. My eyes are too poor for this light. And perhaps his words will be improved coming from your lips.”

Ivy doubted that would be the case, but she did her best to inject a note of enthusiasm into her voice as she held the letter close to a candle and read aloud. It was written in an overlarge and effusive hand, which, though a strain on the eye, meant the letter was thankfully not very long despite its several pages.

“To my beloved Aunt Lockwell and my cherished cousins,”
Ivy read,
“submitted with most felicitous greetings and a fervent wish for your continued happiness and well-being.”

“I hardly think he wishes for
my
continued well-being,” Mrs. Lockwell exclaimed. “For the longer I continue to be well, the longer this house will continue to not be
his
.”

Ivy chose to ignore this comment and kept reading.

“I regret that I was unable to pay you a visit this month past, as is my usual custom. My occupation, as you know, requires my fullest attention. I must always be at my law books, for it is my duty to know of every regulation and statute there is. Indeed, there is no rule too minor, obscure, or dull that I will not spend hours and hours reading all that there is about it.”

“And then spend hours and hours telling us about it,” Lily said with a groan.

Ivy cast her a sharp look, though she had to admit, Mr. Wyble
did
have a tendency to expound at length upon legal philosophy when he visited.

“While my schedule would have permitted me to pay you a visit around the middle of the month, another opportunity was presented to me, which, I am sure once the particulars are heard, you must judge was the wisest investment of my time. Recently I had the good fortune to be of service to Lady Marsdel, a most noble personage of the highest degree. In her extreme—dare I say, almost overpowering—generosity, she invited me to an affair at her house in the New Quarter. There I was happy to make the acquaintance of many remarkable and important persons.”

“More important persons than us, it seems,” Mrs. Lockwell said with a frown as she poured a cup of tea.

Despite his profession of affection for his aunt and cousins, it was clear that going to a party had been more important to Mr. Wyble than visiting family. Not that Ivy felt they should complain, and certainly Lily would speak the praises of anything that kept Mr. Wyble away. She glanced over the next few pages and saw that there was a great deal about the affair at Lady Marsdel’s. Ivy decided it judicious to offer a brief summary and get to the end of the letter.

“It seems the party at Lady Marsdel’s offered much amusement,” she said, turning to the last page.
“And in close, it is my intention to visit you this month—if other obligations allow—and when I come I hope to bring with me a delightful new friend whose acquaintance I made at Lady Marsdel’s and whose introduction I am certain you would enjoy as much as I have. Until then, I am yours in every regard. Mr. Balfineus Wyble.”

Ivy set down the letter and saw that Lily wore a horrified expression.

“An acquaintance of Mr. Wyble’s!” she exclaimed in a fair imitation of one of their mother’s outbursts. “How awful! Can you imagine what a friend of Mr. Wyble’s must be like?”

Ivy smiled. “I confess, I am
more
confounded by the fact that Mr. Wyble can have a friend at all.”

At last, their mirth subsided to a point where they could resume their sewing, while Mrs. Lockwell went downstairs to see what Mrs. Murch was doing now that might put the edibility of their supper at peril.

“It was kind of our cousin to write,” Ivy said, extinguishing several of the candles as soon as their mother left the room. She meant what she said; a kind deed must always be appreciated, no matter what one thought of the doer. “I am glad he has made some acquaintances he admires.”

Lily clipped a thread with her teeth. “And I hope he admires them so much that he spends all his time with them and never comes to call on us again!”

D
ESPITE MRS. LOCKWELL’S fears, disaster was somehow once again averted, and Mrs. Murch’s supper was excellent, though it was a close call, for the salt and sugar jars had mysteriously been swapped—no doubt by an act of Cassity’s. As a result, they had nearly dined upon candied beef and salt-crusted plums.

After supper, Ivy went up to her father’s room. Mr. Lockwell sat in a chair by the window, dressed in the same suit of gray wool that Wilbern always put him in. He made no sound or motion as she entered but rather sat rigid, staring through the glass into the night. Ivy knelt beside his chair and smoothed his shock of white hair, which seemed to grow tangled no matter how still he sat, as if it had a life and will of its own.

“What is it you see out there, Father?” she asked cheerfully.

His hand was limp in hers, and his eyes were as dark as the window glass. Ivy rose, kissed his brow, and left the room, shutting the door quietly behind her.

She went up to the attic to see if Mr. Lockwell had pulled out any books again. However, everything was in place, though she did notice that her father must have been working the celestial globe, for the two outermost spheres were lodged against each other again. It pained her to see this, for as a man of science her father had well understood the workings of the heavens, and he would have known that the furthest two planets never appeared next to each other in the sky.

When she was a girl, her father had delighted in giving her riddles and puzzles to solve.
Use your wits, Ivy,
he would tell her.
Any problem can be solved through the application of sound reasoning.
Despite this advice, she often became frustrated when trying to solve one of her father’s riddles. At such times he would give her a hint or a small clue—something to spark her imagination and help her arrive at an answer. But there would be no hint to help her with
this
puzzle.

She touched the arms on which the balls were mounted, listening to the whir of gears from deep within the globe as she moved them apart. Then she went downstairs.

She found Wilbern in the kitchen, finishing a late supper with Mrs. Murch, and let him know her father was ready for bed. Mrs. Lockwell had already retired, complaining that “If I am this weary when the days are brief, I hardly know how I’ll make it through even a middle lumenal when we next have longer days!”