“The only soldiers we ever see are those passing through,” one of the men grumbled over his cup. “They’re leaving the outland garrisons and heading back to the city. I suppose the king is more worried about the rebels in Assembly than the ones on the Torland border. But I say there’ll be rebels everywhere before long if they don’t do something about the roads. The king won’t find it very easy to defend his crown against Huntley Morden’s men, not if he finds all his own men have left him.”
These words were quickly hushed. The cup was pulled from the speaker’s hand and glances cast my way. I hurried from the inn, package in hand.
The next time I went for a ride, my mare had the bad luck to throw a shoe. However, I could not count my misfortune very great, for I was close to Cairnbridge when the mishap occurred, and almost immediately a boy came upon me on the road. He was about twelve, towheaded, and introduced himself as the son of one of the local landed families. He offered to walk the horse to the farrier a mile south, and if I would wait at the village, he would return her to me there in two hours.
I could not refuse such a kind offer—especially when I was not likely to get any other. My return to Heathcrest would be delayed, but there could be no helping it. Besides, the children would not rise for several hours yet. I enjoyed my walk to the village, observing the many wildflowers along the road and listening to the birdsong.
In Cairnbridge I hoped to sit at the inn and have a cup of tea. However, I found the dining room empty that day; all were taking a rest in the middle of the long lumenal. I realized I had been lucky to encounter the boy, and I wondered if he would have to rouse the farrier from his bed.
To pass the time, I walked around the stone wall that bordered the common green. However, there was no shade, and after making a circuit I was hot and went back to the inn to stand in the shadow of its eaves.
I gazed at the field beyond the low stone wall and saw the stump of the tree that had once stood there. It would have been cool had that grand old tree still stood; it would have shaded the entire center of the village. Why had no one thought to plant a replacement for it?
I let my gaze wander farther afield, seeing if I could spot any type of shade. But there were no trees within view. There was a dark smudge atop a hill several furlongs to the north, but it was ash gray, not cool green. I retreated back inside the inn and sat in the silence alone.
“Miss Lockwell?” said a voice.
I started in my seat. Away from the sun in the dim and quiet of the inn, I had begun to doze; it appeared sleep was something I needed after all. I saw a man I did not recognize standing above me. He was only a bit more than my age, though his face was tanned and already somewhat weathered, and his hand, when I accepted it in introduction, was very rough. His speech and manner, in contrast, were gentle—even soft, I would say. I learned that he was none other than the farrier and that his name was Mr. Samonds.
“Thank you!” I said when I discovered he had brought my horse with him and that she had been reshod. “But surely you did not need to come all this way yourself. What happened to…?”
“Young Mr. Graydon went home,” he said. “But do not think ill of him. He was intent upon keeping his promise to you. However, I knew he had been sent on an errand for his father—who is also my cousin, you see—and so I released him from his duty.”
“I certainly do not think ill of him!” I said. “I am much in his debt, and in yours.”
He gave a short bow, then offered me his arm. I was not aware that country farriers were usually so gallant as Mr. Samonds. However, being still a bit dazed from my unexpected nap, I gratefully accepted his assistance and walked with him outside to where my mare stood placidly before the inn.
“Oh, but you must be paid!” I said aloud, realizing I had no money. I had not planned to come to the village, so I had taken nothing from the household fund. As for my own wages, at my request Mr. Quent had been sending them by note to an account he had arranged for me at his bank in Invarel.
“You must send a bill to Heathcrest Hall,” I said to Mr. Samonds. “That is where I am employed. Do you know where it is?”
“Yes, I know it very well. I used to go there often when I was a boy.”
“You used to go there?” I could not conceal my surprise.
“Yes,” he said with a smile. “You are shocked at the idea of a tradesman’s son being invited to such a fine house.”
He had misread the source of my astonishment. “Not at all, Mr. Samonds. It is only that…we do not ever receive guests at Heathcrest. It is a very quiet place.”
“Is that so? I suppose it must be. But it was different then.”
“I am sure” was all I could say.
He helped me into the saddle. However, as I arranged myself, an idea occurred to me. “If you don’t mind, Mr. Samonds, how long ago did you used to go to Heathcrest?”
“A long time ago, Miss Lockwell. I was younger than Mr. Graydon is now. It was thirteen or fourteen years ago.”
“Was Mr. Quent the master of the house then?”
“He was.”
“So you knew him?”
He grinned up at me. “Everyone in the county knew him. The house had been empty for several years, you see; but when Mr. Quent came back and took a wife, it became a bright and happy place. Such parties and balls were thrown there—I wish you could have seen them! I am sure they rivaled anything in the Grand City.”
Now I was astonished anew. “Parties and balls? At Heathcrest?”
“Yes, and there were always guests there. Gentlemen friends of Mr. Quent’s mostly. They came often from the city—for hunting parties, I suppose. Though, come to think of it, I don’t remember seeing them out on the moors much. Well, it’s often the case that hunting parties involve more parties and fewer hunts. Nor were the local folk forgotten, for we were invited up to the house on occasion. My mother was often called to dine there, for Mrs. Quent was her cousin, and that is how I came to visit there myself.”
“You knew Mrs. Quent?”
“I did,” he said, only then his smile faded.
He looked away, and I knew the conversation had turned to a topic that troubled him. Nor could I wonder why. Mrs. Quent had passed, and with her had passed the balls and parties and guests.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve been to Heathcrest,” he said at last, looking back at me.
I did not know how to reply; I was sorry my words had saddened him. However, he shook his head and asked me then if I wanted company for my ride back to the house. I thanked him but assured him I knew the way very well.
“I’m sure you do,” he said. “I’ve seen you out riding before. I helped Mr. Quent pick this mare and shod her myself. She’s a pretty thing, and you sit her well. Have you been enjoying riding?”
“Very much,” I said.
“Good. I’m glad she is being put to such good use.” His expression grew serious again. “But Miss Lockwell—forgive me for being so forward—you do not ride out late in the day, do you? And you do not stray far from either Heathcrest or Cairnbridge, do you?”
I assured him that I always went out in daylight and that no matter where I went I could always see either Heathcrest’s gables or the roofs of the village. This answer seemed to please him, and he stroked the mare’s nose. I thanked him again for all his assistance and reminded him to send his bill to Heathcrest.
I took the reins of the mare. However, just as I was about to urge her into a walk, I turned in the saddle. He had been raised here; it occurred to me he might know. “The tree in the common field over there,” I said. “It must have been very beautiful once. I was curious how it perished. Do you know what happened to it?”
“It burned,” he said, and the words, so unlike everything else he had uttered, were hard. He took a step back. “Ride directly to the house, Miss Lockwell. I am sure you are wanted.”
I nodded, and as there was nothing more I could say, I urged the gray mare onward.
WHE
N I REACHED Heathcrest, I found Mr. Quent just mounting his horse in front of the house. I assumed that his business had called him away once again. In my surprise, I forgot myself and asked where he was going.
“To look for you, Miss Lockwell,” he said with a glower as he helped me down from the gray mare.
A horror spread through me. I had not thought my absence would cause the master himself to put aside his usual occupations and come looking for me.
“Mr. Quent, I am so sorry to have troubled you!” I said, and quickly explained what had happened.
He appeared visibly relieved at my explanation—indeed, so relieved that I could only wonder at what he had imagined had happened to me. I did not ask him; instead, I apologized once more for causing concern.
He gave a curt nod and mounted his horse.
“But you are still going somewhere?” I asked in surprise. He wore a broad-brimmed hat and a wool coat with a short cape about his shoulders.
“I am called away by my work. I should have been away an hour ago.”
Shame and horror filled me anew. Had I known my actions would in any way affect his duties, I would have run back to Heathcrest on foot! I wanted to tell him these things, but he looked so imposing upon the massive horse that I could not speak.
The gelding pranced, eager to be off. He controlled it with a flick of a gloved hand. It seemed he wanted to say something, for he opened his mouth; only then he shut it again.
“When will you be back?” I said at last, breathless.
But at the same moment he tipped his hat and said, “Remember our agreement, Miss Lockwell.”
He whirled the beast around and in a clatter of hooves was gone. Jance came to take the mare to the stable. Feeling very weary of a sudden, I entered the house.
I went to the kitchen to fix the cup of tea I had not gotten in the village and made some for the children as well, as it was nearly time to rouse them for their second breakfast of the long lumenal. Mrs. Darendal was there.
“I met Mr. Samonds, the farrier, in the village,” I said as I fixed a tray for the children.
Mrs. Darendal kept peeling apples.
“He was very kind to assist me,” I said, determined to be cheerful. “He told me how he used to come to Heathcrest as a boy.”
“Many people used to come here,” she said.
“His mother and Mrs. Quent were cousins, I understand.”
This received no disagreement, so I could only assume it to be true.
“I wonder,” I said, then paused, choosing my words carefully. “That is, it is regretful that those who enjoyed this house once are no longer able to do so. And it is such a remarkable place. I wonder if it might be possible—if sometime we might invite someone to supper. Mr. Samonds perhaps, and his wife if he is married.”
“I am sure he will never marry,” Mrs. Darendal said. She spoke this with what I thought was a hard little smile. She sliced another apple into a bowl. “You should wake the children.”
I said nothing more and took my tray upstairs. The children were already awake when I entered. Chambley threw his arms around me in an embrace, which I gladly returned.
“Good morning,” I told him.
“It’s the middle of the day,” he said, rubbing bleary eyes.
“I know,” I said. “But we must pretend it’s morning, mustn’t we? For it’s twelve more hours until dusk. Now drink your tea. Here’s a cup for you, Clarette.”
She did not move from the window. As always I wanted to ask what she was looking at and if she had seen the figure in white again; instead, I went to her with a cup.
“Drink it before it gets cold,” I told her.
Clarette set it down without taking a sip, then turned back to the window.
“What are we going to study today?” Chambley asked.
“We should work on our reading. We can read anything we want.”
“Can we read about dragons?”
“There are no such things as dragons,” Clarette said, turning from the window.
He scowled at her. “There are in books.”
“That’s very true,” I told him. I smiled at Clarette. “Isn’t that so?”
She turned her dark eyes on me. “Mr. Quent is gone again, isn’t he?”
“Yes, his business has called him away. Did you see him ride off?”
Even as I said this, I remembered that the window of their room was on the opposite side of the house from the front courtyard, where I had encountered Mr. Quent. The window looked east, out over the empty moor. Toward the Wyrdwood.
Clarette turned again to the window, leaning on the sill and gazing out. Despite the sultry afternoon I felt a chill creep up my arms. I folded them over my chest. “Drink your tea,” I said, “and come downstairs when you are dressed.”
AFTER THAT DAY, despite the continued fine weather, my spirits fell—further, in truth, than they had since my arrival at Heathcrest. Since Mr. Quent’s departure the house seemed more silent than ever. It should have been impossible—he spoke so little—yet it was quieter. The silence was a palpable thing, like dust or cobwebs. It smothered everything.
I began to wish I had not promised the children I would keep their secret; I regretted not telling Mr. Quent about the white figure I had glimpsed running toward the Wyrdwood in the gloaming. I determined I would tell him as soon as he returned. Only there was no way to know when that would be. It could be a few days, or it could be a half month. Until then, I could only be vigilant. I kept watch out the windows, and when we ventured outside I never released the children’s hands.
Despite all my observations, I saw nothing unusual as the days passed. Yet I was growing increasingly certain—indeed, I was by now utterly convinced—that Clarette had seen something, that even now, though she did not speak of it, she continued to see the being in white.
Several times I came close to asking Clarette if she had seen the intruder—or (as I feared was the case) if the intruder had spoken to her. Always I refrained. Clarette must want to tell me. If I attempted to force the knowledge from her, any hope I had of winning her over was ruined.
My only respite were those long afternoons when I was able to leave the children secured in the house and venture out for a ride. I never felt fear at such times. I was not likely to encounter the intruder; it was clear it had no wish to show itself to me. And I believed that it most likely made itself known to the children during hours of gloom or twilight.
“You will be back before nightfall, won’t ye, miss?” Jance would sometimes ask as he helped me into the saddle, even though the umbral was many hours off. By the third or fourth time he said this, I laughed.
“I can only think I look very foolish when I sit on a horse,” I said, “for in the village, Mr. Samonds said much the same thing to me. I assured him he had no cause for worry, and now I say the same to you. I’ve brought my good sense with me as well as my bonnet.”
The groundskeeper squinted up at me. “You ought not make a jest at Mr. Samonds, miss. He has a right to worry about a young lady riding close to dark. That was when his sister went missing.”
My mirth perished. What had caused me to laugh like that? I seemed to mock Mr. Samonds when he had been only kind to me.
“His sister!” I said, shocked.
“Aye. It’s been over a year now. She went out walking late one day before the fall of a greatnight, and she never came back. They took lanterns with them and covered half the county, staying out all through that long, shivering umbral. But they didn’t find her, nor have they since. She were about your age, miss. Looked a bit like you too, fair-headed and all. Halley, that were her name.”
How horrible I had been. The sight of me on a horse must have made Mr. Samonds think of his sister, while I had only considered my own pride! I assured Jance I would be back long before sunset and that I would ride only between the house and Cairnbridge.
“That’s good to hear, miss,” he said, and handed me the reins.
As
I rode, I thought of the farrier and of his sister, Halley Samonds. How selfish I had been to think only of myself. Yet it was strange. The heathland was so open; all one had to do was climb up any of the ridges or hills and one could see for miles. It seemed impossible that she could have gotten lost.
AFTER A MIDDLING night came another long lumenal, and once the children were in their room, I again took the gray out for a ride.
“Didn’t you go out yesterday?” Mrs. Darendal said as I put on my bonnet.
“We’re nearly out of butter,” I said with a smile. Without waiting for her answer (for I knew she tended to worry less about what was missing from the larder when the master was not in residence), I took a napkin in which to wrap my intended purchase and hurried out the door.
The day was not so fine as those that had preceded it; clouds lingered over the ridgetops, as if caught on the stones. All the same, I felt relief as I always did once free of the oppressive quiet of Heathcrest, and I let the mare trot as fast as she wished down the road.
At that pace I reached the inn after no more than half an hour. However, once there I discovered there was no butter to be had; the woman who usually brought it had brought none that morning. One of her cows was dead.
I asked the innkeeper if it had gotten sick, but he told me no, the animal had not fallen ill; rather, it had been killed, and the other cows were so frightened their udders had gone dry.
“But who would do such a thing?” I thought of the reports of highwaymen I had overheard. “Was it brigands?”
“It weren’t no kind of man,” the innkeeper said. “By the look of it, some beast took the cow down. That’s what she told me, at least.”
“A pack of dogs, you mean?” I asked, for I could think of nothing else that would attack so large a creature.
The innkeeper shook his head. Not beasts, he told me, but a beast, and he said if I wanted butter I would have to go to Low Sorrell to get it.
As I climbed into the saddle again, my first thought was that I should return to Heathcrest. But I had been gone less than an hour; I was not yet ready to return to the confines of the house. Besides, while I had told Jance I was riding to the village for butter, I had not specified Cairnbridge. If Low Sorrell was the village where the butter was to be found, then that was where I should be expected to go—or so I reasoned.
The Magicians and Mrs. Quent Page 35