The Magicians and Mrs. Quent (79 page)

And I’ll have learned more by then,
he thought, twisting the ring on his right hand.
Much more…

“You look very determined all of a sudden,” Mrs. Baydon said. “Are you scheming something, Mr. Rafferdy?”

“Only whether to buy a new coat before a new hat, or the other way around.”

With that he rose, called for his cane, and begged his leave of Lady Marsdel. This was granted, if grudgingly, and he went out into the bright afternoon.

He had promised to dine with his father that night, for Lord Rafferdy was still in the city. Although the lumenal was not long, he still had several hours to waste, so he walked along the Promenade, past gardens of flowers and groups of young women, all similarly clad in color. However, none of them caught his eye.

Lord Rafferdy had not told him why he thought the rebels had been plotting against him. When the anonymous letter arrived at Warwent Square, Rafferdy had thought it some sort of prank, but there was something about the urgency with which it was written that had caused him to show it to his father, and Lord Rafferdy had taken it seriously.

Which was fortunate. As it turned out, there had indeed been an attack planned against Lord Rafferdy upon Mr. Quent’s return to Invarel. However, the king’s men had been ready, and the rebels had been apprehended. Rafferdy could only believe the threat against his father had passed.

Yet why had those men sought to harm him in the first place? Rafferdy had never wanted to know the nature of his father’s business, had studiously avoided it. Since the thwarted attack, however, he could not help wondering exactly what sort of work it was that his father did for the Crown, with which Mr. Quent assisted him.

The lord inquirer.
That was the person Mrs. Quent had come to the Silver Branch to meet that day—the person who had been none other than Lord Rafferdy himself. Of what sort of things was he an inquirer? Was it for these inquiries that the rebels had wished to do away with him? Perhaps tonight, if his father spoke again of duties and responsibilities, Rafferdy would not be so quick to change the subject.

He looked up as a cart rattled by, and he realized he was no longer in the New Quarter but instead walked through the narrow ways of the Old City. Perhaps he should go to the Sword and Leaf and see if Eldyn Garritt was there. It would be good to meet with his old friend, to have a drink, and to laugh a bit.

However, as he turned a corner onto a broader way, he realized it was not in search of his friend Garritt that his feet had unwittingly brought him here. Just ahead was an iron fence and high hedges of green. It was Durrow Street he walked down now, and not twenty paces away was a wrought-iron gate.

At that moment a black carriage came to a halt before the gate. Rafferdy ducked into the cover of a doorway, then peered back out. A man exited the carriage. He was neither tall nor handsome and wore a brown suit that could only generously be described as old-fashioned. His shoulders were thick and rather slumped, and behind a coarse beard his face was grim—though, Rafferdy thought, not unkind.

Indeed, as he reached into the coach to help another, lither figure exit, that beard parted in a smile, and he looked younger than he had a moment before. The object of his attention smiled in return, a very pretty expression and one that Rafferdy, not so long ago, would have given much to have received for his own.

The young woman stepped into the street, the skirt of her green dress swirling around her like leaves. She started to accompany the bearded man toward the gate, only then she paused, looking over her shoulder in the direction where Rafferdy stood. He shrank back into the alcove, counting twenty heartbeats. Then he peered around the corner again.

The carriage was gone, the street empty.

He stood there for a minute, looking at the closed gate. At last he took a breath and made his way back down the street. It wasn’t far to the Sword and Leaf, and he still had several hours before it was time to meet his father. He might as well go to the tavern. And who knew? That rascal Eldyn Garritt might even show up while he was there.

“If he does, it’s his turn to buy the punch,” he said aloud.

This thought cheered Rafferdy greatly. He gave his cane a toss, caught it in his hand, then went to get himself a drink.

T
HE LUMENAL HAD ended long ago, but twilight lingered for hours, and the night was only just begun.

Usually Ivy felt a feeling of oppression when the almanac told her it was to be a long umbral: an irrational but nevertheless persuasive dread that the night would never end, that
day
was only a fantasy she had made up, a notion conjured from imagination and books, and that all there ever had been and ever would be was darkness. However, she did not feel that way tonight. As far as Ivy was concerned, a greatnight could not possibly have hours enough.

Then again, it wouldn’t matter how long the night was if he did not cease working at his business.

“So you think me terribly dull, do you, then, Mrs. Quent?”

Ivy blinked, sitting up in her chair. “What in the world do you mean? I think no such thing.”

“Is that the case? Then why did you yawn so prodigiously just now?”

She put a hand to her mouth, realizing it was so.

He tapped his pen against the ink bottle and wrote another line on the parchment before him. “Indeed, considering the evidence, you must have concluded I am dull to an exceeding degree. How could you not? For here before you is a man who has not seen his new wife in over a month—and she is a very charming wife, it should be noted. Now night has finally come, yet he continues to sit at his desk writing letters.”

“I’m sure they are very important letters.”

“They are. But to a young wife they should seem only to be tedious things, pointless and utterly silly.”

She laughed. “I am sure nothing
you
do is silly, Mr. Quent.”

He looked up, displaying a sudden grin. With his hair and beard being somewhat in need of trimming, he looked suddenly quite wild, like a faun from a Tharosian play, scheming mischief. She had never seen him like this. All her affections, which had filled her upon his return to the city, were renewed even more strongly, and warmly, than before.

“Perhaps I can prove you wrong, Mrs. Quent,” he said. “But first—” He sighed. “First I must continue to be dull and finish one last missive.”

She rose from her chair. “In that case, I will go say good night to my sisters. If I desire some silliness, I am certain at least one of them will be able to comply.”

However, he had already bent back over the desk. Her smile faded, and for a moment she could not help being reminded of how his work had so often taken him away from Heathcrest, leaving her alone. Ivy left the room, quietly shutting the door behind her.

They had taken the uppermost rooms at the Seventh Swan, an inn not far from the Halls of Assembly. It was a fine establishment—perhaps overly fine, Ivy thought, given that some of the other guests were from the families of magnates. Nor did she think Lily and Rose required their own rooms. But Mr. Quent had insisted. He said that since both were ladies grown, they each deserved a private chamber.

Ivy thought Mr. Quent was under the mistaken impression that Lily was older than sixteen (having just had her birthday). However, she reconsidered when this announcement won him a great amount of admiration on Lily’s part and even an enthusiastic kiss on his bearded cheek. For her part, Rose was astonished beyond words, but her beaming smile spoke clearly.

“You are not so unfamiliar with the manners of young women as you would have others believe,” Ivy told him. “If it was your intention to win their affections, you’ve certainly succeeded.”

“I trust if I gain their affection, it will be through deeds that are more deserving than merely spoiling them with their own rooms.”

Yet he had seemed pleased and could not hide his own smile.

Now, leaving the chamber she shared with Mr. Quent, Ivy went first to Lily’s room. Upon entering, she found her sister surrounded by candles, a book upon her knees. Lily hardly glanced up from the book when Ivy spoke—for, she said rather breathlessly, the footman had just been revealed as Baron Valandry’s long-lost son, which meant the contessa could marry him after all. Ivy told her good night and started to blow out one of the candles, only then she smiled and left it burning instead.

She went to Rose’s room next, knocking softly, and when there was no answer she took the liberty of entering. Rose lay on the bed, still in her frock, curled up with Miss Mew. Both of them were fast asleep. The excitement of these last few days must have finally taken its toll.

Quietly, Ivy moved to the bed. She scratched Miss Mew behind the ears, and the cat let out a great yawn. Then Ivy looked down at Rose; her sister’s face was soft and peaceful with sleep. Ivy wondered—how many times had she awakened to see Rose gazing down at her? Only this time it was Ivy who kept watch in the night.

“Do not fear, dearest,” she said softly. “He will take care of us all. I promise you that.”

Rose did not stir, but her lips curved slightly. Ivy laid a blanket over her, then left the room, shutting the door without a sound.

While the inn was a comfortable place—and certainly preferable to dwelling under one roof with Mr. Wyble—she would be glad when the four of them could leave it. They had gone to the old house on Durrow Street earlier that day to make a survey of it. Mr. Quent had said that it looked to be in solid condition, and while some work would be necessary to reopen the house, it would not be long before they were able to move. Ivy looked forward to that day, and the only thing that would make it more joyous was if it was not four of them who went to live on Durrow Street but five.

However, if that would be the case she did not know. It had been more difficult than she had thought for Lord Rafferdy to arrange her father’s release from the Madderly–Stoneworth Hostel. It seemed the hostel operated under a charter that gave it considerable autonomy. Only an order with the king’s own seal would free Mr. Lockwell.

While she had every confidence the order would come, it would take time. Until then, Lord Rafferdy had been able to assure that her father would be kept in a private room and made comfortable and that Ivy would be able to spend time with him on her weekly visits there.

As for the malady that afflicted him—she had once believed that the magicians who knew him years ago would be able to help him if she could only find them. She knew now that was not the case. Nor had entering the house helped her understand how to cure him. All the same, she
had
learned something in the house, for she knew now the cause of his affliction. Was not comprehending an illness the first step to curing it? That thought gave her a hope that, however slim, was hope nonetheless.

While she still held faith that Mr. Lockwell would one day be cured, she felt no such belief or concern for the other magicians of his order. Who had come to the house on Durrow Street to retrieve them all, she did not know—more from the order, she supposed. Or even Mr. Bennick. Whoever it was, the four of them who yet lived were up at Madstone’s now.

Nor did she feel remorse for what had happened to them. They had been given a glimpse of what they desired. Perhaps the result would discourage any other members of the Vigilant Order of the Silver Eye who thought to try to open the doorway.

Not that she feared any of them could do such a thing. Mr. Rafferdy had renewed the enchantment, binding it. He truly was a magician. How her heart soared for him each time she considered it!

Besides, the house was well guarded. She had seen the man in the black mask briefly earlier that day, as she walked among the hawthorn trees in the yard of the house.

I am watching,
he had said to her.

My father,
she had replied.
Can you help him?

But by the time she spoke he was already gone. All the same, she knew she would see him again one day. It was not chance that he had appeared to her.

Just as it had not been chance that the frame that held the Eye of Ran-Yahgren was fashioned of branches from the Wyrdwood. There was a power in the wood—a property that had allowed it to resist the magick of the artifact. What it was, how it worked, she did not know, but it was there; she had seen it, had felt it. And there in the yard, as she touched the twisted hawthorn branches, a thought had occurred to her—if the Wyrdwood could resist the power of the doorway, might it help her father resist his affliction? She had plucked several twigs and put them in her pocket, not sure what she intended to do with them, but it felt good to have them close.

Ivy paused outside the door of the chamber she shared with Mr. Quent, wondering if he had finished his work yet. To her right was a small window that looked out over the street. A flash of red caught her eye, and she gazed out the window. Above the towers of the Citadel, the new planet shone in the sky: a dull crimson spark. As she studied the recently returned wanderer, a strange idea came to her. The light coming through the crystal sphere had been that same ruddy color, hadn’t it?