The Magicians and Mrs. Quent

by Galen Beckett

  I nodded.

  “She is buried there.” He pointed toward the ruins of the old chapel beyond Burndale Lodge.

  I told him I should like to visit there, and he said I would, but not that day. By then the sun was low, and he gave me his arm as we started back for Heathcrest, walking in silence.

  SOLDIERS CAME DURING the night and called Mr. Quent away. However, he returned after the passage of two middling lumenals and a brief umbral. Over those next several days, we ventured out on more walks. Or, when the weather was inclement, we strolled in the front hall as he told me stories of the people in the various portraits: members of the Rylend family, whose last earl he had served, and whose house this had been.

  While before I had wished to avoid him whenever possible, now I looked forward to his company. Our meals were no longer wordless affairs but rather lively with conversation. He had seen much of Altania in his travels—he had even been over the sea to the Principalities once—and I had so many questions about other lands and peoples, things I had read about only in books, all of which he obligingly detailed.

  In my first months at Heathcrest, I had hardly noticed when he was gone; now, when his work called him away, I felt the weight of the shadows pressing in, and the silence rang in my ears. Often I sought solace in writing to my sisters. I had been four months at Heathcrest now, and I had saved nearly enough to arrange the opening of the house on Durrow Street. I assured Lily that she would have to endure Mr. Wyble only a little while longer.

  I had yet to resume my studies with the children. They had relapsed when the fever settled in their lungs, and though it had been a half month since that night at the Wyrdwood, they remained convalescents upon the doctor’s orders. I would often read to them, but they tired quickly, so when Mr. Quent was gone I spent most of my time alone.

  While my opinion of Heathcrest had changed, I could not say the same was true of Mrs. Darendal. The housekeeper seemed more reticent around me than ever. I received barely a word from her, only sharp looks, and she would quickly depart a room if I was to enter it, no matter if she had been in the midst of some task.

  The next time Mr. Quent returned (again from a trip that was briefer than usual), he invited me into his study on the second floor. I confess, I was both surprised and hesitant. I recalled the way I had transgressed upon his privacy the last time I was in the room, and I could not forget how I had been overcome upon looking at the painting of the Wyrdwood. But I had hardly been myself then. I had been so lonely, my head filled with phantasms and thoughts of ghosts. This time I was invited, and I knew my mind to be sound.

  All the same, I could not help but feel some relief when, upon entering, I saw the painting had been removed.

  “I thought you might wish to play, Miss Lockwell,” he said, gesturing to the pianoforte. He wore the blue coat again, with its old-fashioned but handsome cut. His brown hair had tumbled over his brow despite his best efforts to comb it. “I have been told that all young women are accomplished at music these days.”

  I laughed. “Not all, I’m afraid. It is my sister Lily who received the musical talent. She is very skilled. I wish you could hear her play! Though she does have a proclivity for ominous pieces. My mother always asks her to play brighter things. Asked her, I mean.”

  I felt a sudden ache in my heart, and I turned, making a pretense of examining the pianoforte.

  “I confess, I do not know if she had ability or not,” he said behind me. “I have little ear for music. I know only that I could have watched her for hours as she played.”

  I turned to see him gazing at the pianoforte, and then the ache I felt was no longer just for myself. I sat at the pianoforte, and while my skill was no more than rudimentary, he listened intently, and when I was finished he applauded my efforts with what seemed such genuine appreciation that I could only turn away to hide the warmth in my cheeks.

  “Are you all right, Miss Lockwell?”

  I looked at him. “Yes, I am quite recovered from my illness.”

  His brown eyes were grave. “That is not what I meant. I mean are you all right here, at Heathcrest? I know you want for your family, that you were parted from your father and sisters so soon after all of you were parted from Mrs. Lockwell.”

  So addressed, I could only speak the truth. “I do miss them, very much. And I will not deny that, at first, I felt terribly lonely here. I wanted nothing more than to go back to the city.”

  “At first, you say.” He hesitated, then moved closer, standing on the other side of the pianoforte. “Do you mean that you have a different opinion now? That is, do you think differently about Heathcrest Hall?”

  “I do.”

  “And is your opinion of it lessened or improved?”

  “Oh, improved! It is, I see now, the noblest and strongest of houses, and the landscape is anything but forlorn. It is beautiful in the most elemental manner. It has no need of adornment or decoration to make it handsome. Rather, it is so in its very simplicity.”

  “I see.”

  He was silent for a time. I did not know what to say. I thought maybe I should play more, but my fingers had forgotten what little art they knew and lay motionless upon the keys.

  “You say your opinion of the house has changed,” he said at last. “And what of its master, I might ask? I know you must have thought him grim and stern—that he could only be regarded, by one of sound judgment, as silent and removed, even hard. How could you not think him such? I know better than anyone that he was all those things. What a repulsive being you must have thought him! One to be pitied no less than avoided.” He was more animated than I had ever seen him; as he spoke, he placed his hands—both hands—on the pianoforte. “Has your opinion changed in that regard? Or is it unwavering, grounded in impressions that cannot be altered by the passage of time or by any change of circumstance?”

  I looked at his hands, the right whole and strong, the left maimed. However, the one was no more repellent or pitiable to me; it was as much his as was the other.

  “No,” I said. “My opinion in that regard is much changed as well.”

  I looked up and saw an expression on his face that I could only think was pleased. However, his look suddenly changed to a grimace as he glanced down and saw his left hand as naked and exposed as the right. He snatched it up, tucking it into his coat pocket, and retreated from the pianoforte.

  I rose from the bench. “It happened a long time ago, didn’t it?”

  He frowned. “How can you know?”

  “From this.” I moved to the portrait that hung on the wall, next to the portrait of Gennivel Quent. In the painting his face was not so solemn, his brow not yet furrowed, but even then his left hand was tucked in his pocket.

  “I was a boy,” he said behind me, the words low. “It was the year I turned twelve.”

  “How did it happen?” Perhaps it was rude of me; it was certainly forward, but I could not help wanting to know.

  “I told you, Miss Lockwell—the more you fight against it, the more it fights back.”

  “You mean the Wyrdwood?”

  “The only way to win against it is to lose something to it. That’s what my father told me, and I learned it for myself when a foolish act led me to spend a night alone within the walls of a stand of Old Trees.” Slowly, he drew his left hand out of his pocket. “This is what I was forced to lose in order to survive through that greatnight.”

  I could only stare at him. A night alone in the Wyrdwood! What had compelled him to do such a thing? He did not say, and I did not ask. I recalled my own near encounter with the ancient trees, and I shivered. No, there was nothing that could ever compel me to step beyond those walls.

  He returned his hand to his coat pocket. “So you can understand, Miss Lockwell, why I am grateful to you for keeping the children from going into the Wyrdwood. I rode there again a few days ago, and there is a new crack opened in the wall—one just large enough for a boy or girl to slip through. I have already arranged for the w
all’s repair, but had you not followed them that night, they might well have been lured inside.”

  “I don’t understand. Why would she have wanted to bring them there at all?”

  “I have told you, Miss Lockwell, there are those who do not care for the work I have been commissioned to do.”

  “You speak of the…” I do not know why, but it was hard to speak the word witch. “Of Halley Samonds, I mean.” If Mr. Quent’s business was to investigate and prevent Risings, surely a witch would seek to work against him.

  “Not just her,” he replied. “There are others. In recent years, some who plot against the Crown have sought to use the ancient groves as a place to hide and plan their treachery.”

  “But is it not perilous to enter the wood?”

  “Yes, it is. But it is possible…” His gaze went to the window. “…Possible, if one has the benefit of a witch.”

  “And you think Halley Samonds is in league with such persons.”

  He looked back at me. “You have heard, perhaps, that the roads have suffered an increase in the number of brigands of late. Thieves steal for a reason, and the highway through Westmorain County leads right to the Torland border.”

  I believed I understood his meaning. Torland had been part of Altania for centuries, but long ago it had been its own country, and old allegiances and ancient oaths were not forgotten there. When the Old Usurper attempted to seize the crown seventy years ago, it was with an army of Torlanders behind him. It was not difficult to believe there were still men in Torland who wished to see the Arringhart stag torn down in favor of the Morden hawk.

  However, it was another thing to think that such rebels prowled the roads here in Altania, waylaying travelers and taking their gold to fund their treasonous efforts. And it was yet another thing to think they were in league with witches who helped them to hide in the Wyrdwood. Still, I could only concede there was a kind of sense to it. After all, the Wyrdwood was the one place where no one else would ever go.

  I took a step toward my employer. “Do you know who these rebels are, the men who might be using Halley Samonds?”

  “No, but I would give much to know. I think, by luring the children to the wood, they hoped to lure me there as well. They cannot have any love for the inquirers. Any investigations into the Wyrdwood can only serve to uncover their own doings. But who they might be—if they are foreigners or local men—I cannot say. I have never seen them.”

  A shudder passed through me. “But I have seen one!” I realized aloud.

  In answer to his questioning look, I explained about my journey to Cairnbridge with the mail. I recounted how we were stopped by soldiers, and how the driver had convinced them to let us go on our way, only after the next stop the man who had been sitting next to me—the eighth traveler—was gone, and no mention was ever made of him.

  “I cannot know it, of course,” I said, now feeling a bit foolish. Perhaps I had merely allowed my imagination to get away from me, like Lily after reading one of her romances. “Yet I cannot think of any good reason why the man would have left so unexpectedly. He had his hand inside his coat the entire time we were stopped by the soldiers. I recall it was very odd—especially that the driver made no mention of his absence.”

  “I fear the driver was likely in league with the fellow,” Mr. Quent said with a dark look. “Such instances are not unknown. The presence of the soldiers on the road must have convinced them not to go through with whatever mischief they intended. You are fortunate, Miss Lockwell.”

  I could only nod. To think I had ridden for hours beside a man who was likely a highwayman, perhaps even a rebel against the Crown!

  He must have noticed my distress, for after that he asked me to play again on the pianoforte. I complied, glad for something to which I could direct my attention. My brain felt oddly light and fluttering, like a moth that could not decide upon what thing to alight. He listened in polite silence, and at last I confessed I could play no more, and being tired I begged my leave. This was granted with a stiff bow. He said nothing, only watching me with his brown eyes as I went.

  However, as I reached the door, he said, “That night with the children, you said the branches seemed to grasp at you, Miss Lockwell.”

  I turned in the doorway. “Yes, they did.”

  He took a step toward me. “I wondered…that is, you have never told me how you and the children were able to get away from them.”

  “There was a gust of wind,” I said. “The branches were raised up by its force, and we ran as fast as we could.”

  However, even as I said this, I tried to remember exactly what had happened. Had there been a gust of wind at that moment? And if there had, shouldn’t the branches have bent down under its force? I found myself gazing, not at Mr. Quent, but rather at the portrait of the green-eyed young woman that hung on the wall behind him.

  “You ran,” he said. “That’s all. Are you sure?”

  “Yes, quite sure.” I returned my gaze to him, and I smiled. “Good night, Mr. Quent.”

  With that I took my leave of the master of Heathcrest Hall.

  THE NEXT MORNING I rose to find Mr. Quent gone. His work had called him away during the night. When I found Mrs. Darendal in the front hall, dusting the hunting trophies, I asked her if she knew when he would be back.

  “What business is it of yours when the master returns?” she said without looking at me.

  I was startled by the scorn in her voice. “I cannot claim it to be my business in any way,” I said. “For whatever business he is on, it is entirely his own. Rather, I wished only to know.”

  “It seems you wish to know a great many things, Miss Lockwell.” A rabbit became the recipient of a vigorous dusting that removed as many hairs as specks of dust. “Do not think I have not seen the way you creep about the house. You have skulked and spied about since the first day you came here. No secret is safe from you, not even behind locked doors!”

  Her accusation was anything but fair. However, I could not defend myself, as the housekeeper well knew.

  “Be careful what you seek to know, Miss Lockwell. If you pry too much, you may uncover things you wish you hadn’t. There are yet secrets in this house that would make your blood go cold—things he will never tell you.”

  The housekeeper turned her back and took her work to the other end of the hall. Her words left me agitated, and I retreated into the kitchen to take a cup of tea.

  What could she mean? What secrets did she speak of? My mind was filled with vague shadows. However, after some consideration, I banished such thoughts. That Mrs. Darendal did not care for me had long been clear. True, I had never known her to speak anything other than truth. However, she had implied that Mr. Quent was keeping something of a terrible nature from me, and that I could not believe. He had told me all about the awful night he had lost Mrs. Quent. When he had revealed such intimate and painful recollections, why should he keep anything else from me?

  Mrs. Darendal could not have known that he had granted me such confidences, and I had no reason to tell her. She could think of me what she would. It was not her opinion of me that mattered.

  My mind soothed by such thoughts, I finished my tea and went upstairs to see if the children wished for a story. However, when I opened the door to their room a crack, I saw them making a game with a collection of tin soldiers and peg dolls. They were playing in the most charming manner, fashioning such innocent little stories with their toys as only children can conceive, and so much like angels did they appear, still clad as they were in their night robes, that I was loath to disturb them. I shut the door without a sound and left them.

  My smile soon vanished. What a dreary day that was! The lumenal was not long; still it seemed to pass slowly. I went outside, but the weather was ill and drove me in. The children had no need of me, and I did not wish to wander the house for fear of being further accused of lurking. With nowhere else I could go, I retreated to my room and, as the wind lashed at the gables, wrote a grea
t many of the preceding pages, Father.

  The day had long since expired when I set down my pen, my hand stiff from writing. I realized I had never had any supper, and I decided to go down to the kitchen to see if anything might be left on the board.

  Upon leaving my room I found all dark and silent. However, as I reached the second floor, I saw a glimmer of light, and following it I came to the door of Mr. Quent’s study. There was a smell of rain on the air, and I saw the door was open. The light of a lamp spilled out, so that the illumination of the candle I held could not have been detected within the room.

  I peered through the door, and at once my heart leaped. Mr. Quent was within; he had returned to Heathcrest. I thought to make myself known to him—I realized it was not food that I hungered for at all but rather conversation. However, even as I opened my mouth, I comprehended that he was already speaking, and I detected the utterance of my name. Had he seen me? No—his broad back was to the door, and he stood beside the pianoforte, touching but not pressing the keys.

  “You tell me your opinion of Heathcrest and its master has changed.” His words were low but carried on the still air. “You cannot know how pleased I was to hear that speech from your lips! Surely there could be no higher praise than to earn the good opinion of the sensible Miss Lockwell.”

  His shoulders heaved, and at first I thought him to be laughing; only then he spoke again, and there was a tightness to his voice that brought to mind a grimace rather than a grin.

  “Yet your opinion might yet change again. Indeed, how can it not? And when it does, you might not find it to be improved—not if you knew how selfish I had been. Not if you knew what peril I have placed you in by bringing you here to suit my own purposes.”

  I retreated from the door, for I did not want to hear anything more. Thoughts of supper and companionship had fled me. My mind fluttered and wavered like the shadows cast by my candle. All I could think was that once again Mrs. Darendal had spoken the truth. There was some secret he had kept from me.