The House on Durrow Street

by Galen Beckett

  She could hardly wonder what he meant by this. The look he gave her was so odd—at once eager and concerned, she thought.

  “Go on,” he said. “Open it.”

  Ivy did so, removing the cloth from the object.

  “Oh,” she said, and sighed.

  It was a wooden box, about as long as her forearm, half again as wide, and as deep as her hand. The box was like nothing she had ever seen before. Its sides were not planed smooth, nor its corners squared off; instead, the natural, irregular surface of the wood had been left intact, so that every whorl and knot, every groove and furrow, was visible.

  This was not to say the box was rough-hewn. On the contrary, the wood had been shaped and fitted together in the most clever way. She could only imagine the maker had chosen each piece with great care, so that they could be bound together with only the most judicious amount of carving. Ivy’s fingers ran over the box, as if with a will of their own.

  “I’ve never seen anything so lovely,” she murmured.

  It was more than its beauty that fascinated her; nor could she believe that Mr. Quent did not already know, or at least guess, what she had been able to sense the moment she touched the box. Why else would he have brought it to her? By force of will she removed her hands from the box, laying them at her sides, and looked at him.

  “It’s made of Wyrdwood.”

  “So I thought. I wondered … that is, I knew you would be able to determine it for certain.”

  Since their return to Invarel, they had not spoken about what had happened at the old grove of Wyrdwood to the east of Heathcrest Hall. Nor had they spoken of the woman who had given birth to her, the witch Merriel Addysen, or the legacy which that parentage had imparted to Ivy. When they were here in the city, so far away from any stand of Old Trees, there was little need to think of such things.

  Only here was a thing of Wyrdwood on her lap. Carefully, as if it was precious—or perhaps perilous—she picked it up.

  “It feels as if there’s something inside. Do you know what it is?”

  “I cannot open it. Look here.”

  At once she understood. The box was locked, but not with any sort of metal hasp. Instead, fine tendrils had been woven into a complex knot around two whorls of wood, holding the lid fast.

  “Besides, I do not think it is for me to open,” he said. “Your father must have left it in your old room, hoping you would find it when you returned to the house one day.”

  “How can you know that? He could not have been certain I would be the one to find it. Indeed, I was not!”

  “Yes, but he would have known that only you could open it.”

  Ivy examined the wooden knot. The intricate way the tendrils had been woven together reminded her of the bent willow chair in her room in the attic at Heathcrest, the one made by the farrier in Cairnbridge, Mr. Samonds, when he was a young man. The box also reminded her of the Wyrdwood stand on which the Eye of Ran-Yahgren rested. As she let her fingers move over the knot, Ivy could feel an echo of life in it, like a faint hum. She knew she had only to call to it, and it would awaken and listen.

  “Go on,” he said, his voice low.

  A nervousness came over Ivy. Mr. Quent knew what she was; indeed, he had known about her nature long before she did. Yet knowing a thing was not the same as seeing it. Did he truly wish to witness what she could do?

  He was watching her, and she knew she was being foolish. He had told her never to be ashamed of what she was, and she must believe that he had meant what he said.

  She touched the knot, and even as she formed a wish in her mind for the box to be unlocked, the tendrils began to move like tiny brown serpents. They uncoiled themselves from around the whorls of wood, then curled up neatly, lying flat against the box.

  Ivy heard Mr. Quent let out a breath and she looked up. With his right thumb, he traced the scar on his left hand where the last two fingers had been severed long ago. He must have noticed her gaze, for he slipped his left hand into his coat pocket.

  “I was certain you would be able to open it,” he said, and he surprised her then, for he gave her a look she could only describe as triumphant. “Well, then, see what is in it.”

  Ivy lifted the lid. An object wrapped in parchment was nestled within. It was heavy and solid as she took it out, and even before she unwrapped it, she knew it was a book.

  She set the wrapping aside and examined the book. The binding was sewn of black leather, but there was no title on the cover or spine. The book did not seem particularly ancient, for the leather was supple, and as she opened it the endpapers were not yellowed, but rather a crisp white. Ivy turned to the first page, then her breath caught in her throat. The words on the page had not been printed on a press; instead they were written in a familiar, spidery hand.

  My Dearest Ivoleyn,

  If you are reading this, then it means you have solved the puzzle I left for you and found the key to this house inside my celestial globe. Well done! But then, I knew that you were bound to discover the riddle in the book I gave you for your birthday, and that once you did you would not rest until you had solved it. So you have.

  And here in your hands is your reward.

  It is my intention to write down upon these pages all manner of thoughts, observations, advice, and any other thing that concerns me. This way you can know my mind, and I can tell you all those things I always wanted you to know once you were old enough to understand.

  That I would rather have told you these things in person, you must know. However, just as I was certain you would solve my puzzle, I am also certain that, if you are reading this now, it means I am no longer capable of telling you anything—or, more than likely, that I am no longer to be counted among the living.

  But put aside gloomy thoughts! This is no time for sorrow, but rather a time to gather your resolve. Through the power of the written word—that magick of the simplest and most wondrous sort—my thoughts can be with you even if the remainder of me cannot. In this way we can be together, still and always. But be warned. There are others who must not read some of the things I intend to set down upon these pages.

  Who are these people? If you do not know them already, then you will learn as you read this volume. Let me stress again, in the strongest manner, that if you encounter any of them you must never show them this journal nor even hint at its existence. It is for you only, as there is no other I can possibly trust. That is why I have taken precautions to be certain no one other than you might come into possession of this volume. There are men whom I once associated with, ignorant of their true nature—men who would do terrible things in order to gain this knowledge.

  Yet do not fear! You are clever and brave, my dear one. I have every confidence in you. Remember that, as long as you have this volume with you, then I am with you as well. And so I will always be—

  —Your Devoted and Loving Father

  Ivy set down the journal, unable to turn the page or even hold it any longer, for her hands were shaking, and she felt a pang deep in her heart. To read these words—it was indeed like having her father with her and hearing his voice speak in a way that he had not for so many years. For a moment she was overcome.

  Then she felt Mr. Quent’s touch upon her arm, and this lent her strength. She picked up the journal again and read the page aloud, to hear the words again herself, and also so Mr. Quent might hear them.

  “ ‘There are men … men who would do terrible things in order to gain this knowledge,’ ” Mr. Quent repeated. “That is a dark thing to write. Yet I suppose he meant the magicians of the Silver Eye, and they can pose a danger no longer.”

  “No, they cannot.”

  Yet even as Ivy said this, she recalled her encounter with the man in the black mask. There were other magicians, he had said, and other doors. She wondered what Mr. Quent might think of this, only she had not told him about the most recent visit of the man in the black mask, and once again she found herself reluctant to do so. He had enough to concern
himself. If the stranger in the mask showed himself again, then she would tell him.

  “Well,” he said, his eyes upon her. “Are you not going to look at it?”

  Ivy picked up the journal again. For so many years she had been deprived of her father’s intellect and his wisdom, his companionship and humor. Now, here in her hands, was an entire volume filled with it. Eagerly she opened it and turned past the first page to the next.

  It was blank.

  Ivy turned the page once more, but again found herself gazing at a blank sheet. She flipped through several more pages in the journal. All were empty. She opened the book a quarter way through, halfway, and toward the end. Blank, blank, and blank again. Other than the first page that she had read, the journal was devoid of words.

  A gasp escaped her; or rather, a sob. How much crueler it was to lose something marvelous when it had just been promised to you mere moments before! The journal fell to her lap, and this time Ivy could not prevent tears from rolling down her cheeks.

  With gentle motions, Mr. Quent wiped them away.

  “Lockwell must never have had the chance to write in these pages as he intended to,” he said. “Before he could work on the journal, he must have been forced to take action to stop Mr. Bennick and the rest of his order from using the artifact.”

  “You must be right,” she said, though she could barely speak the words. She was shivering, as if the fever had come upon her again.

  “I am sorry, Ivoleyn.”

  She forced herself to smile at him. “I am as well. However, even these few words of his are a gift.” So they were—if a bittersweet one.

  For several minutes they were content to be with each other in contemplative silence. At last, Mr. Quent remarked that she looked very tired, and she confessed that she wished to rest. He kissed her brow and left her, promising to return in a little while. When she was alone, Ivy laid a hand upon the journal. She felt the same as she did after one of her trips to see her father at Madstone’s, for here was a thing that gave her remembrances of her father, yet which contained none of his thoughts, his intellect, and his feelings.

  Ivy felt her eyes sting, but she blinked away the tears. She would not succumb to despair. That her father would not have wanted. He had known what he was doing when he sacrificed his mind to stop Mr. Bennick and the Vigilant Order of the Silver Eye from using the artifact. She placed the book back in the box of Wyrdwood and set it on the table by the bed, then laid her head on her pillow. Even as she did this, a thought occurred to her, and as it did some of her sorrow was replaced by puzzlement.

  If her father had never had a chance to write in the journal, then why had he gone to the trouble of finding a way to seal it inside a box of Wyrdwood that only she could open?

  AT LAST THE doctor pronounced Ivy fit to leave the inn, and that very day Mr. Quent drove her in the cabriolet to Durrow Street so that she could behold the latest discovery that had been made in the house.

  Upon entering, Ivy was astonished at the progress that had occurred in her absence. That none of the peculiar attributes of the house—the wooden eyes, the clawed doorknobs, and any such thing odd or wizardly—be altered was one of the stipulations under which Mr. Barbridge worked. All the same, much had changed since last she set foot in the house. A second set of steps was being constructed, a mirror to the original, to form a double stairway that swept up to the second-floor gallery. The front hall had been made grander by replacing the square beams with arched vaults, and the floor planks had been pulled up to reveal an exquisite mosaic in the style of the Principalities, depicting a wild forest strewn with stags, lions, and huntsmen.

  The mosaic had been badly damaged, which was likely why it had been covered up. Artisans had been hired to painstakingly cut new pieces of tile and match them to the original pattern, restoring it to its colorful glory. However, as wondrous as this was, it was not what Mr. Quent had brought her here to see. Instead, he led her to the north end of the hall.

  As they went, he described how the mantelpiece above the fireplace had been removed, for it had been charred in a fire that had gotten out of hand sometime in the past. Once the mantel was taken down, it was apparent that the entire fireplace was surrounded by a plaster facade. This was torn away as well, and beneath was revealed the original fireplace.

  As they approached, Ivy’s wonder was renewed. The fireplace was framed by pale marble traced with green veins. The marble was sculpted into rich scrollwork that intertwined with a pair of eagles perched to either side. There was no mantel. Instead, above the fireplace was a bas-relief carving of a shield. Behind the shield was a single sword, and the whole thing was wreathed with leaves as delicately rendered as those on the door they had discovered in the gallery upstairs, though these were fashioned of stone, not wood. Chiseled upon the shield was a name: Dratham.

  A new thrill passed through Ivy. “Dratham? Do you think it might be the name of the man who built this house?”

  “It must be so,” Mr. Quent said. “I spoke to Mr. Barbridge, and he is convinced the crest above the fireplace is original to the house.”

  Ivy moved closer, examining the stone shield. “I suppose it was covered over when the house changed hands. A new master would not have wanted for the name of the previous owner to be so boldly advertised.”

  Mr. Quent concurred with her assessment. Nor was there any disagreement between them on the matter of the fireplace. Both agreed the fireplace must be restored to its original appearance.

  After that, they passed a pleasurable hour as Mr. Quent showed her all the things that had been done to the house while she was ill. Ivy examined everything with great interest; and if a few times her gaze strayed to a window, as if expecting to see a tall figure all in black standing outside, her attention always quickly returned to Mr. Quent.

  At last she grew weary, for she was still somewhat weak from her illness, and Mr. Quent returned her to the inn. The next morning she woke feeling greatly refreshed, and after breakfast she went to the Toll House in hopes of learning more about the builder of the house.

  The Toll House was a turreted building of thick gray stone next to the Hillgate. Long ago it had been home to the collectors who exacted a tax on everyone and everything passing in and out of Invarel, and the vaults beneath had guarded the great sums of money so gathered. These days the Toll House held not taxes, but rather the Old City’s registers.

  At first the clerks could not be bothered with Ivy’s request to examine some of the old records. Finally, weary of being ignored, she introduced herself again to the head clerk, this time giving her name not as Quent, but as Lady Quent. While she was reluctant to flaunt her newly gained title, Ivy could only admit that its effect was clear and immediate. She was hurriedly shown to a room and placed at a table, and any such ledgers as she requested, for any particular year, were brought to her.

  Ivy spent several hours poring over dusty ledgers and registers, and sorting through crackling parchment deeds. Many of the documents were faded or spotted with mold, and the records for many years were missing altogether, lost in the past to fire or flood.

  But even if the records had been complete, there was no reason to think the man Dratham had been born in the same district in which he built his house, or even that he had been born in Invarel at all. However, it seemed the most logical place to start, and so she gamely read through lists of names in the rolls of births, marriages, and deaths for the West Durrow parish.

  She did not know exactly how far back to start, as they were not sure of the age of the house. Thus she started at the beginning of the register, which went back over four hundred years. Eventually her eyes began to smart from staring at the columns of names written in dim, archaic script. Given the gaps in the register—as well as the gaps in her own attention, which could not be prevented from wandering from time to time—she began to despair that the task was impossible. After all, this was just the register for one parish, and there were seventeen parishes in the city. She
might read them all and still never find what she sought.

  Then she turned a page, and there was the entry from over three hundred years ago, right near the top: DRATHAM, WAYWREND LOERUS.

  There was scant information in the birth record. All the same, it told Ivy a great deal. The mother’s name and place of birth were given as Ethely Milliner of Lowpark Parish, and her residence at the time of the birth was listed as Marmount Street. The father’s name was not written in the ledger.

  So here was a woman with a modest name from a modest part of the city who resided in what, at the time, was one of the most fashionable sections of Invarel—for the New Quarter was yet more than a century away from being constructed. What was more, the father’s name was omitted, and the child’s surname did not match the mother’s.

  From these facts, Ivy could draw but one conclusion: Waywrend Loerus Dratham was almost certainly the illegitimate son of a well-to-do gentleman, or perhaps even a lord. While the man had been unable (or unwilling) to marry the descendant of a hat-maker, he had not abandoned Ethely; and he had set her and the child up in an expensive district of the city.

  It could even be surmised that the man had left some part of his fortune to his son, for Waywrend Dratham had gone on to build a very fine house on the west end of Durrow Street, replete with exquisite marble fireplaces. True, it was possible Dratham had made his own fortune in life. Yet given the way his father had obviously treated Ethely well, it seemed fair to presume that at least some portion of Dratham’s fortune had come from his sire.

  As for his name, that was likely not his father’s surname, though Dratham might have been his father’s middle or given name. Indeed, as she continued to look through the register, she saw no more incidences of the name Dratham anywhere.

  Until she got to a page fifty-three years later. There she saw the name one more time. There were no details listed, nor any heirs or survivors noted. Instead, there was only a brief entry: DRATHAM, WAYWREND LOERUS, OF W. DURROW PAR., ON THIS DAY DECEASED.