“But you will,” Lily had said, and squeezed her hand. “You always know what to do, Ivy. That’s what makes you so marvelous, and it’s why we all love you so much. You’ll find a way to take care of Rose, and Father, too, because you must.”
Ivy had nodded, though she didn’t know how she would achieve such a thing, or how she would manage to do anything but collapse to the floor and never rise up again.
“What of you, dearest?” she had managed to say at last, brushing a dark lock of hair from the pretty oval of Lily’s face.
A small, serious line appeared between Lily’s dark brows. “Oh, you do not need to have a concern for me, Ivy. I will be very well, I assure you.”
And with that she had departed the parlor.
Had she had more presence of mind at the time, Ivy might have thought these words peculiar. But she had been too exhausted to think of anything. Her sisters both retired to their rooms without taking supper, and Ivy did the same. Once she had rested, she would know what to do, just like Lily said. At least, that was what she had told herself.
Only now it was morning, and she felt no less heavy and tired than yesterday. Rather, she felt heavier than ever, for now that she was finally able to think, she could at last consider what it was Mr. Quent had said just before the soldier removed her from the chamber. What had he been trying to tell her in those last moments, after he told her the story of his youth and his night in the Wyrdwood?
Sometimes you must be willing to lose something precious to you in order to escape, he had said, and to endure.…
A knock came at the door, and Ivy let out a gasp. She hastily dried her face, then turned around.
“Come in,” she called.
The door opened, and Mrs. Seenly entered bearing a tray of tea. Despite the heat of the morning, Ivy gladly accepted a cup in trembling hands and took a sip.
“Will you be going up to Madstone’s today, ma’am?” Mrs. Seenly said. “Or will you be staying at home again?”
Ivy stared for a moment, then at last comprehended the question. Of course—the quarter month had fled by, and it was visiting day at Madstone’s again. She had foregone the previous visit, much as it had caused her regret not to see her father. Yet she had not wanted to be away from the house, not when she knew Mr. Bennick had returned to the city.
So far he had not presented himself, but no doubt he was scheming for the right moment. He had murdered Mr. Larken and Mr. Fintaur for their fragments of the keystone, and it was only a matter of time before he came in search of the piece belonging to her father. So she had remained at the house, for fear that he would approach Lily or Rose if she was away. It was only the great importance of going to see Mr. Quent yesterday that had caused her to leave the house for a while. She dared not risk it again.
“No, I do not think I will be going to Madstone’s,” she answered at last.
Again, this gave her a regret, but she knew it was the right choice. Her father was safe behind the locked gates and iron doors of the hostel. It was better that she stay here at the house, in the event Mr. Bennick chose today to show himself.
“As you wish, ma’am,” Mrs. Seenly said. “I will see that breakfast is set out. Though I fear it will be very poor. I do not think there is a fresh egg or pint of milk to be had in the city that has not gone to the soldiers!”
A short while later, Ivy descended to the second floor. She wore her lightest dress of green lawn and had put up her hair, but still she felt hot, for the air in the house was stuffy and close. She went into the dining room off the large gallery and found Rose there, twirling a spoon in her teacup. Despite the sickness in her heart, she attempted a smile for her sister’s sake.
“Good morning, dearest,” Ivy said, sitting at the table, but Rose did not look up from her cup. “Have you seen Lily?” Ivy tried again.
Rose shook her head. “Her door was closed when I passed her room.” She continued to stir her tea.
“Well, I’ll go see if she is awake,” Ivy said, rising again. “She should not still be sleeping in this heat. It will give her a headache.”
Ivy was glad to have any excuse to think of someone other than herself at the moment. She left the dining room and passed through the great space of the second-floor gallery toward the stairs. As she did, a flutter of motion caught her eyes. She glanced to her left—
—then halted. Across the gallery, sunlight fell upon the door Arantus, illuminating the glossy wooden leaves that covered its ornate surface. Its twin, the door Tyberion, was concealed beneath wood and plaster in the opposite wall, but Ivy had left Arantus uncovered. She had no fear someone might try to open it, for she kept the key locked in the Wyrdwood box in the library. Besides, it was beautiful, and it always gave her pleasure to look at it, for it reminded her of the Evengrove.
Only it was not a pleasure she felt now as she gazed at the door. The leaves carved upon it trembled and shook as if they felt the force of a gale. Even as she watched, wooden tendrils spread outward from the door, coiling up the walls and creeping across the floor of the gallery, as if the door itself was taking root and growing. It was impossible, of course.
But then, she always saw impossible things when he was near.
Her heart beating rapidly, Ivy hurried to one of the windows. She looked down into the garden, and there he was, standing near the little grove of hawthorn and chestnut trees. His black mask was turned up toward the windows. Its mouth was twisted in a grimace. At first she thought perhaps it was an expression of anger, only then she heard his voice in her mind, and she knew what the look upon the mask really was.
It was anguish.
Your father is not safe, the masked man’s words came to her by some unknown means. You must go to him.
A fresh terror came over Ivy. Though she still did not know his purposes, she knew the man in the strange black garb had never lied to her. She had to go to her father at once.
“But what if Mr. Bennick comes for the fragment?” she managed to speak aloud.
You are not so clever as you believe. His harsh words sounded in her mind. You have made assumptions that are profoundly in error. Matters are not as you think.
Ivy shook her head. “Then help me to understand.”
There is no time to explain things if you do not already understand. You must go to your father. Now!
These last words were a growl of anger so fierce she half-believed she really heard them with her ears. Then, with what seemed a rather unnecessary flourish of his frilled black cape, he turned and prowled across the garden, disappearing from view.
Ivy stared through the glass for a moment, then she turned and ran downstairs, finding Mrs. Seenly in the front hall.
“What is it, ma’am?” the housekeeper asked, looking up from her dusting.
“Tell Lawden to ready the carriage,” Ivy said, breathlessly. “I am going to Madstone’s after all today, and at once.”
IVY HARDLY SAT upon the bench of the cabriolet. Rather, she gripped the edge with white hands, and her arms were so straight and rigid that she was all but suspended by them above the surface of the bench. While sometimes she heard the cadence of marching boots above the noise of hooves and wheels, she saw nothing of the scenes that passed outside the carriage; it was all a blur. Instead, her vision was turned inward as her mind raced from one terror to the next. She did not know whom to fear for most, her husband or her father. That one faced dire peril knowingly, while the other could only be oblivious, made no difference in the end.
At last the carriage came to a halt. Lawden exited, but before he could come around to help her, Ivy was out and down to the street.
“Wait for me,” she said to the driver, then hurried to the gate before the hostel.
It was shut, but she gripped the thick iron bars and called out, and at last one of the day wardens shuffled into view. His hair and face were both the same colorless gray as his smock.
“Can I help you?” he said.
“It is visiting day,
” she said in exasperation, for why else would she have come. “I am here to see my father.”
“Are you certain?” the warden said.
Ivy had to take a breath and will herself not to scream at him. “Yes, of course I am certain.”
“It is just that we have few visitors these days, what with the state of affairs in the country.” He took out a ring of large keys and unlocked the gate. “Not that we care for such things, mind you. We are concerned only for the health and well-being of our charges within these walls. But I only wanted to make certain you had not arrived here looking for a crust of bread to be given out or some such thing.”
Ivy stared. Her driver had brought her in a glossy cabriolet drawn by a sleek chestnut horse. Besides, surely he recognized her, for she had seen this particular warden on many occasions.
Only it was clear he did not in fact recognize her, for as he opened the gate he said, “And who are you here to see?”
“Mr. Lockwell,” she said.
He stared at her blankly.
Ivy sighed. “That is, number Twenty-Nine-Thirty-Seven.”
“Ah!” he exclaimed, nodding. “And are you certain that is the correct patient?”
“Yes, I am quite certain.”
“Very well, then, follow me.”
They entered the hostel, and despite the awful cacophony of screams and moans and sobs that echoed off the hard walls, Ivy felt a great relief. The warden would not be taking her to her father if anything was amiss. The man in the mask must have warned her in time. Ivy followed after the day warden, making sure to keep as far away as possible from the iron bars of the cells to each side.
At last they reached the door that led to the quieter part of the hostel where the wardens dwelled, and where her father was also housed. The warden took out his ring of keys, then paused to look at her.
“You did say number Twenty-Nine-Thirty-Seven, didn’t you?”
“I did.”
“Are you certain?”
Again Ivy had to draw a breath. “I could not be more certain,” she said through clenched teeth.
“Of course,” he said with a nod. “It’s just that our patients seldom get any visitors, let alone two in one day.”
Now Ivy was certain that it was her own face that had gone gray. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that a visitor already came to see that particular patient today—just a short while ago, in fact.”
Before she could react to this, he put a key to the lock. But at his touch the iron door swung inward. It was not locked or latched.
The gray of his face darkened a fraction. “Well, that is most peculiar. Our procedures here are very strict on the matter of locking doors.”
Ivy reached out and gripped his arm. She must have done so tightly, for he let out a startled cry.
“Who was it?”
He shook his head, gaping at her.
“Who came to visit my father?” She tightened her grip on him, terror lending her unusual strength.
“You mean number Twenty-Nine-Thirty-Seven?” the warden squealed. “I do not know who he was. A friend or a relative, I assumed.”
“What did he look like?”
“He was a tall fellow, I think. Yes, I can recall him now. Thin and rather sallow, with a long nose and very dark eyes.”
Mr. Bennick. It could be no other, for that description fit the magician perfectly. Ivy let go of the warden and moved past him. She pushed the door open and started down the corridor.
“But you must wait for me!” the warden called out behind her. “That is the rule, I am quite certain!”
She ignored his cries and ran down the corridor, past rows of closed doors. Her heart pounded so fiercely in her chest that it caused her a pain, but she ignored it and ran on, until she reached the door that led to her father’s room.
It was open. Ivy halted, and though she had been running a moment ago, now she could hardly bring herself to move slowly to the door and through. At last she did.
Too late she clapped her hand to her mouth to stifle a scream. Blood—there was blood everywhere. It spattered the ceiling, ran down the wall in dark rivulets, and pooled upon the floor. A man lay upon the floor, though he was hardly recognizable as such, for his body had been ravaged and dissevered in the most violent manner.
At first she thought it must be her father, torn apart like Mr. Larken. Then she saw the shredded remains of a gray smock that still clung to the corpse. The man was one of the wardens.
But then where was her father?
She looked up. The table had been overturned, and the books pulled from the shelves. But the winged, high-backed chair remained upright, facing the window as always.
Ivy entered the room, lifting the hem of her dress and carefully stepping around the pools of gore. She approached the back of the chair, dreading what she would see if she moved before it. But she must. Ivy drew a breath, then stepped around the chair.
It was empty.
Ivy stared, hardly knowing whether to feel relief or a new terror. Her father was not in the room. Which meant that Mr. Bennick had taken him. But to where, and for what purpose? Why had Mr. Bennick not simply murdered her father as he had done with Mr. Fintaur and Mr. Larken?
Perhaps, an awful thought came upon her, it was because he needed Mr. Lockwell to recover his piece of the fragment. Perhaps, in order to pass through the arcane defenses that protected the fragment, Mr. Bennick required the man who had first created them. And if the fragment was at the house …
“Rose,” she whispered. “Lily.”
Ivy turned and fled the room. The warden stood in the door, his mouth agape and his face no longer gray, but white. Ivy paid him no heed. Instead she pushed by him and raced back down the corridor.
RAFFERDY PACED beneath the coiling branches of the wisteria tree, grateful for its shade. The morning was hot and oppressive, and he was sweating inside his linen coat.
He glanced along the path that led to the grotto, but it was still empty. Rafferdy frowned. Typically, he was the one who was late. It was not usual for Lord Farrolbrook to be delayed. Had something happened? If so, he had not been informed of it. Though it had seemed to him, on the way to Halworth Gardens, that there were more soldiers than usual on the streets, and that they had gone about with more than usual haste.
Well, there was nothing to do but wait. As he paced, he drew a small object from his coat pocket. It was a gem. Its polished facets glinted in the harsh morning light, but the gem’s interior remained dim and cloudy.
Since yesterday, Rafferdy had made it a near constant habit to take out the gem and gaze into it. He had hardly slept last night, for it seemed every few minutes he would jerk awake and look at the gem. It was his hope that Mr. Quent would make use of the gem’s twin, and employ it to send a signal that he had conceived of some way to effect his release. Only each time Rafferdy looked at it, the gem was dark.
Sighing, Rafferdy tucked the gem back into his pocket.
Despite the heat, he stepped away from the protective canopy of the wisteria to get a better look down the path. In the distance, between the trees, he could just glimpse the spires that surmounted the Halls of Assembly rising into the sky. They were tinged red in the livid glare of the morning sun, as if stained with blood.
That appearance was more than appropriate. How many lives had been ended, and how many more deaths would result, from the laws that had been enacted in the halls beneath those sharp spires of late? Assembly had declared so many actions to constitute treason against the nation that it might have been easier to simply list those few things that would not result in one being hung by the neck.
That Rafferdy had voted in favor of every one of these acts was a fact which caused him not inconsiderable horror. Nor was it any consolation that every other magnate and citizen had done so, and that all of these laws had passed through Assembly upon unanimous votes. How could they not, when every man on the benches knew that to cast a vote in opposition was a
crime itself? They were all like puppets acting out a play, seeming to flail their arms of their own will, when in fact everything they did was determined by the tugs that the puppeteer made upon the strings.
Yet Lord Valhaine did not hold every string. Not yet. A few of those puppets still had a cord or two that was free. A shadow caught his eye. He looked up and saw a tall, fair-haired man striding along the path.
“You’re late,” he said when Farrolbrook reached him.
“I know, and I am sorry,” the other lord said. His words were somewhat gasping, and the tangles in his long hair, as well as the general dishevelment of his attire, imparted a harried look. He wore an odd black cape that was too heavy and frilled for such a warm day.
“Well, what kept you?”
Farrolbrook dabbed at his brow with a lace-trimmed handkerchief. “I was …” He shook his head, and there was a vagueness in his eyes. “I suppose I don’t know, exactly. But I’m here now. And I have news.”
He drew closer to Rafferdy, and the perfume of the purple wisteria blossoms could not mask a distinctly putrid scent. Though some effort had been made to conceal them with powder, the blotches upon Farrolbrook’s hands, neck, and face were visible in the glaring light. They were darkly livid with yellowish edges, like bruises. Whatever condition it was he had inherited from his father, it was worsening.
Despite the unpleasant odor, Rafferdy did not retreat or pull away. “What have you learned?”
“A message from the magus appeared in our black books,” Farrolbrook said, his eyes becoming clearer and more focused. “It was a warning for us all to prepare ourselves.”
Rafferdy was surprised. After the little trick he had previously arranged, he wouldn’t have thought the magicians of the High Order of the Golden Door were still using the black books to send messages to one another. Perhaps they had purged any initiates or sages they suspected of duplicity, and had taken their magick books from them. Fortunately, they had not thought to take Farrolbrook’s away. It appeared that, being beneath their contempt, he was yet beneath their suspicion.
The Master of Heathcrest Hall Page 47