The Magicians and Mrs. Quent

by Galen Beckett

  Only he wasn’t laughing. His eyes were shadowed in the gloom of the parlor.

  “My father said something very much like that to me once,” he said quietly. “How we were like people at a party at night, dwelling in a world of light—how we could not see out into the darkness, but that things outside could see in to us.”

  Again she shivered. “What sort of things?”

  “I don’t know. But sometimes, when I speak the words of magick, I almost feel as if I’m at that party, looking out that window, and I see something out there, something I’m not sure I was meant to….”

  What do you see? Ivy wanted to ask him. However, at that moment light flared in the doorway, and the housekeeper entered with a lamp in hand. She set it down and began to move around the parlor, loudly rearranging things in a haphazard fashion. The message was clear: their license to use the room had expired.

  Mr. Rafferdy accompanied her downstairs and out into the front garden. There, beneath the shadow of the wisteria, they made a plan for tomorrow. As twilight fell, an urgency had grown in Ivy; the masked man had told her it was not long before members of the order tried to open the door at the house on Durrow Street. She asked that they not delay, and he agreed. After his meeting with Mr. Bennick, he would proceed directly to Durrow Street.

  As indicated in her father’s letter, the spell called for several materials—certain compounds with which the runes of power must be traced. It had been previously agreed that she would procure these at Mr. Mundy’s shop, for they could think of nowhere else to purchase them. Knowing that Mr. Rafferdy found the idea of entering that place again to be abhorrent, she had volunteered to get the things, then meet him at Durrow Street.

  “Until then, Mrs. Quent,” he said, putting on his hat and tipping it toward her.

  She wanted to thank him, to wish him luck, but the words tangled on her tongue like the language of magick. Before she could say anything, he was out the gate and walking away down the street, whistling as he went and swinging his cane.

  IVY WENT INSIDE and climbed the stairs, intending to go to her room. However, as she passed the parlor, Mr. Wyble appeared in the doorway.

  “Excuse me, cousin,” he said, “but am I right to think that I heard Mr. Rafferdy say he is an acquaintance of Mr. Bennick’s?”

  She could not disguise her shock. “Yes, you heard correctly, though I must wonder that you heard anything at all.”

  His hand went to his chest. “How ill you must think of me, cousin! But I had no intention of eavesdropping. I was passing from the dining room, and your voices came to me by chance—indeed, quite against my will.”

  “Then it seems it is I who must apologize to you, Mr. Wyble, for accosting your ears in so rude a fashion.”

  He bowed, all solicitude. “No, dear cousin. You need not apologize to me. I took no offense at all. However, I take it then that Mr. Rafferdy does know Mr. Bennick?”

  Beyond shock, Ivy could only answer. “He does, but why do you ask? I cannot imagine Mr. Bennick is of interest to you.”

  “Only he is, Mrs. Quent! He is of great interest to me. You see, I previously had the most beneficial conversation with him.”

  “I don’t understand. Do you mean you met him through your acquaintance with Lady Marsdel?”

  “No, it is quite the opposite. It was Mr. Bennick who suggested my services to her ladyship. It was very generous of him, and very unexpected. You can imagine my surprise when he approached me! But I gather he knew Mr. Lockwell once, and I’m sure your father must have talked about me and my skills as a lawyer. So that is how Mr. Bennick must have known of me.”

  Mr. Wyble spoke on, asking if she might persuade Mr. Rafferdy to speak to Mr. Bennick on his behalf, for he was hoping he might have the opportunity to be of further service to Lady Marsdel. Her ladyship must be very busy. It could only be expected she had not thought of one of Mr. Wyble’s station. Yet at a mention from Mr. Bennick, perhaps she would be favorably reminded of his previous service to her.

  Ivy listened to all this numbly. She gave some vague assurance that she would speak to Mr. Rafferdy, then begged her leave and turned to hurry up the stairs.

  “Thank you, cousin.” His voice followed her up. “I will be most grateful for any help Mr. Rafferdy could offer in passing along my regards to—”

  She shut the door to her room and leaned against it. Lily looked up from her book. She was reading in bed by the light of a single candle. “Is something wrong, Ivy? You look as if you just saw something horrid.”

  “I was talking to Mr. Wyble.”

  “Oh,” Lily said, “then I was right.” She returned her nose to her book.

  Ivy sat on the edge of her bed. Thoughts spun through her mind like the spheres of the celestial globe in the attic. How strange, she thought, that Mr. Bennick had introduced Mr. Wyble to Lady Marsdel. True, it was not difficult to conceive that Mr. Bennick had known her father. Mr. Lockwell had been friends with Mr. Quent, who worked for Lord Rafferdy, who in turn was part of Lady Marsdel’s circle, just as Mr. Bennick was.

  No, it was not the connection that was difficult to believe, but rather that Mr. Bennick had gone to such trouble to secure work for Mr. Wyble. Ivy had no idea why he would do such a thing. What benefit was it to him? Lady Marsdel could afford any lawyer, and surely Mr. Wyble was nothing to Mr. Bennick.

  Outside the window, the night thickened. It pressed against the glass like dark water, seeking a way inside. Only it was not the windowpanes that held it back, but rather the scant light of Lily’s candle. Ivy rose, took another candle from the table drawer, and another, lighting them.

  Lily looked up from her book with a frown. “I thought you said candles were expensive.”

  Ivy looked out the window. Above the rooftops, the new red planet gazed like an eye from the night.

  “They are,” she said, then lit another.

  THE NEXT DAY was to be a very short lumenal—little more than seven hours from dawn until dusk. Ivy’s intention had been to go on her errand to Mr. Mundy’s shop directly after breakfast, so as to leave plenty of time to get to Durrow Street and meet Mr. Rafferdy by noon.

  However, Mr. Wyble engaged her at length over the breakfast table, telling her again (and again) how fortunate he had been to have Lady Marsdel’s patronage and how he looked forward to further benevolence on her part with Mr. Bennick’s help—which was no doubt in Mr. Rafferdy’s power to assure, if Ivy would only ask him.

  At last she extracted herself from the dining room, only to be forced to intervene in a quarrel between Lily and Rose. The two had been arguing more and more of late. Being confined to the upper floors had made Lily cross and had prevented Rose from having as much solitude and quiet as she was used to, so that she was easily agitated.

  At last Ivy was able to resolve the argument, without ever knowing what it was about, and convinced her sisters to retire to their separate rooms. This done, she hurried downstairs and out the door, but by then the sun was already above the rooftops and galloping swiftly, as if Elytheus was indeed whipping the horses that pulled his fiery chariot in the ancient myth. Abandoning any thought of walking, she hired the first hack cab she saw and directed the driver to Greenly Circle.

  It took her some time to locate the shop—Mr. Rafferdy had not recalled precisely which street it was on—but after twice making a circuit around the circle she saw it winking down the dimness of an alley: a faded silver eye painted on a board above a door.

  She paused outside the shop and looked up at the sign. The eye was not inscribed inside a triangle but otherwise looked like the eye on the small box she had found in her father’s magick cabinet. Had members of the order ever come here to purchase items for their craft? A dread came over her. What if some of them were inside the shop at that moment?

  It did not matter. Even if they were, they would not know who she was. Ivy drew a breath and pushed through the door.

  Mr. Rafferdy had expressed distaste when he described the shop to Ivy
, but she had quite a different reaction as she moved among the shelves and heaps and towers of books. Some of the tomes had gilt writing on their spines, some words in foreign tongues, and some had no writing at all, their covers as black as the depths of a greatnight. What secrets, what marvels, would she discover if she were to open one of them and read? She reached out, touching one of the dark books whose spine bore no title.

  “Be careful of that one,” said a croaking voice. “It has a rather nasty—oh!”

  Ivy turned around. A small man had appeared from behind a shelf, his mouth a circle of surprise. The stack of books he had been holding tumbled to the floor.

  Ivy cringed at the noise, then hurried to him. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. Please, let me help.”

  She knelt to gather up the fallen books. As she rose, she saw him gazing at her. He had recovered from his surprise, and it was a speculative look he wore now on his round face.

  “I’m sorry,” she said again, holding out the books.

  “You can set them there.” He pointed to a table. “And do be careful. Some of them have a will. They might well have leaped from my hands on their own, so you needn’t worry. No harm done. They’ve suffered worse than a little fall like that. Yes, much worse over the years. It’s a wonder they’ve survived at all.” He moved about the shop as he spoke, picking up books here and setting them down there with little discernible rhyme or reason.

  Ivy set the books on the one clear spot she could find on the table, next to a yellowed skull and several murky jars. Mr. Rafferdy was right. The shop’s proprietor did indeed give one the impression of a toad, hopping all around.

  “The hat shop is the next street over,” he said, setting down a handful of books and picking up several more.

  “I’m not looking for hats.”

  “Then what are you looking for? Dresses? Ribbons? You won’t find anything like that here, as you can see.”

  Ivy took a piece of paper from her pocket and held it out. “I need…that is, I’m looking for these things.”

  Frowning, he set down his books, then took the paper.

  “Are these things you intend to use?”

  “They are not,” she said, truthfully enough.

  He read the list. “No, I shouldn’t think so. I suppose you haven’t the foggiest notion what any of these items are for. How could you? Someone wiser sent you, of course. What is his name?”

  “I don’t see how that matters.”

  He shrugged. “I would know who my customers are, that’s all.”

  “Then you have no need to look further, for she stands before you.”

  “But you said these are not for yourself.”

  Ivy felt her cheeks glowing. “I know it is against the laws of nature for a woman to do magick, but I did not know it was against the laws of Altania for a woman to purchase items in a shop.”

  “There, there! I only meant to help. I know most of the magicians in the city, what they study, and what their needs are. I only wished to make sure these were all the things the one who sent you needed.”

  Now it was chagrin Ivy felt. This was hardly the time to let her pride come forth! It was not his fault women could not work magick. She made her voice calm, even demure. “The list is correct, I am quite sure.”

  “Very well, these are all things I have. I shall get them for you at once, Miss…?”

  “Mrs. Quent,” she said. Belatedly she wondered if she should have given him her real name, but what did it matter?

  “Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Quent. I am Mundy—Adabrayus Mundy.”

  “How do you do, Mr. Mundy?”

  Ivy held out her hand, but he had already turned his back to her and was rummaging through jars and boxes. She took the opportunity to explore more around the shop, though with the proprietor so close she did not dare to open any of the books, much as she wished to. She settled for breathing in the dusty air and imagined as she had when she was a girl that the very atmosphere might impart her knowledge.

  A thought came to her: was this the place her father had brought her that day long ago? It seemed very like it. She tried to remember which way they had come from Durrow Street….

  “Here you are, Mrs. Quent.”

  Ivy turned, and Mr. Mundy held out a parcel wrapped in black cloth. She accepted it and paid the bill.

  “It’s for a spell to strengthen some sort of enchantment or binding, isn’t it?” he said, then shook his head. “But why ask you? There’s no way you could possibly know.”

  She should have thanked him and left, but again her pride rose within her, and she drew herself up, so that despite her smallish stature she was as tall as he. “Just because someone cannot do a thing does not mean one cannot have knowledge of it, Mr. Mundy. I would think someone who sold so many books as yourself would understand that fact. My father is…He was a magician himself, and I have read extensively from his library. I know quite well what these things are for.”

  Mr. Mundy’s eyes went wide again for a moment. Had she offended him with her speech or shocked him with her confession that she had read from books of magick?

  It didn’t matter. She had what she needed. “Thank you, Mr. Mundy. Good day.”

  Behind his spectacles, his pale eyes turned to slits beneath drooping lids. “Good day to you, Mrs. Quent,” he said in his croaking voice. “Do come again for anything you need. And…good luck with your endeavors.”

  Ivy could not suppress a shudder. Mr. Rafferdy was right: he was a repugnant little man. She had no intention of ever returning here, no matter how many books of magick he had. Taking her parcel, she left the shop and returned to Greenly Circle.

  Obtaining the items had not taken as long as she thought. Despite her earlier delays, if she took a carriage to Durrow Street now, she would get there well before Mr. Rafferdy. However, if she were to return home, she would hardly arrive before it was time to depart again, so she decided to walk to the old house. The morning was bright, and many people were about; it would be safe enough to go on her own.

  Keeping to the main avenues, she soon reached Durrow Street, turning onto it just at the square where Queen Béanore’s fountain stood. Ivy crossed to the center of the square, smiled up at the statue of the queen upon her chariot, then sat on the edge of the fountain to listen to its bubbling waters and rest for a moment.

  A shadow flitted above her. Fearing it might be a pigeon that wished to alight on her head, Ivy glanced up.

  Dark tears streamed down Queen Béanore’s face. Her cloak rippled in an unseen wind.

  Ivy gasped, leaping to her feet. She looked all around, but the square was suddenly empty of all save pigeons. Then a gray flock fluttered up from the cobbles, and in their place stood a figure all in black.

  She hesitated, then moved toward him.

  “Home,” she heard his voice speak, though as before his mask was motionless. “You must go home now.”

  “You mean to the house on Durrow Street?” she said, finding she could speak. “I’m on my way now. That’s why I’m here.”

  He shook his head. Now the black mask was drawn down in a scowl. “No,” came his voice. “Home. You must go now!”

  She halted, a chill passing through her despite the morning sun. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  Another flock of pigeons flew before her. She stepped back, away from the gray flurry of wings. In a moment they were gone.

  So was he. People moved through the square again. Water danced and sang in the fountain.

  “Home,” Ivy murmured.

  Then she was running across the square, looking for the nearest cab available for hire.

  IT SEEMED TO take an eternity to reach Whitward Street. She clawed at the seat each time the driver halted the horses to let some cart pass by on a narrow street. In truth it was but half an hour. All the same, the carriage had hardly rolled to a stop before she paid the driver and leaped down to the street without his help. She stumbled, caught herself, then ran thro
ugh the gate, up the steps, and into the house.

  “What is it?” she said upon finding the housekeeper in the entry hall. “What’s happened?”

  The woman looked at her with a sour expression. “What’s happened? The master is away, and the young misses have taken over the parlor when it isn’t their allotted time, that’s what’s happened!”

  Even as she said this, Ivy heard the rumble of dreary piano music emanating from above.

  “Nothing else has happened, then?” It didn’t make sense—he had told her to come here. “Are you certain that’s all?”

  The housekeeper frowned at her. “That’s all that’s happened that concerns me. Though I suppose you might want to know that a letter arrived for you while you were out.”

  She pointed to the sideboard, then disappeared through the kitchen door. Ivy stared after her, not knowing what to think. Then she went to the sideboard and picked up the post.

  In an instant she was opening the topmost letter, for it was from Mr. Quent, and she could not break the seal and unfold it quickly enough. How she wished he were here in person! Yet even this part of him was a blessing. She read the first lines eagerly.

  Her elation vanished, and she sagged against the sideboard as she read on. The paper trembled in her hand like a pale leaf before a storm.

  My Dearest—

  You have told me you think me to be a man of good sense and solid judgment. Know that your sentiments, however lovingly intended, are wrong. I have been careless—even reckless. That I should have told you this long ago is now as plain to see as this ink upon the page.

  Yet it did not occur to me that I had any need to do so! Never did I think that he would return to Invarel—not after what happened years ago. Yet he has done just that, and I have been thoughtless not to warn you. I only hope he has not approached you. Surely it would be brazen of him. He must know what risk he would expose himself to by attempting such a thing.