The Master of Heathcrest Hall

by Galen Beckett

  “IVY!”

  Something shook her back and forth. She imagined black branches reaching down, coiling around her, and lifting her up.

  “Ivy, wake up! You’re having a horrid dream again.”

  She opened her eyes and saw, not a tangle of trees, but rather orderly rows of books upon shelves. She was not in a cave or by a forest, but rather in the library. Floating above her like a worried moon was the oval of Lily’s face. As if to be certain, she gave Ivy’s shoulder one more robust shake.

  “I’m awake,” Ivy said hastily, hoping to avert any further assaults.

  A bit dizzily, she sat up on the sofa. As she did, a book tumbled to the floor. It was the copy of The Towers of Ardaunto she had bought from Mr. Fintaur’s shop. She had been reading the book once again to see if there were any further clues to be found within its pages—any hints about the keystone or what its purpose was. Only she must have fallen asleep, and the shocking nature of the events in the book had inspired similarly awful dreams.

  “Who is Mr. Murgen?” Lily said.

  Ivy pressed her fingers to her temple, for it was throbbing. “I do not know anyone by that name. Why do you ask?”

  Lily picked up the fallen book and sat beside Ivy on the sofa. “You called out the name just a moment ago, in your sleep. Murgen, you said. I thought it must be someone named Mr. Murgen that you were dreaming of.”

  Ivy grimaced as she rubbed her temple. She was certain she wasn’t acquainted with anyone by the name of—

  A sudden breath rushed into her. Yes, she could still recall bits of the dream: the crimson glow from a gem in his hand, the wolf pelt across his broad shoulders. His name was not Mr. Murgen, but rather—

  “Myrrgon,” she murmured.

  “Yes, that’s the name,” Lily said. “So you do remember, then. But who is he? I’m sure I haven’t met him.”

  “No, you haven’t, and nor have I. He’s a magician. Or rather, he was long ago. He established one of the seven Old Houses of magick, or so it is said.”

  Lily frowned. “Well, that’s a queer thing to dream about.”

  Yes, Ivy thought, it is.

  “You’re not thinking about trying to work magick again, are you, Ivy?” Lily thumbed through the pages of the red book.

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Good, because as I’m sure you’ll recall you had no talent for it. And besides, it’s all forbidden now anyway, even for men if you’re not doing magick for the government—and I do not think we will be doing anything for them. Do you mind if I borrow this?” She shut the book.

  Ivy had found no further clues in the book’s pages last night. It had already told her all it could. “Not at all,” she said. “Though I will warn you, it contains many horrid scenes.”

  “Excellent,” Lily said with a grim satisfaction. “If it is very horrid, then perhaps everything else won’t seem so dreadful in comparison. There’s tea in the parlor.” She gave Ivy’s cheek a kiss, then departed the library.

  Ivy supposed a cup of tea might help ease the aching in her head, but she did not get up at once. For after she drank a cup of tea and readied herself for the day, what would come next? Lily had woken her from a nightmare, but what Ivy had awakened to was hardly any less awful. Mr. Quent had been arrested under suspicion of treason. The soldiers had hauled him away to the prisons at Barrowgate. And just yesterday she had been informed that he was to be formally charged with illegally freeing a witch from official custody before she could be tried for treason. This had not previously been a crime, but now by an act of Assembly it was so, as were many other actions deemed to be harmful to the nation.

  “But he cannot be charged with a crime when it was not a crime at the time to do such a thing!” Ivy had exclaimed yesterday at the Citadel, speaking with the magistrate who had informed her of the news. She was no expert in law, but there were several volumes on the subject in her father’s library, which she had perused over the years.

  “In fact, he can be,” the magistrate had replied in a disinterested tone, as if they were discussing some arcane and mildly interesting legal theory rather than a man’s fate. “The Measure Against Treasonous Activities makes it very clear that one may be charged for any harm caused to Altania, in either the present or the past, or even one intended to be committed in the future.”

  “But if that is the case, then it is a crime to simply think of something which might cause harm to the nation!” Ivy had exclaimed.

  The magistrate had peered at her down the length of his nose. “Have you had thoughts about harming Altania, Lady Quent?”

  Ivy had stared at him in horror. She had gone to the Citadel to make a petition to be able to see her husband, but the magistrate had denied it based on the grounds that he was now awaiting trial. Sir Quent could not be seen by anyone not involved in trying his case, she had been informed, lest they affect his testimony or collude with him to alter it. She had intended to argue the decision, but after the magistrate’s statement, she had wanted only to be gone from the place. So she had fled.

  The days since had been filled with an anguish so severe she suffered it as a kind of tearing pain in her body and her brain, as if some vital part of her had been ripped away. This she experienced in alternation with long periods of numbness during which she felt nothing at all. At such times, it was as if she were enveloped in a thick gray fog that obscured and muted all things, and which imparted such a listlessness that she could hardly move.

  The only time she was not afflicted by one or the other sensation was when she was able to concentrate upon the needs of her sisters, which would momentarily outweigh her own. To console and soothe them helped to soothe her as well, though it was Rose who was more often in need of such attention. Often the smallest thing—a cup clattering against a saucer, or a tangled thread when she was trying to sew—would cause her to burst into tears.

  Lily, in contrast, had been astonishingly brave. She had wept the day the soldiers took Mr. Quent, but since then Ivy had not once seen her indulge in any kind of outburst. Instead, though she was solemn, even grim, Lily seemed peculiarly calm. If she had a fear of what was to become of them, she was not revealing it to her sisters. The only real change Ivy had noticed in her was that she had taken to drawing in her folio again, spending hours at it in the parlor or in her room.

  What sort of drawings Lily was filling its pages with, and if they were similar to before or something entirely different, Ivy did not know. Nor did she seek to find out. Whatever Lily was drawing, if it gave her solace, Ivy would not discourage it—just as she had made no comment that Rose was allowing Miss Mew to sleep on her bed. They all must take what little comfort they could find these days.

  As for Ivy, her only source of comfort other than her sisters was found in the presence of Mr. Rafferdy. He had stayed as long as he could that awful day after bringing her to the house, until his duties forced him to depart. Since then, he had come to call several times, and on each occasion his presence had been like a beam of light breaking through clouds. It had reminded her that, even if she could not escape the storm lashing about her, at least there was something beyond it, some brightness yet left in the world.

  At least for now, that was. During one of his recent visits, Ivy had shown him the copy she had made of the most recent entry that had appeared in her father’s journal. Also, she had told him about the grim sight she had witnessed at Mr. Larken’s shop, and how she had seen Mr. Bennick there. It was not that she hoped he could tell her what to do; it was more that the knowledge of it all was too much for her to bear alone. He had listened to all solemnly, and when she was done was silent for a time.

  “Why do you think your father intended to wait until the Grand Conjunction began to reveal another entry in the journal?” he asked at last.

  “I’m not certain,” she had replied.

  Or was that so? She thought of the poem her father had left for her, hidden in the endpapers of a book. When twelve who wander stand as one,
through the door the dark will come.…

  “I think something’s going to happen when all the planets are aligned with Cerephus,” she said. “Something that has to do with the Ashen.”

  “Perhaps that’s the moment they’re waiting for,” he had said quietly. “From what I’ve learned in my studies, a conjunction is considered a time of great power and consequence with regard to magick. Perhaps that’s when the Ashen will seek to enter into our world.”

  Ivy had shuddered, for at that very moment a sudden dusk had fallen outside the window. They had ceased their discussion on the topic then, but they had discussed it several times since. Also, Mr. Rafferdy told her that he had brought it up with the members of his arcane order, to see if they might be able to learn more about what might occur during the Grand Conjunction, though so far they had not.

  Mr. Rafferdy’s exceeding kindness in frequently visiting her—and the hazard he took in doing so—was not lost upon her. Nor was he the only one who had refused to abandon her. Both Lady Marsdel and Mrs. Baydon had come to assure Ivy of their continued affection and allegiance. This show had moved Ivy so deeply she had hardly been able to utter her appreciation; but a touch of Lady Marsdel’s warm, dry hand and a kiss from Mrs. Baydon told her that she was understood.

  But now Lady Marsdel and Mrs. Baydon had departed the city, along with Mr. Baydon and Lord Baydon. And other than Mr. Rafferdy, no one came to call. Not so long ago, lords and viscountesses had accepted invitations to the house on Durrow Street. Now, not even the butcher or candle seller would pay a call to the house, and Mrs. Seenly was forced to send one of the servants out for such things, or go herself.

  Despite this isolation, Ivy could only feel a relief when a day passed with no caller appearing at the gate. For there was one visitor whose coming she greatly dreaded. Yet so far Mr. Bennick had not appeared at the door. But was it not only a matter of time before he did so? He had murdered Mr. Fintaur and Mr. Larken for their pieces of the keystone, and Mr. Mundy would no doubt have met a similar fate had he not hidden himself and then fled.

  Why Mr. Bennick had not yet come for the piece of the keystone belonging to her father, Ivy could not guess. Perhaps he had not found a way to breach the house’s defenses. And Ivy would certainly not invite him in! Nor would her sisters or any of the staff, for Ivy had instructed them all to let in no visitor other than Mr. Rafferdy.

  All the same, each time she looked out the window, she dreaded to see the tall figure of Mr. Bennick striding up the walk. It was for this reason, along with the general state of upheaval to the household, that she had not yet gone to Madstone’s to retrieve her father. He could only be safer there, locked behind the iron door of his room within the thick stone walls of the hostel.

  If only they could flee the city themselves, as Mr. Mundy had done! More than once Ivy had considered the thought, but each time she rejected it. How could she leave Invarel when Mr. Quent remained imprisoned? She would leave the city with him or not at all. Besides, it was not as if they could return to Heathcrest Hall now. By all reports, Huntley Morden’s troops were marching from the west, gathering supporters and fighting any resistance. The rebels could be approaching Cairnbridge at this very moment.

  No, they could not go into the west. But they could go east. It seemed inconceivable that Huntley Morden should ever press so far as to come near Invarel. Surely the Altanian army would stop him. But what if they did not? If there was even a small chance the rebels could reach the city, then Ivy must take action to be certain her sisters were as far away from harm as possible. She was only waiting for Lady Marsdel and the Baydons to be settled in the east country. Once a little time had passed, Ivy intended to write to Lady Marsdel and ask if Lily and Rose might be sent to stay with her ladyship at Farland Park. Ivy had no doubt Lady Marsdel would consent, and so Lily and Rose could be sent out of harm’s way.

  As for Ivy herself, she would remain in the city to watch over her father, and to do anything she could to aid in her husband’s case.

  Yet Huntley Morden was not the only danger. Again she wondered what she would do if Mr. Bennick were to come to the house. It occurred to her that she might be better able to protect the keystone if she knew what it was or where Mr. Lockwell’s fragment of it was hidden. Only she had no knowledge on either account.

  She went to the desk, took out the journal, and turned through its pages. But just like the last time she had looked, all of them were blank, devoid of any of her father’s wisdom. How she wished she could speak to him, to ask him what she should do about Mr. Bennick and the keystone.

  But couldn’t she? Mr. Mundy had revealed to her the truth of what her father had done to strengthen the house’s magickal defenses in order to protect the Eye of Ran-Yahgren. She had always believed he had sacrificed his mind to work the spell. And so he had, but that was only half of the enchantment, for his mind had not been lost in the act. Rather, his intellect had been transferred from his body into the structure of the house itself, as if to grant the inanimate thing a will and thus bolster its ability to defend itself against intruders. And if Mr. Mundy was right, which she believed he was, his intellect resided here still. After all, had not her father told her the very same thing?

  Know that though I am not with you in body, my spirit resides with you there at my house on Durrow Street. That was what he had written in his last entry in the journal. He had been trying to tell her.

  Ivy shut the journal and laid her hand upon the leather cover, as if it were a kind of Testament. “Father,” she whispered.

  It felt odd to address him as if he were there. But he was there in the house, she was sure of it.

  “Father, can you hear me?” she said, a little louder now. “I don’t know what I am to do. Mr. Quent has been taken from us. We are alone without him. And I’m afraid that Mr. Bennick will take advantage of our situation, and that he will show himself at the door.”

  She tilted her head, listening, but the library was still and silent. Dust motes wafted upon the air, glowing like tiny stars and planets in the shaft of light that fell through the window.

  “Please, Father,” she said, her voice rising. “If you can hear me, let me know. I need your wisdom now more than ever. Please let me know that you’re here with us.”

  And a voice said, “Ivy?”

  It was not a man’s voice, but rather the soft voice of a young woman. Ivy put a hand to her throat and turned around.

  “Rose!” she gasped, then forced herself to take a breath. “I didn’t hear you come. You startled me.”

  Her next youngest sister stood in the door of the library in a pink dress, her brown eyes wide. She took a step into the room. “Was he speaking to you just now? Father, I mean. Did you hear him?”

  Ivy stared at her. “No, I didn’t hear anyone. Only you.”

  “But you wanted to hear him,” Rose said quietly, and took another step into the room. “You were trying to talk to him. You know Father is here in the house, don’t you?”

  Ivy hesitated, then at last she nodded. “You told me so, Rose. Only I didn’t believe you. I even scolded you for telling me. I’m so sorry—you must be very angry with me.”

  Rose rushed forward, closing the last of the distance between them, and threw her arms around Ivy. “You mustn’t be sorry, Ivy! I know it was hard to believe. But you know now, and I’m so glad. I know you’ve missed him terribly, only you don’t have to anymore. He’s here with us, just like when we were little. Has he spoken to you at all yet?”

  Ivy started to shake her head, only then she thought of the other day, and how it seemed her father had been speaking to her when she was looking at the rosewood clock and trying to solve the riddle about Mr. Larken. Ivy had told herself she had simply imagined it.

  But she hadn’t.

  “Well, if you haven’t heard him yet, I’m sure you will soon,” Rose said gaily. “He told me that he’s very proud of you, and of everything you’ve done, but that you’re going to have to be extr
a brave for what’s ahead. Do you know what he meant by that? I don’t always understand what he tells me. But we can talk about it later. Come, let’s go to the dining room before Lily drinks all the tea.”

  It was the first time Ivy had seen her sister happy since the day the soldiers came for Mr. Quent, and she could not resist as Rose took her hand, clasping it tightly, and led her from the library.

  THEY WERE toward the end of taking their breakfast when Mrs. Seenly entered the dining room and informed Ivy that Mr. Rafferdy had come to call. Ivy’s teacup struck the saucer with a clatter and she leaped to her feet. She was hardly in a fit state to be seen, having slept in the library. But there was nothing she could do about it now except smooth her hair and dress without the benefit of a mirror, pinch her cheeks, and go out to see him.

  She found him in the front hall, examining the Dratham crest above the fireplace. He turned as she approached.

  “Mrs. Quent, you look well this morning.”

  Ivy nearly laughed at the absurdity of this statement. After all that had happened lately—and after half an umbral sleeping upon a sofa in her dress—she was certain she looked anything but well. She would have thought he was being wry with her if his expression was not so solemn. Instead, she supposed he was simply being a gentleman.

  As for him, he looked very well. He wore a dark suit cut in an elegant style. His hair, which he usually kept short and neat, had been allowed to grow untended for some time, but this slight dishevelment made for an appealing contrast to his tailored coat and ivory-handled cane. A man, if made too perfectly, did not appear manly. Rather, to look his part, he required some imperfection or roughened edge.

  “Mr. Rafferdy, it is so good to see you,” she said, and no words could have been truer. She reached out a hand, and he took it in his own.

  “But you are wearing gloves!” she said, surprised at the fact. “I thought you had given up the fashion.”

  “I’m afraid it is one that has lately been forced upon me again,” he said as he withdrew his right hand, which was encased in gray kidskin. “To flaunt a House ring is a sure way to attract unwanted notice. Only the members of the High Order of the Golden Door wear their rings openly these days.”