Well, whatever the purposes of the Gray Conclave had been previously, now that Lord Valhaine was under the sway of the magicians of the High Order of the Golden Door, there could be no doubt as to its purpose. It would do all in its power to bring about the end of the Wyrdwood.
As well as any who might call out to it.
A shiver so strong it was more like a convulsion passed through Ivy. She dreaded to consider what agents of the Gray Conclave would do to any woman who fell into their custody whom they suspected of being a witch. But what had the article in the broadsheet meant, regarding this method they had devised to discover women who had the capacity for being a witch? Perhaps she should not have lit the broadsheet on fire. Ivy supposed she could venture out to get another.…
No, she would not leave the house. Instead, she would ask Mr. Rafferdy about it when he came next. Given his warning to her, he must have some idea what the government intended. She shivered again and moved closer to the fireplace. On the grate, the newspaper gave a hiss like a dying breath as it burned.
THE LUMENAL was not long, but such was Ivy’s agitation that it seemed nearly a greatday. She could not concentrate upon any task, be it reading, or composing a letter to Mrs. Baydon, or aiding Rose with her sewing. Instead, her eyes went continually to the old rosewood clock, whose faces hardly seemed to turn no matter how long she looked at them.
At last a sullen dusk began to gather, and it was then that a messenger came to the gate. Mrs. Seenly immediately brought the letter to Ivy in the parlor; it was from Mr. Rafferdy.
She opened it at once, and a thrill ran through her. His request to see Mr. Quent had been granted! He had been given permission to interview the prisoner at his leisure.
All the same, I believe it is best that we not delay, Mr. Rafferdy wrote. It is my hope the umbral will not be a long one, but whatever its length, look for me not very far into the morning. I will bring my carriage to retrieve you, and then we can go to Barrowgate together.
Ivy’s heart soared. Ever since that awful day, she had only wanted to be able to see her husband, and now Mr. Rafferdy had managed it. Her only complaint was that they could not go to him at once. But they would see Mr. Quent soon enough.
How they would manage to effect his release from prison, Ivy still did not know. She had attempted to retain a lawyer, but so far all of her inquiries to various firms had gone unanswered. On her own, she had pored through books of law in her father’s library, but so far she had seen nothing that might help them. Of course, the law books were all old, and Lord Valhaine was rewriting the laws of Altania upon a daily basis. Yet she would not abandon hope. After all, she had previously despaired of being able to see her husband, and now she was to do so in the morning.
Such was her excitement, Ivy thought rest would be impossible. But that night she slept soundly, even dreamlessly. She had left the curtains open on purpose, and she woke as soon as a coral glow illuminated the window glass. By the time dawn came, she was already dressed, taking a cup of tea in the parlor downstairs.
She was only halfway finished with it when there came the clatter of the brass knocker on the front door. Mr. Rafferdy was early indeed! Ivy put down the teacup and, before any of the servants could do so, hurried to the front door herself and opened it.
“Oh,” she gasped.
She could not move; she felt made of stone, like the lions to either side of the door. Across the threshold, Lady Shayde’s dark lips curved up into that expression which was not a smile.
“You appear surprised, Lady Quent. Were you expecting another, perhaps?”
The question was posed pleasantly, but Ivy knew there was peril in answering it. She did so carefully.
“No, I was not expecting anyone to call today.” She willed herself to keep her eyes upon the white face of her unexpected guest, and not to look toward the street to see if Mr. Rafferdy had arrived. “As you can imagine, I have very few callers of late.”
“Yet you have some still, I presume?”
As the question was posed in a rhetorical fashion, Ivy chose prudence and did not answer.
“Well, if it is the case that you are not expecting any other society this morning, would it be agreeable if I were to enter and speak with you, Lady Quent? It will not take long. I only wish to add a little to our conversation from the other day, and to pose a few more questions.”
Ivy hesitated, trying to decide what to say. Above the plane trees, the sky was continuing to brighten. Mr. Rafferdy might arrive at any time.
“You seem uncertain, Lady Quent. There isn’t someone in the house whom you do not wish me to see, is there? Or perhaps you have some reason to try to avoid answering further questions?”
Now an element of anger entered into Ivy’s fear, transmuting it into something harder and stronger.
“No, not at all.” Ivy smiled herself, and the expression was every bit as warm as Lady Shayde’s was cold. “I would enjoy speaking with you. Please, come in.”
Now it was her guest who seemed surprised. She hesitated for a moment, and Ivy could not help feeling a note of satisfaction. She gestured for the other woman to enter. Lady Shayde crossed the threshold, her black gown making a crinkling sound, dry as paper.
As the other woman passed her, Ivy glanced at the sky, which had turned a clear blue. She had to hope Mr. Rafferdy would not come too soon. Yet if he did, she supposed it would not be a catastrophe. After all, Lady Shayde knew they were acquainted. All the same, Ivy did not want Mr. Rafferdy to be discredited by any present association with the Quent household; it was best if it was thought he had broken off the acquaintance. Nor did she wish to subject him to any undue scrutiny by Lady Shayde—especially not when he belonged to an illegal order of magicians.
Ivy led the way into the parlor. Mrs. Seenly was just setting down a fresh pot of tea and an extra teacup, no doubt anticipating a guest after the knock at the door. But like Ivy, this was clearly not the guest she had expected. The housekeeper set the pot down with a clatter, then fled without a word.
Lady Shayde seemed unperturbed, as if this was all very usual. Ivy poured tea for both of them, and managed to spill only a little.
“Would you care to sit?” she said, holding out a cup and saucer.
Lady Shayde took them, then set them down. “Tell me, Lady Quent, how is Mr. Rafferdy of late?”
“I fear I do not know,” Ivy said. “I have not seen him in some time. I am not certain if he even remains in the city, or if he has gone to his home in the country.”
She was surprised how easily the lie came to her, and how natural it sounded. Ivy had never thought she would be so glib at formulating mistruths. But then, as she well knew, desperation had a way of awakening previously unknown talents.
Before her guest could speak, Ivy went on, hoping to direct the subject away from Mr. Rafferdy. “You used to live in the country yourself, didn’t you? At Heathcrest Hall, I believe. Do you ever miss it?”
The white oval of Lady Shayde’s face was motionless save for one of her eyebrows, and this arched upward a fraction. Ivy supposed the White Lady was accustomed to being the one posing the questions rather than having them posed to her.
“No, I do not miss it.”
“You mean to say that you never think of your time there?” Ivy said lightly, or so she hoped. “I was not there nearly so long as you—only a matter of months—but I find that Heathcrest Hall, and the moorland around it, are often on my mind.”
“I said I did not miss Heathcrest, Lady Quent. I did not say that I never thought of it.”
The words were sharp, neatly snipping the thread of conversation, and ensuring it could not be further unwound. Ivy labored in her thoughts, trying to think of something else to ask.
She was too slow about it.
“Now, Lady Quent, as you are unfamiliar with Mr. Rafferdy’s present state, perhaps you can answer for yourself. How have you been faring these last days?”
Ivy’s face stung as if it had been stru
ck. She hastily set down her cup, lest she drop it. Then, to her shock, she found herself speaking. The words seemed to fling themselves out of her, and Ivy felt as if she were a bystander who could only watch a scene rather than affect it.
“Is this why you have come?” Ivy observed herself saying. Her voice no longer contained any pretense of warmth or civility. “To mock me, and to gloat over my present situation? I have been deprived of my husband. He is in prison, and his future and my own are utterly unknown, and perhaps beyond hope. Tell me Lady Shayde, how would you fare if that which you adored above all else was suddenly seized from you and you were left only with dread?”
For a moment Lady Shayde was utterly still, and her face appeared not only hard, but brittle as well, like tempered steel cooled too quickly. Ivy could almost believe her words had somehow had an effect upon the other woman. Only the moment passed, and Lady Shayde’s face was smooth and flawless once again.
“You mistake me for one who can apprehend such things as adoration or dread, Lady Quent. It is a mistake people commonly make, for they want to assume, even given the peculiarities of my appearance, that I am more like them than not.” She moved to the pianoforte and laid a gloved hand upon it. “But as they always discover, they are wrong in this. I assure you that I am no more capable of such sensibilities than is the wood encasing this instrument. It might vibrate with the music played upon the keys, but that does not mean it can perceive any feeling or passion that might be expressed in the music. That is why Lord Valhaine chose me for my position.” She ran a finger over the glossy wood of the pianoforte, tracing an unknown design. “He knew that no sensibilities or sympathies would ever keep me from fulfilling my purpose, and doing what must be done for Altania.”
Despite her fear, Ivy found this speech fascinating. She could only think of the merchant’s daughter in The Towers of Ardaunto. Nor could Ivy believe that the similarities between Lady Shayde and the character in the book were simply a coincidence. After all, Mr. Fintaur must have known Ashaydea from the times he had been to Heathcrest in the company of Mr. Lockwell. And he must have seen what Mr. Bennick made her into.…
“So do you understand now, Lady Quent, that I have not come to mock you, or take any sort of pleasure in your misfortune?”
There was a certainty in the voice, one so cool and inexorable that Ivy found herself nodding without even thinking to.
She forced herself to be still. “If that is so, that you cannot feel such things, then why ask me what you did? Surely logic would have sufficed in the absence of empathy.”
“So it did, but I wanted to confirm what I had concluded, that you must miss your husband, and would go to great lengths to have him returned to you. What I am to say would have no purpose if you had wished him to be gone, as some wives might wish of their husbands. But I see now that I was right, and this is not the case.”
“I do miss him,” Ivy said, not wanting to, but unable to keep the faint words from escaping her aching throat.
“Yes, you do. We both know it now. And what if I were to say that you might have him returned to you?” Lady Shayde took a step closer, her black dress whispering, as if echoing each of her words. “What if I told you there was something you could do—something that would not be a great effort on your part, but which would be for the good of Altania? And more than that, it would assure your husband’s release from prison as well. Would you not leap at the chance to do such a thing?”
Ivy opened her mouth, though what she was going to say, she did not know. She hoped it was to ask what thing this was. She feared it was to simply cry out the word Yes! Before she could utter anything, though, a figure in pink appeared in the doorway of the parlor. In a motion as quick and supple as that of a serpent, Lady Shayde turned to face the door.
“Oh!” Rose exclaimed, her brown eyes growing large. She clutched a large book to the bodice of her pale pink gown.
Ivy took a hurried step forward. “Rose,” she said when she could draw a breath. “Can you not see I have a guest? You should not interrupt us.”
“You need not admonish her on my behalf,” Lady Shayde said, and now there was a sound almost like a cat’s purr in her voice. “I presume she had no idea we were here. After all, I arrived without notice.”
Rose nodded, still gazing at Lady Shayde. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know anyone was in the parlor. I only wanted to come in before Lily noticed and put this … that is, I wanted to put something back on the pianoforte.”
“The book, you mean?” Shayde said languidly. “But did your sister not know you had it? Here, give it to me and I will put it back for you.”
And just like that, Rose handed over the book. How simply had Shayde convinced another to comply and give up what had previously been held close. Ivy could only imagine the White Lady was skilled indeed at extracting secrets from others. And now she held Lily’s folio.
“Rose,” Ivy said gently yet firmly, “you may go now.”
Rose did not move, though Ivy could see her trembling. She was like a little bird faced with a cat, too frightened to fly. Lady Shayde set the book on the pianoforte, then opened it and turned slowly through the pages.
“These illustrations are done with great skill,” she said. “Did your younger sister draw all these?”
Ivy willed Rose not to speak, to turn and go at once.
“Yes, Lily made them,” Rose said, clutching her hands together. “I know it was wrong to take it. But she leaves it out sometimes, and at night when no one else is up I like to look at the pictures.”
“Of course,” Shayde said, turning another page. “What harm could there be in merely looking at pictures? You were not ruining the book in any way, were you?”
Rose took a step forward. “No, I would never! The pictures are so beautiful. They remind me of the time we read from the old Tharosian play with Mr. Garritt and Mr. Rafferdy, in the parlor on Whitward Street. It was the most marvelous day. I remember how handsome they were, and how solemn as they read from the play—well, Mr. Garritt at least. And I remember the way the colors grew brighter around them both even as they read.”
Lady Shayde shut the book and turned back toward Rose.
“The colors?” she said, and though her voice remained calm and low, interest sparked in her dark eyes. “What colors do you mean, Miss Lockwell?”
Now Rose shrank back a step under that gaze. “I mean, the colors of the light all around them.”
“Rose!” Ivy said, sternly now. “Leave us at once.”
“You say you saw a light around them?” Lady Shayde advanced on Rose. “Do you often see light around people?”
Rose looked at Ivy, then back at Lady Shayde. “No. I mean, that is, not often.”
“But you do see it around some people. And for such people, the light is there each time you encounter them. Perhaps a little brighter or dimmer, but always there.”
“Yes.”
“And what of me? Do you see a light around me?”
Rose shook her head.
“But you do see something, don’t you?” Shayde took another step closer. She was within arm’s reach of Rose now. “Tell me, what do you see around me, Miss Lockwell?”
“A cloak of shadow,” Rose said in a very small voice. “Like a cloud over the moon that drains away all the light. It’s—”
Rose’s words were lost in a sob. She picked up the hem of her pink dress, then turned and fled from the parlor, her footsteps echoing away in the front hall.
“Remarkable,” Lady Shayde said quietly, gazing through the door.
Ivy dared to approach her. “Please forgive my sister’s interruption. You must think nothing of her utterances. Rose is very sweet, but she is simple in some ways, and often says peculiar things.”
“No, the things she said are not peculiar at all.” Lady Shayde turned to regard Ivy. “I know from our prior discussions that your father was a doctor, and I believe you have inherited some of his interest in the sciences, is that right?”
Ivy could only nod.
“Then I will share something with you, Lady Quent, that I think you will find fascinating. Not long ago, during an investigation of a peculiar occurrence in High Holy, the Gray Conclave came into possession of a man. He was a wretched and broken thing. He had been deliberately blinded, and even allowing for the fact that he had recently suffered a violent blow to the head, it was clear his mind was utterly ruined. Yet, in questioning him to see if he knew anything of the fire at the old chapel in High Holy, something very interesting became apparent.”
“What was it?” Ivy said, curious despite herself.
“Despite the fact that he had lost his eyes, he seemed to be able to see a few certain people as they approached him in his cell. In time, we learned it was because he could detect a light around them.”
Ivy’s heart stuttered in its rhythm, then started up again, more quickly than before. “A light?”
“Yes, but given that the man had no eyes, it could not have been any sort of usual light. And we noticed that the individuals that he saw the light around were all members of the High Order of the Golden Door. That is, they were all magicians. So we made more experiments, and brought more people to see the blinded man. And do you know what we discovered?”
Ivy could only shake her head.
“We learned that it was not only magicians that the prisoner could see a light around, but illusionists as well. Now, I am sure you know what many believe about the Siltheri—that they are the sons of witches. In fact, they would be witches themselves had they been born female rather than male, and this is said to account for both their abilities and their perverse tastes.” Her black dress made a crackling noise as she shrugged. “I care little about such things as that. What interested me was this question—if the man could see a light around illusionists, could he perhaps detect it around witches as well?”
A terror came over Ivy. “Can he?”
The Master of Heathcrest Hall Page 40