The House on Durrow Street

by Galen Beckett

  “But can he really be a magician?” Rafferdy said, only realizing he had spoken the words aloud once they were uttered. He looked at Lord Coulten. “That is, I have heard that Farrolbrook has demonstrated magick in public on several occasions.”

  “Oh, of course he’s a magician,” Lord Coulten said. “Just as I am a great musician because I tell everyone how much I adore music, how my thoughts are always consumed with music, and how there is nothing in the world so important or worthy of study as music.”

  Rafferdy raised an eyebrow. “I take it you can’t play a note?”

  “Not a one! As for magick—I’ve never seen him do anything that would require an enchantment. They say he called down lightning once, but anyone with a kite and a key and a bit of luck can manage that trick.”

  These words pleased Rafferdy, though he wasn’t certain why. What did he care if Lord Farrolbrook was a magician or not?

  “All the same, he does wear a House ring,” Rafferdy said.

  “Well, that hardly means anything. They give those out to practically anyone these days.” With a wry expression, Lord Coulten raised his own hand and the red-gemmed ring upon it.

  Rafferdy gripped the handle of his cane. His glove concealed it, but all the same he could feel the cool weight on his ring finger. “You make a jest of it. Yet I am sure you know that only a magician—or at least, one who could be a magician—may put on such a ring.”

  Lord Coulten shrugged. “I suppose some modicum of magickal ability is required. Yet there is a difference between having a talent for a thing and taking the time and effort to learn to do it—just as there is a difference between speaking about music and practicing an instrument.”

  Rafferdy gave the other young man a pointed look. “What of you, Lord Coulten? When it comes to magick, are you and your friends more likely to speak or to practice?”

  Dimples appeared in Lord Coulten’s cheeks. “A magician never divulges his secrets, Rafferdy—at least not in public. You’ll have to join us at tavern tonight if you wish to find out the answer to that.”

  Rafferdy had been so consumed with his despair at attending Assembly, and then with his amusement at mocking it, that he had forgotten entirely the question he had been wanting to ask Lord Coulten.

  “Tell me,” he said, “is it at the Sword and Leaf that you meet?”

  “So it is! But I confess, I am surprised that you know. I am not so mysterious as I hoped.”

  “I believe I saw you there several umbrals past,” Rafferdy explained. “I go to that tavern often. Well, not so often of late, yet often enough. That I have not seen you there before surprises me.”

  “It should not, as we only started meeting there very recently. What’s more, we gather in a private room, and we usually come and go through the rear door of the tavern. I came in the front that last time only because I was coming from that direction and was running late. I should have guessed that you frequent the Sword and Leaf. It is said it used to be a favorite haunt for magicians long ago.” Lord Coulten gave him an arch look. “But I’m sure you knew that.”

  Actually, it was only recently that he had learned that rumor from Eldyn Garritt. Rafferdy had taken a liking to the Sword and Leaf not for any fact of its history, but rather for the dimness of its booths and the strength of its punch. In all the years they had gone there, Rafferdy had never noticed any magicians or private rooms. Or back doors, for that matter.

  He was about to mention this. However, at that moment a voice called out Lord Coulten’s name. A group of young lords—none of them wearing a wig on his head—were waving at them. Or, more precisely, at Lord Coulten.

  “Pardon me, Rafferdy, but I must be off,” Lord Coulten said. “My invitation stands. We will be gathering at the Sword and Leaf at moonrise. Please join us. You would be most welcome.”

  Rafferdy explained that he already had plans to meet someone else for a drink that night. Before he could speak further, the other men called out again for Lord Coulten. He gave a bow, his tall crown of hair bobbing, then departed with his companions.

  The loggia was all but empty now. Lord Farrolbrook and the other Magisters were gone; there was not a Stout to be seen. Cane in hand, Rafferdy started toward the stairs that led down to the esplanade.

  A flutter of darkness caught his eye. To his left, a figure stepped from between two columns into the loggia. She was tall for a woman and proceeded with a kind of coiled grace, as if her languid motions might at any moment become swift and forceful. Her face was as pale as the ivory handle of his cane, and she was clad in a gown of black like a mourner.

  Or rather, like an executioner.

  Rafferdy could not guess why Lady Shayde was here. The king would not address Assembly again until the next session opened, and was His Majesty not her primary concern?

  Perhaps she was looking for more men who bled gray rather than red. Rafferdy shuddered at the memory. However, as strange as all that had been, it was not his concern. And no matter what her purpose was, he had no wish for another encounter with her—or with her hulking companion, Moorkirk, if he was about.

  That white visage began to turn in his direction. Rafferdy wasted no more time. He hurried to the closest columns, slipped between them, and descended the broad bank of steps beyond. He found his driver waiting on the street and climbed into the carriage.

  “Where to, sir?”

  Rafferdy did not know how to answer. He had no wish to return home and be alone. The idea of shopping for new clothes did not entice him, and it was many hours yet before it was time to meet Eldyn Garritt. He considered paying a visit to Vallant Street, but he was unsure they were receiving, given Lord Baydon’s condition, and a visit to Fairhall Street was not something he would undertake unless commanded by Lady Marsdel.

  “Sir?”

  “Take me to The Seventh Swan,” he said suddenly.

  “To the inn down the street, you mean, sir?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  The plan agreed upon at Lady Marsdel’s was that he would call on Mrs. Quent tomorrow. However, that did not mean he could not call on her today as well. After all, he had promised Mrs. Quent—that is, Lady Quent—that he would visit her and her sisters more often. Besides, he was sure they would be happy to receive him unexpectedly; and for his part, he wanted to hear how the affair at the house of the viscountess Lady Crayford had gone last night.

  To Rafferdy’s chagrin, an entire afternoon of writing notes had failed to procure him an invitation to the party. It was paradoxical that, after declining so many invitations in the past, the one time he actually wanted one he could not get it. However, perhaps the two were not unconnected—a notion he had been forced to consider after receiving more than one curt note in which the author stated, if he could not be troubled to ever come to their parties, they would not be troubled to help him gain an invitation to another.

  Well, it hardly mattered. The only thing about the affair at the viscountess’s that would have interested him was seeing her there, and hearing about it from Lady Quent would be every bit as satisfying. He grinned, very pleased with his decision, then settled back into the seat as the cabriolet moved down Marble Street.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  IVY OPENED HER eyes to a dazzle of golden light, and for a moment she wondered if she had never left—if she had simply fallen on a soft velvet chaise to rest her head for just a little while, and that it was still night and she was still there, at the party at Lady Crayford’s house.

  However, as she sat up she saw the brilliant glints were not from the light of a thousand candles refracting off crystal goblets and diamond cuff links and pendants of topaz that hung low against the décolletage of elegant gowns. Rather, it was only the morning sunlight striking the bits of colored glass that Lily had, on a whim one day, hung from ribbons before the windows in all of their rooms at The Seventh Swan.

  Nor were the sounds that had stirred her from her slumber a minuet performed by masked musicians, mingling wit
h the conversation of revelers. Rather, it was the bells of a church tolling the start of the second farthing of the lumenal, and the voices were those of Lily and Rose speaking in the sitting room outside her chamber door.

  Even as she listened, the bells finished their carillon. The day was already a quarter over and she was not yet out of bed! And there was much to do with Mr. Quent away. They had begun to receive the furnishings for the house on Durrow Street they had ordered, and there were dozens of accounts for her to reconcile today.

  She roused herself from bed and moved to a basin on the bureau to splash water on her face. As she did, she saw her green gown from last night lying over the back of the chair. Bits of glitter still clung to it, sparkling in the sunlight. She picked it up, thinking to hang it properly. Only as she did, the scents of jasmine and lilac emanated from it. She held the gown to her cheek, breathing deeply, and once again she was there, at the house of the viscountess.

  Except that, at first, it hadn’t been a house at all.

  Standing outside in the darkness, Ivy and Mrs. Baydon had been filled with dread at the thought of entering. They had gripped each other’s hands so tightly each could feel the rapid rate of the other’s pulse. Then, together, they had stepped through the door into—

  —a painting.

  Or rather, into a whole gallery of paintings. Ivy knew the viscountess was an accomplished artist. She had expected—indeed, had very much hoped—to see some of Lady Crayford’s works. What Ivy had not expected was to become a part of those paintings herself.

  Yet she and Mrs. Baydon found themselves in a sylvan glade ringed by poplar trees and half-ruined columns and statues that gazed with moss-filled eyes. Everything was brilliantly colored, yet soft and slightly blurred, as if formed from the strokes of a brush. Even as they gaped about them, smiling dryads beckoned to them, drawing them farther in. Fauns walking on crooked legs and carrying silver trays handed them goblets of cool wine. Ivy looked at Mrs. Baydon and saw that leaves tangled in her companion’s gold hair. She reached up to her own coif and pulled away another leaf.

  If she looked at it closely, Ivy could see that it was not a leaf at all, but rather a slip of green paper. And, if she concentrated very hard, she could see that the dryads and fauns were simply servants in forest-colored garb, and the statues and columns were made of wood and plaster. However, even as she took a sip of the wine, the scene around her softened again, and the servants vanished, replaced once more by the sylvan beings.

  Mrs. Baydon laughed and took her hand, and they strolled about the glade, delighting in everything they saw. To Ivy, it was like being on a hill just outside ancient Tharos. Then they found themselves on the edge of the glade, and once again they stepped forward, into a new painting.

  This one was darker, with lanterns reflecting off onyx water and the graceful arches of stone bridges. A narrow gondola glided by as candles floated all around. Ivy had seen pictures of such a place before. It was one of the canal cities on the coast of the Principalities, where people went not by carriage but by boat on the various waterways that served for streets.

  Another glass of wine was given to them, this time by a servant in a grotesque yet delightful mask with a beaked nose and decorated with feathers. They had hardly finished it before they were swept into another scene, and another, each as beautiful as the last. They walked upon the parapets of a ruined castle, marveled beneath the golden dome of a Murghese temple, and strolled through a field of brilliant red poppies.

  All at once, the poppies gave way to parquet floor, the clouds to chandeliers, and they were once again in Invarel, in a ballroom with grand windows that looked out over the lights of the New Quarter. However, this was in no way less fantastical than the scenes through which they had wandered, for Ivy realized those had been only prelude—a means to delight and heighten the senses in preparation for what lay ahead.

  Somehow, despite the crowd of people that filled the ballroom, the viscountess found them at once. To Ivy’s astonishment—and, she confessed, her great pleasure—Lady Crayford greeted her as if she was the fondest old friend, giving her a warm embrace. In turn she greeted Mrs. Baydon with the most generous expression of warmth. Mrs. Baydon was so amazed she could hardly speak, though she made a beautiful curtsy in reply.

  “Come, Lady Quent, you must see my paintings,” the viscountess said.

  Ivy could only smile. “I believe I already have, your ladyship.”

  “So you enjoyed my little tableaux, then? I am very glad! Now you must see what inspired them.”

  She led Ivy and Mrs. Baydon to the end of the ballroom, and there they all were in gilt frames: the very scenes they had strolled through. There was the old Tharosian villa, the canal city on festival night, and the crumbling castle. So exquisite was the detail of each painting that Ivy could only believe, if she peered closely enough, she would see herself and Mrs. Baydon walking within, their forms rendered in fine brush strokes.

  “Now, this is a true enchantment,” she said breathlessly, and this won a bright laugh from Lady Crayford.

  “Dear Lady Quent, I must make sure my husband hears you say such things. He thinks my hobby perpetually silly. You must come with me to find him. And you as well, of course, Mrs. Baydon.…”

  What followed then—it was all so brilliant in her mind, just like the viscountess’s paintings. Even as words could never really convey the beauty of a work of art, it would be impossible to truly describe it. Lily would press her for details, but how could Ivy explain the way the light had possessed a texture, or the way the music had shimmered on the air?

  Nor were Lady Crayford’s guests any less extraordinary than the party they inhabited. Perhaps it was the illusory light, but in their finery the revelers had seemed like works of art themselves. The viscountess was unable to find her husband, but she introduced Ivy and Mrs. Baydon to a dozen other people before she was called away by her duties.

  Ivy could not believe anyone would find her of interest, and she would have been more than content to stand upon the edges of the party and observe it all. However, once her identity was made known, she found herself an object of constant attention. She and Sir Quent were very famous, she was assured, for he was a hero of the realm, and it was known that she had stood face-to-face with villainous rebels in the country.

  How that could have become public knowledge, Ivy could not imagine. Yet presented with such an accusation, she could not deny it, though she offered no details of how she had accomplished her escape, and she demurred that she had done nothing remarkable.

  So preoccupied was Ivy by all the talk and bright laughter that she did not realize until some time had passed that Mrs. Baydon was no longer beside her. At last, worried about her friend, Ivy extricated herself from those around her. After half a tour around the ballroom, she espied Mrs. Baydon sitting on a marble bench, a rapt expression on her face as she watched, with many others, as an illusionist conjured silver doves and golden sparrows from thin air.

  Ivy started to go to her, only at that moment Lady Crayford found her again. The viscountess said there were others who would not be satisfied until they had met the renowned Lady Quent. Seeing her friend was so well-occupied with the illusion play, Ivy let herself be led away.

  The night wore on until the first span of the umbral gave way to the second. Ivy spoke with more people, beheld more paintings, and drank more wine. When at last she had a moment to search again for Mrs. Baydon, she learned her friend had grown weary and had departed. Ivy was not to worry, for one of the viscount’s carriages would be waiting for her when she was ready to leave.

  Only Ivy was anything but tired. Indeed, she could not remember a time when she had felt so vibrant and awake. She let the viscountess lead her on a tour of the various tableaux, and they compared each one to the painting upon which it was based, to see how true it was to the source.

  At last Ivy knew she could stay no longer. It was not due to weariness, but rather from a feeling that she could s
ee and hear and experience no more, that her senses were entirely full. She bid the viscountess farewell, and Lady Crayford gave her a fond embrace. Then Ivy walked down the marble steps before the house and climbed into the carriage that waited for her, as if she were some princess in one of Lily’s romances.

  Now, in the bright light of morning, Ivy realized she was indeed acting like the heroine of one of Lily’s books—that is, she was letting sensibility rule over reason. It had been a grand and sumptuous affair, to be sure, but it had only been a party!

  In fact, she ought to be aghast at such a lavish display during a time when so many people in the realm had so little. While she could not deny the sights the Siltheri had created were beautiful—nor had she perceived anything inherently unwholesome in the scenes they had produced—that did not mean such things were to be respected. After all, if one could choose to always dwell in a world of imagined beauty, one might never see the true world where so many people lived in want and deprivation. As a result, as remarkable as it all had been, and as much as she had enjoyed herself, Ivy could not entirely approve of the affair.

  She picked up her gown to take it to the wardrobe and put it away. As she did, she paused. Then Ivy held the gown up to herself, and she turned around in a circle.

  A knock sounded at the door. Startled, Ivy lowered the gown.

  “Ivy!” came Lily’s voice from the other side of the door. “Ivy, are you awake in there? Rose is beginning to think you never came back last night. She’s dreadfully worried that pirates carried you away!”

  Ivy cleared her throat. “I’m here,” she called through the door. “I’ll be out in a moment.”

  “I’ll send down for tea,” Lily called back. “We’ll wait for you to drink one cup, but after that you must tell us everything that happened last night!”

  Ivy dressed quickly, and after a few minutes she was able to enter the sitting room.