The Magicians and Mrs. Quent

by Galen Beckett

  “I’ll go get us more to drink,” Eldyn said, picking up the empty whiskey bottle.

  He went to the bar and handed off the empty bottle. As he waited for it to be refilled, he heard a sound behind him. It was soft amid the clamor of the tavern, like the voice of a dove.

  Turning, Eldyn saw one of the women from the peculiar group. She sat in a chair apart from the others, dressed in a high-necked gown the color of apricots. Her face was a thing of perfect beauty, flawlessly white, framed by snowy ringlets of hair, her lips and cheeks painted on just so. Something was cradled in her cupped hands.

  Eldyn approached. A warm scent rose from her. She smiled and opened her hands. On her palms rested a tiny bird. It was like no creature he had ever seen, for its feathers were pure silver, tinged with gold at the wingtips. Its beak was gold as well, and its eyes tiny sapphires. At first he thought it a clever facsimile wrought of metal, but then he saw its wings stir and its throat flutter as the soft music emanated from it.

  The woman held the bird higher, and Eldyn reached out a finger to stroke it. However, even as he touched it, the bird vanished in a flash of white light. Eldyn let out a gasp, and mocking laughter fell from the woman’s red lips. Resting on her hand where the bird had been was a silver disk, like some sort of coin. She held it out toward him. Eldyn hesitated, then took it.

  “Your whiskey, sir,” said a voice behind him, and Eldyn stumbled around. He took the bottle, shoved the silver coin into his pocket, and, without another look at the woman, hurried back to his table.

  “Be careful, Garritt,” Rafferdy said. His glum look was gone, and he wore an amused expression now. “They are not what they seem.”

  “What do you mean?” Eldyn said, too startled to say anything else.

  Rafferdy arched an eyebrow. “You really don’t know? Haven’t you ever been to one of their plays?”

  Eldyn made an effort to hold his hand steady as he poured whiskey. “Plays?”

  “They are Siltheri, Garritt. Illusionists.”

  Eldyn looked up from his pouring. Of course—their outlandish clothes and wigs were costumes. They were players, come into the tavern after a performance at some theater.

  Rafferdy took his whiskey. “Just because one looks to be a lady on the outside doesn’t mean there’s not something very unladylike hiding underneath that dress. As they say, if you see an angel on Durrow Street, it’s sure to be a devil beneath. Or didn’t you know that all Siltheri are men?”

  Eldyn’s cheeks glowed with shame, and he was grateful for the dim light. In recent years, the theaters of the illusionists had grown in popularity, if not so much in respectability. Not that Eldyn had ever attended any plays, for want of money. However, he knew that Rafferdy was right, that onstage all roles—both male and female—were played by men, as it was against the law for a woman to work in such a vocation. And if from time to time an illusionist was found floating in the River Anbyrn, it barely earned a mention in the broadsheets. For such things were only to be expected from time to time with men who did such things and who lived such lives.

  “I’m sorry, Garritt, I shouldn’t laugh,” Rafferdy said, then proceeded to do just that. “But the look on your face is quite priceless. I’ve never seen you so addled.”

  Eldyn glowered. Rafferdy was having far too much fun with this. The bird had been an illusion, nothing more.

  Yet its beauty had been real. It had moved Eldyn just as true beauty did. And that it had vanished did not lessen its worth in any way, for all beauty was fleeting. For some reason he thought of the church of St. Adaris, and the statue of the angel in the churchyard, and the priest who had shouted at him.

  Has one of them come again from Durrow Street to mock us? the priest had said to the younger man. And at Eldyn he had shouted, Begone, daemon. Go back to your houses of sin and trouble us no more!

  The illusionists must have come to the church before. Why they had done so, Eldyn could not say. But the older priest must have mistaken Eldyn for one of the Siltheri, half-hiding in the shadows.

  “You’re thinking something, Garritt,” Rafferdy said, eyeing him. “I know that look.”

  Eldyn could not have explained it if he wanted to. “I was thinking you have yet to tell me what happened to you today,” he said, changing the subject back to Rafferdy—a topic his friend could always be easily persuaded to speak about. “What made it so very trying?”

  Rafferdy glanced at his hands, as he had done several times that night, and at first Eldyn thought he was going to say something about them, but instead he looked up and said, “I’m afraid I have gotten myself in a most disagreeable situation I can’t get out of.”

  “You, Rafferdy?” Eldyn said, incredulous, and amused as well. “You’ve been caught in a trap your golden tongue can’t free you from? I can hardly wait to hear the details!”

  Eldyn listened with ever-increasing enjoyment as Rafferdy described what had happened: how at Lady Marsdel’s he had made the unlikely acquaintance of a lawyer named Mr. Wyble; how he had happened upon this Mr. Wyble in Gauldren’s Heights, stranded by a broken carriage wheel; and how he had been forced to take Mr. Wyble back to his accommodations in Lowpark. On the way, Rafferdy had been subjected to conversation of the most tiresome sort, and had been so bored he had hardly heard a word, and had contributed nothing himself to the discourse save for nodding and saying, Yes, yes, of course, at periodic intervals.

  Unfortunately for Rafferdy, one of those absentminded declarations had come right after Mr. Wyble asked if Rafferdy wished to accompany him on a visit to some acquaintances of his. Rafferdy had realized his error too late, and Mr. Wyble had been so delighted that there had been no opportunity to rescind the acceptance.

  “So who are these acquaintances of your Lowpark lawyer, the ones you are to see on the first of the month?” Eldyn said, having difficulty speaking through his mirth.

  “They are his cousins,” Rafferdy said with a scowl. “Three young ladies. Can you imagine what they must be like, being his relations? And they are of the gentry!”

  “Yes, I’m sure they’re quite hideous,” Eldyn said merrily. “But tell me, Rafferdy, what in the name of all that’s holy were you doing in Gauldren’s Heights? It’s hardly a place I’d expect to find you.”

  “You must come with me,” Rafferdy said. He grabbed Eldyn’s arm across the table. “When I go with him to visit his cousins, you must come with me, Garritt.”

  “Why is that?” Eldyn said, taken aback.

  “You’re far handsomer than I,” Rafferdy said, “which means they’ll look at you.”

  Eldyn laughed. “Not when they discover who is the son of a magnate, Rafferdy. Then all their gazes shall be for you. I am quite sure they’ll think God above has sent them a miracle, and they’ll be trying to get a proposal of marriage out of you before the tea gets cold.”

  However, Rafferdy would not let go of his arm until Eldyn swore that he would accompany him on his unwanted social call next month. So it seemed Eldyn was caught in his own little trap, and as he shook his head and sipped his whiskey he thought Rafferdy was right after all.

  There really was nothing more dangerous than words.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  SOONER THAN ANY of the denizens of the house on Whitward Street might have wished for, the beginning of the new month arrived, and the visit of Mr. Wyble and his acquaintances along with it.

  The new moon had come just before the rapid dawn, according to the almanac, and the first day after Darkeve was to be a short lumenal of only seven hours and twenty-three minutes, to be followed by an umbral of middle duration—which meant, if nothing else could be hoped for, the guests would not be tempted by a long afternoon to linger over tea.

  “They’re coming, I can see them coming!” Lily cried from her perch by the parlor window. For the past hour she had been kneeling on a chair, a hand across her brow like a lookout atop the mast of a ship in the royal navy. Lily had been reading romances concerning sailors of late.


  “A carriage is stopping in the street,” Lily went on. “It’s black and very stylish and is drawn by the most beautiful horses. It cannot be Wyble’s. There are three of them getting out. I cannot tell what they look like from here, but one is shorter than the others, and thick about the middle, so it must be our cousin. Now they’ve left the carriage and are coming to the gate. I must say, they walk very well—the two who are with him, I mean.”

  “Quick, everyone!” Mrs. Lockwell exclaimed. “We must be ready for them. Hurry now, there isn’t a moment to waste!”

  Despite their mother’s admonition of urgency, there was nothing for any of them to do, as every possible preparation had already been made in advance of the visit. The parlor was dusted, the windows polished, and the best lace set out. Mrs. Murch had been given instructions on how to prepare and deliver the tea. Even Cassity had been accounted for and at present was under strict watch, helping Mrs. Murch put the finishing touches on the sandwiches.

  As they were already dressed, and their hair combed, and ribbons done and redone, they could do nothing but regard their mother, who was driven to the edge of despair by their inaction, even though it was beyond her to give utterance to what they should be doing.

  “Ivy, put away that book!” Mrs. Lockwell said, triumphant at finding something that yet needed to be done. “And, Lily, take that chair back to the table. Look lively, everyone. We must show him how content and pleasantly engaged we are and how we suffer no want of additional society.”

  Ivy did not say that she might look more convincingly engaged in a pleasant activity with the book in hand than without it. Instead, she closed the volume she had been reading and rose, intending to take it to the shelf in the corner, then reconsidered. Mr. Wyble had a tendency to pry when he was visiting, examining everything in the house as if making an inventory of its worth. The book concerned a topic that might not be deemed entirely appropriate for a young lady, involving as it did legends of pagan origin, for she was still trying to determine the meaning of her father’s riddle.

  So far she was at a loss. She had read the riddle a dozen times over, backward as well as forward, and had even looked for patterns by taking only the first letters, or the last, or every other one, and rearranging them.

  She had begun to wonder if the meaning had something to do with the planets. After all, the book she had found the riddle in concerned the story of two of the planets, and the ancient Tharosian word for planet and wanderer was the same. However, after much thought she was forced to dismiss that idea. There were only eleven planets, not twelve—a fact of which her father would have been well aware.

  Ivy started for the stairs, intending to take the book to the attic, but just then a knock sounded at the front door, propelling Mrs. Lockwell to even greater heights of anxiety. Ivy tucked the book beneath a cushion on the sofa and went to help Lily with the heavy chair.

  The door opened below, and the sound of Wilbern’s greeting echoed up the stairs. With frantic motions, Mrs. Lockwell directed her daughters to arrange themselves about the parlor. Rose was baffled by their mother’s gestures and only stared until Ivy took her hand and led her to the sofa, while Lily sat at the pianoforte and Mrs. Lockwell plopped into a chair, cheeks glowing.

  “Thank you, Wilbern,” came their cousin’s overloud voice. “Are they in the parlor, then? There is no need to escort us. I will show my company up, for I know the way. Indeed, I always feel very at home here.”

  “He acts as if the house is already his!” Mrs. Lockwell muttered, a bit louder than was prudent.

  Footsteps sounded on the stairs.

  “Play, Lily!” Mrs. Lockwell whispered. “Play something cheerful!”

  Lily commenced playing, and of course the piece was low and dolorous. Before Mrs. Lockwell could direct her to play something else, the gentlemen were arrived at the entrance to the parlor, and they found the Lockwell women thus engaged: Mrs. Lockwell red-faced and leaning forward in her chair, Lily pounding away at the keys of the lowest register, Rose sitting transfixed on the edge of the sofa, and Ivy doing her best to appear happily occupied with absolutely nothing in her hands.

  There was a moment when all was frozen, then Mrs. Lockwell rose and affected a convivial smile (an expression that faltered only for a moment, when she was forced to wave for Lily to stop her performance). With great solicitude she greeted Mr. Wyble. He in turn presented his two acquaintances, Mr. Rafferdy and Mr. Garritt.

  Whatever their flaws must be—and they must be significant, to be associated with Mr. Wyble—their looks were not to be counted among them, as both men made fine figures in their suits. True, Mr. Rafferdy’s attire, while darker and more simple, was also more rich, and he was the taller. However, it was the case for Mr. Rafferdy that his attire added to his appearance, for his face, upon closer inspection, was open and pleasing but not really handsome, while Mr. Garritt was a striking man—so much so that what he wore was quickly forgotten. His face suggested the bust of some Tharosian hero, framed by a tumble of dark hair much too long for current fashion, of which Ivy—if handed a pair of scissors—would not have shorn off an inch.

  Mr. Wyble greeted his cousins then, a lengthy proceeding involving in each instance at least a half dozen declarations of exultation at the meeting. Always deeming it best to cleave to the truth, Ivy said in return that he was always welcome here, and she and Rose curtsied. However, Lily’s greeting comprised no more than a muttered, “Hello, cousin.”

  There was no time for Ivy to prompt Lily to do more, as by then Mrs. Lockwell was already hovering near the sofa, unable any longer to restrain herself from introducing her daughters to the newcomers. Her eye was shrewd in such matters, and no doubt she had noted that, of the two young men, one was exceedingly handsome and the other exceedingly well dressed and that both appeared to be gentlemen of some degree.

  The introductions were made—a bit floridly, for their mother presented each of them with a grand wave of the arm, as if this were a ballroom rather than their little parlor, which, accommodating nearly twice its usual population, suddenly seemed cramped. Ivy gave each of their hands a firm shake, but Rose could only be compelled to grant them each a nod. In contrast, none of Lily’s reticence at greeting Mr. Wyble was in evidence as she clasped their hands heartily, lingering particularly long upon Mr. Garritt’s, and when he attempted to pull it back, he did not find himself immediately able to do so.

  They sat, though not without some false starts. “Do try the sofa, Mr. Rafferdy,” Mrs. Lockwell said. “The center is the most comfortable part, I’m sure.” And “I think you’ll find that chair to your liking, Mr. Garritt—no, no, not that one—yes, the one near the pianoforte.” There was even a whispered “Not there, Rose!” which was of course audible to everybody in the room.

  Finally everyone was settled according to Mrs. Lockwell’s satisfaction, if not to their own. Mr. Rafferdy sat on the sofa between Ivy and Rose, while Mr. Garritt was situated in a horsehair chair that was more notable for being near the pianoforte than for being comfortable. Lily had alighted on the pianoforte bench. Mr. Wyble was relegated to the periphery of the room near Mrs. Lockwell, though he seemed oblivious to any slight, and he beamed as if bearing witness to some utterly delightful scene.

  What followed next, in fact, was an extended moment of fright. It was Mrs. Lockwell’s place to begin the conversation, but evidently she had not thought past making the seating arrangements, and though she was usually loquacious, words were suddenly beyond her ability. Mr. Rafferdy shifted on the sofa next to Ivy, and Mr. Garritt cleared his throat as if he was about to say something, only he didn’t. The clock on the mantel ticked away the seconds. Mr. Wyble smiled.

  They were saved by the arrival of the tea.

  Ivy helped Mrs. Murch set the heavy tray on the table. She took the opportunity to make a survey of its contents and was relieved to note that the sugar bowl indeed contained sugar, and that there were lemons and spoons. However, the odor rising from the sandw
iches confirmed that they were filled not with butter but rather with neat little slices of soap. She covered the plate with a napkin and gave it back to Mrs. Murch. The biscuits would have to do.

  “Mr. Wyble, why have you never told us you went about with companions of such great distinction as Mr. Rafferdy and Mr. Garritt?” Mrs. Lockwell exclaimed once tea had been served. “Surely they are remarkable.”

  Ivy swallowed her tea. “As you’ll recall, Mother, Mr. Wyble has only recently had the pleasure of making the acquaintance of Mr. Rafferdy.”

  “You’re quite correct, cousin,” Mr. Wyble said. “I had the good fortune to meet Mr. Rafferdy at the house of Lady Marsdel last month. And hardly a brief lumenal had passed before I wrote to tell you of my overwhelming pleasure at meeting so excellent a gentleman.”

  “Indeed, we have never known you to keep news of your own good fortune to yourself,” Ivy said. “You have ever been generous in that regard.”

  Mr. Wyble nodded. “Why should I spare news of such grand happenings from those who can have so little excitement in their own necessarily sedate lives? If I can impart a hint of what such affairs are like, even a fraction of the joy and pleasure I experienced myself, then it is a gift I am glad to give.”

  “And one that happily costs you little,” Ivy noted. “Yet you have been ungenerous in one regard, cousin, for prior to this you have not shared news of your acquaintance with Mr. Garritt.”

  “In my defense, I could not have told you of that acquaintance!” Mr. Wyble declared. “For I have only just made it this very day. It was Mr. Rafferdy who designed to bring him, and I must say I am elated he was able to come.”