Shayde returned to the pianoforte. “We do not know, Lady Quent. The Inquiry always kept any witches they discovered a secret from the Gray Conclave. Then, recently, the prisoner fell deeper into his madness, and finally was found choked to death on his own tongue.” She pressed the lowest keys on the pianoforte, striking a deep, thrumming chord.
Despite that ominous note, Ivy felt a keen relief. Whoever this man was, he had perished, and his ability with him. Only then Shayde went on, and Ivy’s relief quickly became a horror again.
“It seemed we would never be able to understand the prisoner’s ability. But then two things happened. First, as you know, the Inquiry was ended. And then we discovered, in the course of our investigations, that there were others like the prisoner.”
Ivy gasped. “Others who had been blinded?”
“No. While we believe the prisoner’s eyes were taken from him to increase his sensitivity, we have found that the ability to detect a light around someone occurs quite naturally in people, if rarely. Yet there is one thing we have discovered that increases its likelihood of occurring. Do you know what that characteristic might be, Lady Quent?”
Ivy felt made of clay. It was hard to move. At last she shook her head.
“I am surprised a clever mind such as yours cannot guess at this commonality, Lady Quent. We have only ever found a few individuals with this ability, but all of them have been either the sisters of illusionists, or they have been illusionists themselves. That is, they are all of them the offspring of witches. And now, quite by chance, I discover that your own sister appears likely to have this very same proclivity.”
Ivy knew she was in grave peril, and Rose as well. She made herself speak as calmly as she could. “I’m afraid you can make no examination of Mrs. Lockwell, as she has passed away.”
“Yes, I know that. But while Mrs. Lockwell was Miss Lockwell’s mother, she was not yours, was she, Lady Quent? I understand your mother was childless for many years of marriage. Only then you were brought into the house as a small child, and hardly a year later your sister Rose was born. It seems very curious, doesn’t it?”
Again Ivy thought of the hawthorn and chestnut trees in the garden. Her father had written how the seeds he took from the Wyrdwood had failed to sprout—that was, until he brought Ivy into the house. Not long after that, Mrs. Lockwell, who after losing her infant son had been unable to bear another child, suddenly conceived a daughter. So Rose was not the child of a witch. But was it because of the presence and influence of a witch—because of Ivy herself—that Rose had been born at all? If so, that might explain Rose’s ability to see light around others.
Yet, despite these thoughts, all Ivy said was “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t you?” Lady Shayde closed the cover over the keyboard. “Very well then, Lady Quent, let us put scientific discussions aside and turn to practical matters. As I said before, there is something you can do—a thing which would be for the good of Altania. And were you to do this, I think it would be possible for you to make a plea of leniency on behalf of your husband. He would still be stripped of his post, and of his title as well. After all, there must be some penalty for the crime he committed. But a display of patriotism on the part of his wife would help the Gray Conclave to believe that he had only ever had the good of Altania in mind, despite his flawed actions, and so he would be released.”
As Lady Shayde spoke, an eagerness arose in Ivy, a willingness to do anything it would take to assure her husband’s release. She cared nothing for posts or titles. She wanted Mr. Quent returned to her, that was all.
“What is this thing?” she said, cautiously.
Then Shayde spoke, and Ivy knew that she was not being rescued from the steel jaws of a trap that had closed around her. Rather, she was being asked what limb she would prefer to sever in order to free herself from the snare. Her horror was too great to be felt anymore. Numbly, she listened as Lady Shayde described the proposal.
It would, in all, take no great effort on Ivy’s part. As she must be aware, Lady Shayde explained, all magickal orders were forbidden except for the High Order of the Golden Door. Magicians possessed abilities that could be of great advantage to Altania. Yet they could not be trusted to operate according to their own devices, not when magick was a thing that could be used to open doors and undo locks, uncovering things which must, for the good of the nation, remain protected.
That was why Lord Valhaine had commissioned an official order of magicians, one that could be watched and controlled. But it was known that there were still other arcane societies in existence, ones operating in secret, and with purposes that were opposed to those of the government. While Huntley Morden might assail the nation from its shores, these magicians were working to sabotage Altania from within. Lord Valhaine wanted an end put to all of them.
And this was how Lady Quent could prove her loyalty to the nation.
“We are aware that Lord Rafferdy continues to visit you with some regularity,” Lady Shayde concluded. “You need not appear surprised. The Gray Conclave makes many observations in the city, and as a result we know many things. All that is important is that you continue to encourage Lord Rafferdy to call upon you as often as he can. Remain in his confidence, and listen to all that he says. Then, each time after he leaves, simply compose a report that recounts everything that he has said. You need not try to discern what is important and what is not. We will do that. Rather, just write down everything he relates to you, however small or insignificant it might seem.”
Ivy’s legs could no longer bear her weight, and she found herself sinking down into a chair.
“Do you see how little a thing it is I ask of you, Lady Quent? It would be like dashing off a brief note to a friend, describing your conversations with Lord Rafferdy. That’s all.”
The parlor seemed to tilt at a dizzy angle, as if some titan from Tharosian mythology had lifted up a corner of the house.
“And what if I were to refuse?”
Lady Shayde moved around the pianoforte to Lily’s folio. She opened it once more and turned through the pages.
“Sir Quent will soon be brought again before Assembly, this time to be tried for the crime he is accused of. What do you think would happen if, during the trial, it was revealed that a sister of his wife had an unhealthy interest in illusionists, and another sister possessed an ability known to be associated with illusionists and witches? What if it was also revealed that this wife of Sir Quent maintained a close acquaintance with a man publicly known to wear the House ring of a magician? I do not think it would bode well for his defense if such things were made known.” She closed the book again and looked at Ivy. “Do you, Lady Quent?”
Ivy was shaking now, and could do nothing to conceal it. She felt ill, as if gripped by a fever. “Do you hate him, then?” she said at last.
“Hate him?” Lady Shayde folded her gloved hands before her. “No, I do not hate Sir Quent.”
“Then why? Why are you doing this to him?”
The other woman’s face was as cool and hard as porcelain. “I do not hate him, but neither do I love him. As I said before, Lady Quent, I suffer no such sensibilities. I only do what must be done for Altania.”
“Are you certain of that? Is it really for Altania that you do these things, or is it simply for him—for Lord Valhaine?” Despite her trembling, and the weakness that gripped her, there was a sudden sharpness to Ivy’s voice. “You are like a knife in his hand, Ashaydea. You cut in whatever direction he wields you and assume it is what is most right. But what if it isn’t? What does a knife do, Lady Shayde, when it discovers the hand that holds it is in fact that of a murderer or a madman?”
Once again, for a brief moment, it was as if fine cracks appeared upon the smooth surface of Lady Shayde’s face, and it grew paler yet.
Then the moment passed. “Will you aid me as I have requested or not, Lady Quent?”
Ivy made no answer.
Lady Shayde moved toward the c
hair where Ivy sat. “I am puzzled, Lady Quent. Of these two men, do you not love your husband the best?”
“You answer your own question. He is my husband.”
“Then you will do as I ask of you?”
Ivy looked down at her hands. Every instinct in her strained to say yes. She wanted Mr. Quent returned to her, more than anything in the world.
Yet it was not simply a matter of whom she loved best. Even if she could somehow endure betraying a dear friend in the suggested manner, a thing she knew she could not bear, what if Mr. Quent were to learn how she had achieved his freedom? How could he not recoil from her in loathing? For she would have revealed herself as the most maleficent deceiver, one who would betray a man to certain death in order to gain what she most craved and desired. And so she would not lose one of the two men she held most dear in all the world, but rather both of them.
And it was even more than that. Lady Shayde said what she did was for the good of Altania, only it was not. Ivy knew her husband, and she knew there was one thing he would want her to do above all—to do what the Inquiry had always striven to do, to protect the Wyrdwood. And that was why Mr. Rafferdy needed to remain in Assembly, along with the other members of his arcane order.
A peculiar kind of calmness came over Ivy. She was still trembling, but the feeling of illness and fever had passed. She looked up.
“No,” she said, quietly and simply. And again, “No.”
For a long moment Lady Shayde looked down upon her. Yet there must have been some hardness in Ivy’s own countenance, for the other woman gave no argument to this reply.
At last she said, “I would feel pity for you, Lady Quent, if I could. I will not come to you again as an agent of Lord Valhaine. Good-bye.”
There was a stiff crackling of cloth, followed by silence. But Ivy did not see the other depart. Instead, her face was in her hands as she wept.
RAFFERDY SAT ALONE within his four-in-hand as the carriage traversed the Old City. If he could have, he would rather have driven his cabriolet. The four-in-hand was large and grandiose, and was forced to navigate the narrow streets at a lumbering pace. And, despite all its upholstery and lacquer and gilded wood, it was anything but comfortable.
Yet it was appearances that mattered today, not comfort. Rafferdy had chosen to take the four-in-hand for the same reason he had put on a formal suit of rich black wool that was far too heavy for the rapidly warming morning. Namely, he needed to appear in every way a lord—a magnate of stature, one whose demands must not be questioned.
He leaned back against the overstuffed seat and took an object from his pocket. It was a small gem or crystal, pale in color, and with a cloudy interior. Trefnell had given it to him last night, along with another that was its twin in every way. This was after Rafferdy had risked going to Trefnell’s house and explained why he had come. At the time, Rafferdy hadn’t been certain there even was a magick that could do what he wanted; though he had reasoned that if anyone knew, it would be Trefnell.
He was right. After Rafferdy described what he hoped to accomplish, the former schoolmaster had gone into his study, then soon emerged again with the two matching gems, one in each hand.
“I came upon them many years ago in the Principalities,” he had said. “The gems are quite old. Their enchantment is such that they are bound. That is, light that enters into one is reflected in the facets of the other.”
“So, they’re like our black books.”
“Not quite. Our books have a sympathetic resonance that links them. But these gems are more like two halves of the same magickal door, though their power is somewhat limited. To activate a gem, one simply taps it three times in quick succession. What light reaches it for the next several minutes will be absorbed into it, and then it will go dark. Then, if one similarly taps the paired gem at a later time, it will emit all of the light gathered by the first.”
“Fascinating,” Rafferdy had said, accepting the two gems.
“Careful!” Trefnell had cautioned him. “Do not let the gems come in contact with each other. It is best if you keep them well apart.”
“Why is that?”
“As I said, they are like two halves of the same magickal gate. And if you should happen to accidentally tap them three times while they are in contact with each other …” Trefnell raised a shaggy eyebrow. “Well, I believe you know what happens if a gate is ever made to open upon itself.”
Yes, Rafferdy did. Or at least, he had read many warnings about what would happen. Over the years, more than one magician had accidentally demonstrated the perils of creating a magickal gate or doorway such that its entrance was in the same location as its exit. In this case, anything that entered the gate would, at the same time, be leaving it—and also entering it again. This circle could not be broken, and it would repeat itself an unfathomable number of times in an instant. The arcane energy would rapidly build upon itself—doubling, quadrupling, and so on—until an irrevocable instability resulted, violently ripping apart the gate. Along with the unfortunate magician, if he happened to be anywhere near it.
Of course, the paired gems were small, and their enchantment limited. All the same, Rafferdy had used great care as he placed the gems into opposite pockets of his coat. Then he quickly departed Trefnell’s house before anyone might notice he was there. It was the habit of the members of the Silver Circle not to be seen speaking with one another if possible, lest anyone become aware of their connections.
Now, Rafferdy held the small gem up to the circular window in the carriage door. Like its twin, which was now locked in a drawer at his house in Warwent Square, the gem was cut and polished. Only it seemed not to reflect the sunlight that fell upon it, but rather to absorb it into its center. He peered closer at the gem, and after a moment he almost thought he could detect a movement in its cloudy depths, like mists swirling.…
With a clattering of hooves, the carriage came to a halt. Rafferdy looked up from the gem. Outside, beyond an iron fence, was a large, handsome house built of reddish stone. He was there.
Usually he looked forward to seeing Mrs. Quent under any circumstance, but Rafferdy could not help suffering a trepidation on this particular occasion. He had found a way to get Mrs. Quent into Barrowgate, presuming everything went as he intended. Yet, so far, he had conceived of no way to get Mr. Quent out of that same place. He had some ideas, of course, but they were no more than half-formed notions. And while he knew Mrs. Quent would never directly place such a demand on him, still he would see it in her eyes: a hope that he would be able to effect her husband’s release.
Well, he would not stop trying to find a way. And no matter how it would happen, the first step was to see Sir Quent, to assure that he was well, and to get his thoughts regarding the ideas Rafferdy was considering. Once Sir Quent had helped him choose the most likely path of success, Rafferdy would do everything in his power to follow it.
At this thought, he could not help letting out a rueful laugh. It was not lost on Rafferdy that he was subjecting himself to dire risk in order to save the very man who possessed the one thing Rafferdy had ever really wanted—namely, Mrs. Ivoleyn Lockwell Quent. It was a paradoxical thought, that he should now be helping his rival at possible cost to himself!
Except Rafferdy would have done it no matter his history with Mrs. Quent, for he both liked and respected Sir Quent. What was more, Rafferdy knew how important an ally he was of Altania and the Wyrdwood. It was for the good of the country that Sir Quent be freed. Yet as true as all of these things were, none of them were the real reason he was trying to help free Sir Quent. Rafferdy knew himself, and he knew why he was really doing this. It was for Mrs. Quent, and for her alone.
The carriage door opened. “We have arrived, sir,” the driver said.
Rafferdy climbed out of the carriage and tucked the gem into the pocket of his coat. He made his way up the walk, past the stone lions, and rapped on the door with the ivory handle of his cane. The housekeeper promptly answered and showe
d him in. She was more tight-lipped than usual, but given present circumstances, that could hardly be considered a surprise.
He waited but a moment in the front hall before a pretty figure in a yellow dress entered from the parlor. Only it was not Mrs. Quent, but rather the youngest Miss Lockwell.
“Good morning, Miss Lily,” he said with a bow.
She looked up, as if she had not realized he was there. “Hello, Lord Rafferdy.” She was holding a large book in her hand.
He waited for some bit of silly chatter from her, but when it did not ensue, he said, “Is Lady Quent about?”
“My sister? She’s upstairs at the moment. I’m sure she’ll be down very soon. She was delayed by another caller who just left.”
Another caller? Rafferdy could not guess who would have come to pay her a visit now that Lady Marsdel and Mrs. Baydon were no longer in the city, nor did Lily say. Indeed, she seemed preoccupied with something, and was already drifting toward the stairs. Rafferdy found this strange, as he was used to being plied with annoying and unwanted questions by Lily, yet she seemed to have no interest in him at all.
“I will be sure to tell Mr. Garritt hello for you the next time I see him.”
It was the first thing he could think of to get her attention. Indeed it worked, for she turned from the staircase, her brown eyes a bit wider now in her oval face.
“Mr. Garritt? Do you mean you’ve seen him lately?”
“Yes I have, very recently. It was at a …” He hesitated, realizing he had not selected this topic with much forethought. It would hardly be appropriate to say where it was that he had met Garritt. “It was the other day,” he finished awkwardly.
She took a step toward him, holding the large book close to her. “And how did he look? Was he well?”
Rafferdy tried to decide how to answer this question for her. In fact, he was still trying to answer it for himself. To find Garritt coming out of a theater on Durrow Street had been both astonishing and puzzling. Rafferdy would never have expected to encounter such a fine and diffident soul in such an unwholesome and disreputable place.
The Master of Heathcrest Hall Page 41