The Magicians and Mrs. Quent

by Galen Beckett

  In all, I was not displeased. Here were two young minds that I was confident could be engaged if interesting material was presented to them with proper attention and zeal. I poured another cup of tea as the children made a game with the spoons and bread crusts. What its rules were I was not immediately able to grasp, but they played it very intently, and occasionally crusts or spoons were removed or returned to play.

  There was a groaning of wood. Chambley jumped in his chair.

  “It is only the house settling,” I said.

  But Clarette had set down her spoon and was staring at something behind me. I turned and could not help a small gasp. A woman stood in the door of the kitchen. Her hair was pulled back in a knot the color—and indeed, by its look, the hardness—of iron. Her dress was the same hue, and without any adornment. Her mouth was a flat line.

  The children slouched in their seats and gave the teacups guilty looks. At that moment I felt like slouching as well, as if I were a child myself, caught in an illicit act. But that was absurd! I stood up, willed my shoulders back, and gave a smile as I introduced myself.

  “You must be Mrs. Darendal,” I said.

  She looked at the things on the table, as if cataloging each item. Her eyes were deeply set above high cheeks. She must have been striking in her youth, but age had shown little kindness. What might once have been beautiful had gone sharp. Her glances cut the air.

  However, if she thought ill of what I had done, she did not speak of it and instead said only, “I will show you to your room, Miss Lockwell. You must take some rest after your journey. The master says you will begin with the children tomorrow.”

  I cast a smile back at them. “Really, I need only a little rest. I am sure we can begin our lessons today.”

  “Mr. Quent said you would begin tomorrow. I am certain if that is his recommendation you will follow it. That is, unless you feel it is your place to correct him, Miss Lockwell.”

  I could not help wincing. “Of course not.”

  We went first to the room I described earlier, which was far too grand, as I remarked, then came to the little room beneath the gable. I expressed my belief that it would do very well.

  “Jance will bring up your bags,” Mrs. Darendal said from the door. “Dinner will be served promptly at two o’clock. Do not expect anything more than a simple meal. Nor should you plan on there being anything more later. I am sure you are used to dining as late as you please in the city, but here in the country we do not fix supper on short lumenals.”

  At these words a bit of impertinence came over me. That her manner was stiff I might almost forgive, as I did not know her. But that she should presume, after such a brief acquaintance, to know me was something I could not accept.

  “I assure you, I expect nothing of the kind,” I said. “I am quite used to dining but twice on short lumenals, for they are, you can be certain, every bit as brief in the city as they are in the country.”

  The housekeeper made no reply. She turned and reached to pull the door shut behind her.

  “Did you tell the children they are not allowed to have tea?” I said, taking a step forward.

  She halted, then looked back at me over her shoulder. “Is that what little miss told you?”

  This reply startled me, but I did not let it deter me from continuing. “Yes, just as she told me how Lanna was ordered never to speak a word. I know I am new to this house. Yet I can only wonder when I hear such things.”

  “Indeed, I can only wonder as well,” Mrs. Darendal said. “For the children have tea and toast every breakfast, though often they turn their noses up at it. And I have known Lanna all her life, and she has not spoken a word since she was a girl. The doctor says she has lost the capacity for speech. She is mute. Is there anything else you wish to tell me, Miss Lockwell?”

  However, at that moment I was incapable of speech myself.

  The housekeeper nodded. “Then I suggest you take your rest until dinner.” And she shut the door behind her.

  MR. QUENT WAS not at dinner that day or at the breakfast we took in the middle of the long umbral that followed.

  “The master sends his welcome and asks that you begin your work,” Mrs. Darendal said as she entered the small parlor on the first floor, at the back of the house.

  “So you have spoken to Mr. Quent,” I said, surprised. “Then he must be in residence. But where is he? I should think he would like to meet the person he has taken into his employment.”

  Mrs. Darendal’s face was all lines and angles in the light of the sole candle that lit our meal. “The master’s business often takes him away at a moment’s notice. He arrived well into the umbral but then set off again over an hour ago. Nor should you expect to see him often even when he is here. He is a busy man and cannot be concerned with domestic affairs. That is why you were hired, Miss Lockwell.”

  “Of course” was my reply.

  However, I was beginning to wonder if what had seemed formality in Mr. Quent’s letters had instead been the product of coolness and distance. A man who hired the likes of Mrs. Darendal to keep his house could not be concerned with matters like kindness, comfort, or warmth. From what I had seen so far, Heathcrest Hall was well organized and scrupulously clean, but the fireplaces were all barren, and the few candles could do little to keep it warm or drive away the shadows.

  Well, if Mr. Quent could not concern himself to see what the children were doing, then I could look after them as I saw fit. This parlor, I had been told, was to be used for our studies as well as for taking meals. I moved about the room and lit several more candles.

  “We aren’t supposed to do that,” Chambley said. “Mrs. Darendal says if there’s one candle, then there’s enough.”

  I knew from yesterday’s experiences that I could not, as a matter of course, believe what the children told me about the housekeeper—though this particular statement did seem credible.

  “One candle might be enough to eat by,” I said, “but it is not enough to learn by. Sometimes it takes more than one light to show the way.”

  Clarette scowled. “What does that mean?”

  “It means,” I said as I examined the bookcase near the windows, “that real illumination comes not from one source but from many.”

  Chambley heaved his small shoulders in a sigh. “I know what she’s saying. She means we’re going to read lots of books.” He put his hands to his forehead. “Books make my head feel like it’s filled with jelly.”

  “Perhaps you’ve not been reading the right ones,” I said, and pulled a volume from the shelf. “This should provide a good start. Have you read any of the histories of Telarus?”

  Clarette crossed her arms and slouched in her chair. “I’ve never heard of him. Is he someone you know from Invarel?”

  I could not help a smile. “No, he does not live in Invarel. And while I cannot say I have ever met him, I do feel that I know him from his writings. That is the mystery of books. When I read one of his histories, I imagine I am having a conversation with Telarus himself, yet he lived over twelve hundred years ago.”

  “You mean he’s dead?” Clarette said eagerly, sitting up in her chair.

  “Yes,” I said, a bit reluctantly given her reaction, but I could hardly deny the fact. “He died many centuries ago, but his wisdom and learning are still with us today.”

  “So reading is like talking to a ghost,” Clarette said, her dark eyes agleam in the candlelight.

  “Primitive peoples believed in ghosts, Clarette. We live in a scientific age. We have no use for ghosts anymore.” I sat at the table and opened the book. “Now, which of you would like to begin reading?”

  WE STAYED IN the parlor for several hours, reading. I drew the curtains shut so we might more easily believe it was morning rather than the middle of a long night, and we went through one of the early volumes of the Lex Tharosia, which concerned the time before the founding of the republic.

  At first the children eyed the door often and seemed on the
verge of bolting. Determined to engage them, I chose a chapter that described a siege when barbarians from the western steppes attacked the city of Tharos, and I read it with vigor. The legions of Tharos fought bravely, but they were outnumbered. Then, just when the barbarians were battering the gate, I set down the book.

  “What are you doing?” Chambley said. His eyes were large in his face. “We have to find out how the legions drive off the Murgonoths.”

  Clarette leaned across the table toward him. “But they don’t drive them off. After all, it’s not Tharos anymore. It’s the Murgh Empire. The Murgonoths march in and kill the soldiers and burn all of Tharos to the ground.”

  “No, they don’t!”

  “Well, I bet you they do.”

  “We do not make wagers, Clarette,” I said. “And you might be surprised what happens. If you wish to find out, you have only to read on. I’ve read quite enough myself, I think.”

  The idea that reading might grant them something they actually wanted seemed to astonish them, but after a moment Clarette took up the book, and then Chambley took a turn. Both demonstrated some degree of halting and stumbling; all the same, I was given sufficient cause to hope that, with a good deal more practice, both would become accomplished readers.

  At last the Murgonoths broke down the gates. They flooded into the city, but the Tharosians were nowhere to be found. Then, to their surprise, arrows flew over the city walls. They looked out to see that the legions of Tharos now surrounded the city. They had escaped through secret tunnels, which they had collapsed behind them, and had taken all the food with them. The Murgonoths were trapped within the very city they had attempted to conquer. The barbarians soon succumbed to starvation, and the Tharosians were able to reenter their own city without unsheathing their swords.

  “You mean that the Murgonoths were all dead,” Clarette said with a bit too much glee.

  Chambley stared at the table. “I don’t want to think about them all there in the city. I wouldn’t go in. The city would be full of gho—” He looked up at me and shut his mouth.

  I decided it was time for another subject, and after that we spent an hour on ciphering. Chambley surprised and pleased me with his ability; he could total large sums quickly. Clarette, however, could hardly be made to look at her paper; her gaze kept flickering to the curtained window. At last I could no longer tolerate this behavior.

  “What is it you hope to see outside, Clarette?”

  Both of the children looked up at me.

  “I’ve noticed how you keep looking at the window. However, I don’t know what you can possibly hope to see. The almanac says it will be night for over twelve more hours. Tell me, what were you looking for?”

  She gazed at me with her dark eyes but said nothing. Chambley gripped his pencil and looked at his paper.

  “Well, then, if you will not tell me, perhaps I will open the curtain and see for myself what is outside.”

  I rose and moved to the window, but as my hand touched the curtain, Chambley leaped up from his chair.

  “No, don’t open it!”

  I turned to regard him. “Why not?”

  He was looking at Clarette. “What if she’s out there?”

  “What if who is out there, Chambley?” I said. “Direct your attention to me, not to your sister. Do you mean Mrs. Darendal? I’m quite sure she is inside the house.”

  The two of them exchanged a long glance. I almost thought Clarette moved her lips slightly. Chambley’s face was pale.

  At last Clarette looked at me, and in the candlelight her face seemed older than its ten years. “He doesn’t mean Mrs. Darendal.”

  “Then who, Clarette? Who does he mean?”

  They did not answer me, and I could not suppress a shiver. But it was only a draft of air slipping between the curtains, and now I was growing cross at their behavior. I gripped the curtains and threw them to either side. Chambley clamped his hands over his eyes.

  “There,” I said. “There’s nothing.”

  It was pitch-black outside the window. There were no stars. The window looked eastward, away from the village, and not a light was to be seen out on the heathland. I suffered again that feeling I sometimes do in the midst of a long night, the sensation of the darkness pressing inward, like the Murgonoths pressing inward on the city of Tharos, wanting to vanquish it. Only there were no secret passages by which we might escape. We were trapped inside, with only our feeble candles to push back the darkness.

  “Miss Lockwell?”

  I realized I had been staring at the dark. I turned around. Clarette was smiling. It was, I thought, a smug expression. I did not care for it.

  “We have studied enough for now,” I said. “Go play quietly in your room. I will call you down when it is time for your dinner.”

  I WILL NOT DENY it: as I went to bed for the second time during that long night, my spirits were low.

  Other than the children, I had not seen a living soul since breakfast, and I could easily understand how Chambley’s imagination tended toward thoughts of ghosts, for as devoid as it was of living beings, this house was well populated with shadows, whispering drafts, and far-off groans. Even our supper appeared as if by the work of specters, laid out for us in the parlor while we walked up and down the front hall for some exercise.

  I laid in my sleigh bed for a long time before sleep came; I longed to see you, Father, and my sisters; I missed my mother. I felt very alone. However, the voice of the wind outside was not sinister, merely mournful, so it seemed to me I was not alone after all, and at last I slept.

  The next day, and for many days after that, my spirits were greatly improved. There were several longer lumenals in a row and one very short umbral that was over almost before we shut our eyes. While I cannot say the increase in light transformed Heathcrest Hall into a cheerful place, it did serve to soften the somber atmosphere, so that it did not seem such a startling thing to laugh or to suddenly speak in a raised voice.

  As much as possible, and whenever the weather allowed, I took the children outdoors. That air and exercise would benefit them both, I had no doubt. A fair complexion might be fashionable, but their skin was so pale as to be nearly translucent. The first time I took them out, they blinked and rubbed their eyes, though the sun was half lost in a misty haze.

  “Mother says—she said the damp air is bad for me,” Chambley said. He took shallow breaths through his teeth.

  “His lungs aren’t strong, that’s what Mother told us,” Clarette said.

  He shook his head. “Not strong.”

  “Well, there’s only one way to improve them,” I said, “and that’s by putting them to use.” Clasping their hands lest they attempt to retreat inside, I led them down the front lane.

  Our walk was not long that day. We made it only to an old stone that stood along the lane not far from the house. It was black and pitted, unlike the gray outcrops on the distant fells, and nearly as tall as me. Clarette discovered that, when viewed from a certain angle, the stone bore what looked like the profile of a grotesque face looking toward the house. Someone had carved the word Heathcrest into its dark surface long ago.

  I wanted to press on, but the mist began to descend quickly, and we hurried back to the house. However, over those next days our ramblings took us farther down the lane and along footpaths that crossed the summit of the ridge.

  “We’re awfully far from the house,” Chambley said as we started down one of the side paths. He was breathing rapidly, as he often did on our walks; however, I had come to the conclusion that it was not exertion that caused this effect but rather apprehension.

  “On the contrary,” I said in a cheerful tone, “I am sure we’re not two furlongs away. If Mrs. Darendal were to stand on the front step and call to us, we should hear her clearly. Now, come.”

  He did, though as we walked I noticed that he glanced often over his shoulder.

  The day was clearer than any since I had come to Heathcrest, the air clean with the scent
of juniper. So encouraged, I led the children on until we came to a prospect surmounted by a scatter of stones. The stones were long and flat. Some were worn by wind and spotted with lichen, but others were paler and sharper-edged.

  The view was excellent. I could make out the roofs of the village to the west and, closer to Heathcrest, the gray bones of the ruined chapel. Then I noticed the roof of a building standing alone to the south. I could not see what it was, as it was settled into a low place in the land, so I went to one of the stones, which leaned at an angle upon another, and climbed up it.

  “What are you doing, Miss Lockwell?” Clarette called out.

  “Getting a better view,” I replied.

  This time it was Chambley’s voice that rang out. “But you’ll fall and dash your head!”

  “Only if I am very careless or very foolish,” I replied. “In which case I will have deserved my fate.”

  I reached the top of the stone. My view was much improved, and I saw that the building was a house. It was a fine country cottage or lodge by the look of it, and I wondered who lived there. I let my gaze rove into the distance, and a serene feeling came over me. It was strange that a landscape so forlorn could be so appealing to me—indeed, even familiar.

  The children were calling out. Their voices were high and sharp, though I could not make out what they said. I cast one more look at the scenery, then climbed back down the stones to them.

  “There, I am perfectly well,” I said. “Do you see?”

  It was not at me they were looking. Instead, their faces were turned toward the east, and both had gone quiet.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  Chambley started to speak, but Clarette grasped his hand—hard, by the cry he let out. “It’s time to get back,” she said. “That’s why we were calling for you.” She pulled her brother, and they started back along the path.