The Magicians and Mrs. Quent (80 page)

Shivering, she opened the door and entered the room.

He was no longer working. Instead, he sat in a chair, a book open on his lap. However, he was not reading but instead gazed into the shadows in the corner. She watched him for a minute. His face was grim, as on that very first day she had seen him.

Ivy could not deny that, in addition to joy, she had felt some trepidation prior to her new husband’s arrival in the city. The distance from the country, and the intervening time, had given her space to wonder just which man would step out of the carriage—her dear, gruff Mr. Quent, or the stern master of Heathcrest Hall?

But they were both one and the same, she knew now. If his work called him away at times, which it surely would, then it was not for herself she would worry. For her task, to await his return, could be nothing compared to what he must face. And if, by being cheerful when he was with her, she could raise his spirits, then it would give him all the more strength to do what he must when it came time.

Again affection welled up inside Ivy, but it was a deeper sensation than any she had felt before, at once more fierce and more determined. As she watched him there, sitting in the dimness, she knew that her only wish in all the world was to be a light by his side.

“You seem thoughtful tonight,” she said at last.

He turned his head, then smiled. “I didn’t hear you come in.” He rose from the chair. “Are your sisters well?”

“Very well,” she said, and went to him.

He had taken off his coat and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. She looped her arm around his and leaned her head on the slope of his shoulder. She heard him—felt him—sigh.

“Is something wrong?” She looked up at him. “I thought you said everything went well in Torland, that it had been more difficult than you thought but that in the end you had succeeded.”

“We did succeed,” he said. “We did.” But the grimness had returned to his expression.

“Will you tell me what happened there?”

“I will, but let us not speak of it in the dark of a long night. Tomorrow will be soon enough.” Suddenly he smiled, and he looked a bit like that wild faun again. “I would rather we pour some wine and speak of other things, for I’ve finished my work for the night.”

“On the contrary, Mr. Quent,” she said with a laugh, “I believe it’s only just begun.”

And taking his hands in hers, she proceeded to work a spell as ancient as humanity itself.

T
HE LONG NIGHT was nearly over.

The inn was quiet as Ivy slipped from the bed and dressed. Mr. Quent slept deeply, and a quick look into the rooms of her sisters revealed they were asleep as well. Outside, the sky blushed with the first hint of dawn. It would be an hour or more before people rose for the day. However, Ivy could not sleep. Her heart was too light to lie down any longer. She wanted to rise, to move.

As mornings after a long night were always cool, she wrapped a shawl around her shoulders and went outside. For the next hour she walked past imposing edifices and dewy gardens. It reminded her of the walks she used to take around Heathcrest Hall, when the misty weather allowed, and she murmured a pleasant, wordless song as she went.

At last, in a blaze of fire, the sun lifted above the rooftops. The others would be rising soon and wonder where she was. She turned and made her way back to the inn.

She was just outside the inn’s door when a boy went running by, a stack of broadsheets in his arms.

“News!” he cried. “Get the news from Torland!”

“Excuse me,” Ivy said, stopping him. She didn’t usually read the broadsheets, but the word
Torland
had caught her ear. “What news is there from the west?”

“A penny, ma’am,” the boy said.

She found a coin in her pocket and took one of the papers.

“The old tales are true!” the boy shouted, running on. “Read about it in the news!”

As Ivy lifted the broadsheet, a morning wind sprang up, and it took her a moment to unfold it so she could read the words printed in large letters at the top of the front page.

A thrill passed through her, and whether it was dread or some other feeling, she could not say. R
ISINGS IN
T
ORLAND
, declared the headline in bold type. And below that,
Stands of Wyrdwood Rise Up, First Time in Centuries, Dozens Slain.

Except the story was wrong. It wasn’t the first time in centuries, nor could she believe it would be the last. And this time it wasn’t a secret. This time, all of Altania would know.

Another gust of wind snatched the broadsheet from Ivy’s hand, and the pages scattered, flapping down the street like a flock of crows.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

What if there was a fantastical cause underlying the social constraints and limited choices confronting a heroine in a novel by Jane Austen or Charlotte Brontë? GALEN BECKETT began writing
The Magicians and Mrs. Quent
to answer that question. The author lives in Colorado and is currently at work on the next chapter in this fabulous tale of witches, magicians, and revolution,
The House on Durrow Street
.

THE MAGICIANS AND MRS. QUENT

A Bantam Spectra Book / August 2008

Published by Bantam Dell

A Division of Random House, Inc.

New York, New York

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved

Copyright © 2008 by Mark Anthony

Bantam Books, the rooster colophon, Spectra, and the portrayal of a boxed “s” are trademarks of Random House, Inc.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Beckett, Galen.

The magicians & Mrs. Quent / Galen Beckett.

p. cm.

1. Fantasy fiction. gsafd I. Title.

PS3602.E27M34 2008

813'.6—dc22

2007041394

www.bantamdell.com

eISBN: 978-0-553-90540-3

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