The Master of Heathcrest Hall

by Galen Beckett

  “Thank you, ma’am, we’ll take the food,” the wiry corporal drawled. “And the whiskey as well, for it’s been long since we’ve seen such stuff. But as for being on our way—well, now, it’s an awful blustery day to be turning a fellow out, don’t you think? No, I think you’ll do like a woman should, and fix us up that food and bring it to us, hot on a plate.”

  A shudder passed through Ivy, though which chilled her more—the rain or the words the corporal spoke—she could scarcely tell. Knowing there was nothing she could say or do to alter the intent of the men, she kept her jaw clamped shut as they walked. The small point of light grew brighter, and the shadow of the house loomed out of the mist.

  As they walked up the steps, Ivy quickened her pace a little, so that she was the first through the front door—though the three men were right behind her.

  “Rose!” she called out upon entering the front hall. She pushed wet coils of hair from her face. “Rose, we have unexpected visitors.”

  She did not want Rose to be surprised by the appearance of the men. And she had half-hoped that, with such an announcement, Rose’s meek nature might cause her to withdraw and hide away in some room. Instead, at once Rose emerged from the little parlor.

  “Ivy, there you are!” she cried, rushing into the front hall with a hurricane lamp in hand. “Is it Mr. Samonds you’ve brought, and his aunt? I was so worried when I couldn’t find you anywhere in the—oh!” She stopped short, and her brown eyes grew large as she took in the sight of Ivy’s rain-soaked gown and the three bedraggled soldiers.

  Ivy took a step toward her sister, forcing herself to speak in a calm, reassuring tone. “Rose, we have visitors, as you can see. They are damp from the rain and hungry. We’ll light a fire here. You go to the kitchen and put on a pot for tea. And set out the ham. When I’m done, I’ll come to cut it and make the biscuits.”

  Rose stood frozen, clutching the lamp, staring at the soldiers. Thunder shook the windows as the rain began to sheet down outside.

  “It’s all right, Rose,” Ivy said slowly. “Go on now.”

  A flash of lightning, and another peal of thunder, seemed to jolt Rose out of her paralysis. Without a word, she turned and departed the hall.

  The corporal gave a low whistle. “She seems a bit simple, that one. All the same, she’s near as pretty as you are, ma’am. Is that your sister, then? But where are the servants, and where’s the man of the house?”

  Ivy kept her chin high, but despite all her best efforts, she could not mask the horror and sorrow that were surely apparent on her face. By his own expression, the corporal saw it.

  “I see, so it’s just the two of you,” he said, and grinned.

  The thick-browed man was staring in the direction Rose had gone. “I do like ham and biscuits,” he said.

  The corporal glared, gripping the rifle slung over his shoulder. “You’ll get powder and lead in your belly, instead of ham and biscuits, if you don’t get to lighting a fire. Durbent, give him some help.”

  The third soldier was standing by a window, near the stuffed wolf. He had said nothing up to that point, but now he turned around and spoke. “I’m not cold.”

  His words were slurring and indistinct. Ivy would have thought he was drunk, except the corporal had mentioned them having no whiskey in some time. Perhaps the soldier had some speech impediment. Ivy could not get a good look at him, for his hat was pulled low, casting his face in shadow.

  Next to her, she heard the corporal grumble some complaint under his breath. Perhaps he was not their leader after all. The thick-necked one clearly followed the corporal’s lead, but not the other. Based upon this, Ivy made a sudden, perhaps hazardous decision.

  “I would not think you would tolerate such an impudent answer,” she said to the corporal, keeping her voice to a conspiratorial tone. “I do not see stripes on their coats. Are you not their commander?”

  The corporal gave a grunt, as if she had prodded some sore spot. “He’s not himself, that’s all. He went missing in the rain the other night. He was gone until the following umbral. We thought rebels had gotten him, or he’d skipped out on us. By the time we found him, he was wandering about like his brain was addled. I think he’s caught a fever, or some ague or such.”

  Suddenly the wiry man scowled at her, as if realizing she had induced him to confide too much. “You should keep your opinions to yourself, ma’am. Preswyn!” He barked this last to the ox-necked man. “Get that fire going. I’ll keep the ladies company while they fix our dinner.”

  IVY MOVED STIFFLY to the kitchen while the corporal followed behind her, his hand still on his rifle. As they entered the kitchen, Rose gazed at them with a white face, standing frozen by the table. She had done as Ivy had instructed, and had set out the ham while a kettle steamed on the stove. Once again, Ivy was struck by Rose’s bravery.

  “Thank you, dearest,” she said to Rose as she went to the table.

  “Ivy, I’m frightened,” Rose whispered. “Who are these men?”

  “They are soldiers,” Ivy said more loudly, knowing the corporal was listening. “Soldiers from Lord Valhaine’s army.”

  Rose shook her head. “But what are they doing here?”

  That was a good question. Ivy glanced at the corporal.

  Again the wiry little man scowled. “We got separated from our company in a skirmish. It was as fierce a battle as you can conceive. There were rebel dogs around us, and they cut us off from the rest. We’re lucky to have our lives, but we’re behind the lines now. So we’re keeping low until we can get out of … that is, until we can join up with our company again.”

  Ivy suspected there was some truth to the corporal’s tale. That there had been a skirmish with rebels, she was sure. Just as she was sure that the three soldiers had not gotten cut off from their company, but rather had seized the opportunity to flee in the chaos of battle. They were deserters.

  She made no answer, and only looked at him. By his grimace, he could see in her expression that she knew the truth of it.

  “Get those biscuits cooking,” he said. “We’re half to starving.”

  He sat in a chair by the wall with his rifle across his knees and kept his gaze on the two sisters. Under these awful circumstances, Ivy prepared the meal. She cut slices from the ham and put them in a pan to fry, and mixed the flour for biscuits. When things were nearly ready, she instructed Rose to put cups on a tray. Rose did this, though the porcelain clattered for the way her hands were shaking.

  “You can bring all that to the front hall and serve us,” the corporal said when the trays of tea and food were ready. “I’ll take the whiskey myself.”

  “Rose, please hand the corporal the whiskey bottle,” Ivy said.

  Rose took the bottle from the shelf and brought it to the corporal. At the same moment, Ivy bent to pick up one of the trays, then paused as a flash of metal caught her eye. It was the sharp knife she had used to carve the ham, lying on the table.

  She cast a quick glance up. The corporal was uncorking the whiskey. As he tilted the bottle back to take a swig, Ivy made a swift motion. By the time he lowered the bottle, she had picked up the tray of ham and biscuits.

  The knife was no longer on the table.

  “Carry the tea tray, Rose,” Ivy said, and started from the kitchen. Rose followed after, moving slowly so as not to spill anything, and the corporal came behind them.

  They entered the front hall just as another clap of thunder rattled the windowpanes. Preswyn was warming his hands before the fire that now roared on the hearth. The thick-necked man had built it up to what Ivy thought was a dangerous height, and sparks leaped out into the room. The other, Durbent, still stood by a window, gazing out into the rain. His head was cocked to one side, as if he were listening to something—though what could be heard above the storm, Ivy could not imagine. She set the tray of food down on an end table, and Rose did likewise with the tea things.

  “Go on and fix up some plates for us, then,” the corporal
said, sitting down near the fire.

  Aware of the rifle he had propped by his chair, Ivy prepared three plates, and brought them to each of the men. The corporal and Preswyn both snatched the plates from her, and at once began to wolf down their food. But the other man, Durbent, did not even turn to look at Ivy as she approached. She set the plate on the window ledge by him. As she did, she caught an unpleasant odor, like the scent of spoiled meat.

  Hastily, she retreated. In the meantime, Rose had poured three cups of tea.

  “Put some of this in those cups,” the corporal said, holding out the whiskey bottle.

  Rose only stared, so Ivy hurriedly went to him and took the bottle.

  “And don’t be stingy with it!”

  Ivy followed these orders, giving each cup a generous pour. Rose took a cup to Preswyn and the corporal, moving with exceeding care so as not to spill a drop. When she approached Durbent, though, she gave a sudden cry. The cup fell from her hands and shattered against the floor with a loud noise that made all of them jump.

  All except for Durbent, who continued to gaze out the window, his head still tilted to one side.

  “She’s pretty enough, but she’s a clumsy one,” the corporal said with a snort. “Well, Durbent doesn’t seem to care that his cup is gone. Don’t waste any more whiskey on him. Now sit while we eat.”

  Ivy and Rose did as they were told, sitting on a horsehair sofa while the fire crackled on the grate, and Preswyn and the corporal ate ham and biscuits with great energy.

  “Ivy,” Rose whispered faintly beside her.

  Ivy kept staring forward, her hands on her knees, trying to do nothing to divert the corporal’s attention from his dinner.

  “What is it, dearest?” she whispered in return.

  “There’s something wrong with him—the man over by the window. I can see it all around his edges.”

  Alarm surged up in Ivy’s throat. “You mean you see a light around him?”

  “No, it’s not light.”

  Ivy’s dread ebbed a fraction. She had feared perhaps the man was a magician—one who served the Ashen. “Then what do you see, dearest?” she whispered as the men continued to eat.

  “It’s like a shadow around him. I can hardly see him for it, like he’s all wrapped in a cloak. Only it’s more than that.” A shiver passed through her. “It eats the firelight.”

  Now fear flooded through Ivy again, even though she didn’t know exactly what Rose meant. Or didn’t she? She felt a crawling on the back of her neck. An image flashed through her mind, a fragment of a dream—two figures on a sandy shoreline, struggling. One struck another’s head with a stone. But it was not blood that flowed forth.…

  Before she even thought what she was doing, Ivy stood and went to the tray of food. She took up the plate of ham, as well as the object that had been hidden underneath.

  It was the carving knife.

  Keeping the knife concealed beneath the plate, Ivy went to the corporal and Preswyn, offering them more meat, which they readily accepted. Then she approached the third soldier by the window.

  “Do you have enough to eat?”

  He did not acknowledge her, but kept his face turned toward the rain-speckled glass. Was he looking for something out in the gloom? One of his hands rested on the window ledge, next to the plate of uneaten food. It was filthy with grime, and his fingernails were ragged and torn.

  Beneath the plate she carried, Ivy gripped the knife. Slowly, she extended it outward, until the tip was but inches from his hand. Her heart was laboring in her chest. She took in a breath, and again caught the foul odor of something rotting. Then, before she could lose her will, she made a quick motion, flicking out with the knife.

  The soldier, Durbent, did not flinch or move. Ivy watched as the skin pulled back from either side of the small cut the knife had made upon the back of his hand, like a lipless mouth opening. For a moment, nothing at all issued from the gap in his skin.

  Then, slowly, a thin trickle of grayish fluid welled forth.

  Ivy staggered backward, retreating toward the fire, only belatedly thinking to hide the knife again under the plate. The other men seemed not to notice, for they were still busily eating. The flesh upon Ivy’s neck was crawling, and she felt a sickness in her stomach. She set the plate and knife back down with a clatter.

  The corporal looked up with a frown. “I guess being clumsy runs in the family. Since you’re there, bring me that whiskey.”

  Ivy took up the bottle and brought it to the wiry man. She doubted she would be able to pour it for the way she was shaking, but the corporal grabbed the bottle himself and filled his cup from it. He did not ask for more tea.

  Ivy returned to the sofa and sat. Rose’s hand groped for hers, and their fingers twined together.

  “But you’re shivering so!” Rose said quietly. “What is it, Ivy?”

  What was it indeed, Ivy wondered, that was standing over there next to the window? What had happened to Durbent in those hours he had been separated from his companions? She thought of the things that Mr. Rafferdy had told her once, of the hideous transformations that had been wrought upon some young magicians, including Lord Eubrey.

  Beside the fire, the corporal let out a great belch, then put his empty plate on the floor. Ivy had never seen a small, thin man eat so much. He drained his cup, then sloshed more whiskey into it from the bottle.

  “Well, we’ve had a fire, food, and drink,” he said. “All we need now is some companionship. Some womanly companionship. Wouldn’t you say so, Preswyn?”

  The bigger man had been prodding the fire with a poker, and his face was flushed red from the heat of the fire on the hearth. Or was it from another kind of fire? For he gazed intently at Ivy and Rose upon the sofa.

  “But there’s only the two of them,” he said, laying the poker down on the hearth, its tip still in the coals. “And we are three.”

  “Well, I don’t think Durbent much cares,” the corporal said. His words were mushy and indistinct; the whiskey had affected him. “He’s got some ague or something after his travails out in the night, and he’s not fit for it. No, the only question is who gets which one.”

  Preswyn licked his lips. “They’re both pretty.”

  “So they are.” The corporal lurched up from his chair. “But the light-haired one’s the prettiest, so she’ll keep me company. You can have the other one, Preswyn.”

  “I can do anything I want with her, you mean?”

  “Anything that stupid mind of yours can think of,” the corporal said. He picked up his rifle and started toward the sofa.

  New terror came over Ivy. The men had been fed, yet still there was a hunger in their eyes. Their intentions could only lie in one direction, and while Ivy’s own person was surely in danger, it was only Rose whom she could think of. That either of them should lay a hand upon Rose was something that could not be allowed. But Ivy had left the carving knife under the plate; if she tried to dash over to get it, they would stop her.

  If only there were some piece of Wyrdwood in the room, even the smallest bit. But there was no Wyrdwood anywhere in the manor house, except for the broken remains of the chair Mr. Samonds had made up in the attic.

  No, that wasn’t true. There was Wyrdwood in the house.

  “I will give you the jewels!” Ivy cried out. “I will tell you where they are if you take them and go!”

  Rose turned her head to stare at her, but Ivy tightened her grip on Rose’s hand, squeezing it.

  The corporal came to a stop before her, and his small eyes narrowed. “Jewels? What sort of jewels?”

  “I am a lady, the wife of a well-to-do baronet. When I fled the city, I brought all my finest jewels with me, of course. They are in the parlor there. Look for a wooden box on the top shelf of the bookcase in the corner. Take the jewels, then go. You will be wealthy enough to buy anything you should ever want.”

  “So you’re a lady, you say?” He did not sound entirely convinced, but all the same there
was another sort of hunger in his eyes now. “Preswyn, go see if you can find that box. I’ll keep an eye on the ladies here. And if she’s lied, and there’s no box of jewels—well, it will go rough for them.”

  He picked up his rifle and stood before the sofa, while Preswyn disappeared through the parlor. Ivy and Rose both sat motionless. The room was sweltering from the fire, but Ivy could not stop shivering. Her eyes kept going back to the rifle; more than once the corporal’s finger caressed the trigger. At last, Preswyn returned to the front hall.

  In his hands was the Wyrdwood box.

  “I can’t open it,” he said, his single eyebrow drawn down in a glower. “The lid is locked. Or stuck, I mean, as I can’t see no lock on it.” He gave the box a violent shake.

  “Stop that, you half-wit!” the corporal snapped. “If there are fine things in there, you’ll break them doing that. Bring it over here.”

  Preswyn lumbered over with the box and held it out. The corporal sat, laid his rifle across his knees, and reached out to take the box. For a moment, both Preswyn’s and the corporal’s hands rested on the box.

  That was the moment Ivy had been waiting for. She darted out a hand and touched the Wyrdwood box.

  Bind them, she spoke in her mind.

  Preswyn let out a bellowing cry and staggered back away from the sofa. As he did, he hauled the corporal up and out of the chair, for their hands were now bound together by bands of wood. Even as the men struggled to pull apart, brown tendrils coiled up their wrists and around their forearms. The rifle had fallen to the floor.

  “It’s alive, it’s alive!” Preswyn wailed, flailing back and forth. Such was the big man’s strength that these actions whipped the smaller corporal around like a ball at the end of a tether. Sheafs of paper fluttered around them, having been released as the box lost its shape and form.

  “Stop it, you ox!” the corporal shouted, but Preswyn only let out another howl and spun around. As he did, the legs of the two men tangled together, and they toppled to the floor in a heap.

  Ivy did not hesitate. She leaped from the sofa, then snatched up the rifle from the floor. It was heavy, but terror lent her strength. While never before in her life had she held a gun of any sort, she had seen it done enough times that she had a sense of what to do. She pointed the barrel at the two men, then put her thumb on the hammer, pulling it back.