There was a period of several lumenals when Lily was alarmingly determined to stage a tableau that required the presence of an actual, living horse. That lasted until Mr. Quent declared that anyone who was responsible for bringing a horse into the house was also responsible for removing anything it might deposit inside, at which point that scene was discarded.
At last Lily settled upon depicting the Annunciation of Cassephia and Hesper. It was a scene taken from Tharosian myth. In the story, two beautiful young sisters fled the Bull King of Belethon, who intended to make sacrifices of them in his effort to win the favor of Vrais, the god of battle. With nowhere left to run, they leaped off a rocky cliff into the crashing waves of the ocean rather then let themselves be a cause of war.
They would surely have perished, only the sea god Ureyus, enchanted by their beauty and goodness, took pity on the sisters. He bore them up on a blue wave and crowned them with sea foam, announcing to all the world that they were henceforth to be protected as his own daughters. Thus the Bull King’s schemes of war were thwarted. And to this day, situated off the coast of the Principalities, there were two small islands named Cassephia and Hesper, both of which were said to be lovely and peaceful.
Ivy thought the theme was appropriate for two young ladies being presented to society, and she approved of its choice, as did Mr. Quent. In the time since, Ivy had become increasingly impressed with Lily’s ability to invoke the mood and grandeur of the scene using not the skills of Siltheri illusionists, but only her own ingenuity. Shimmering silks of blue and green were hung and arranged in the most clever way to suggest surging waves capped with white gauze. Craggy rocks formed of paper and wire were given the most naturalistic look through the liberal application of plaster and paint, and there were even real shells affixed to their surfaces.
Despite Lily and Rose’s progress, there was still a great deal to do to complete the scene, and their costumes were not even begun, hence the sheets that draped them at present. Before they started the costumes, Lily wanted to know exactly how they would be standing in the scene, so that their garb could be designed to both permit and flatter the proper poses. It was this task Ivy had agreed to help them with that morning.
“Put your shoulders back, Rose. No, not that far back. You’ll get a crick. Remember, left hand on your hip and the trident held straight in your right. Now, imagine that you can feel a bracing wind fresh off the sea.”
Rose gripped the broom that was serving as her trident. She drew a breath, and suddenly upon her face was such an expression that it seemed she did feel the touch of some unseen breeze.
“That’s it!” Lily cried. “Don’t move an inch, Rose. While you hold yourself in that pose, I will stand just so.”
She affected her position quite easily and naturally, and Ivy could only imagine she had practiced it many times before a mirror.
“Quickly, Ivy. Pin our sheets in place before either of us moves! And do not pull the cloth too tight. It must look like it is caught in a wind.”
Ivy hurried to the task, beginning with Rose. Fortunately, Mrs. Seenly arrived in the gallery at that moment, and at Lily’s prompting she gladly helped with the task. Soon all the pins were in place so that the arrangements of the sheets might be re-created when the costumes were sewn.
“Don’t you both look regal,” Mrs. Seenly said as she took a step back from the platform where the two stood. “I feel just as if I had stepped into a picture in a storybook.”
This comment elicited a pleased expression on Lily’s round face, though she only said, “Oh, we are not at all regal now—not compared to how we will look when the tableau is done.”
Ivy helped her sisters climb down from the platform and remove their sheets, which were carefully folded so as not to disturb the pins. These were then given to Mrs. Seenly to take to the parlor, where Rose would work on sewing the seams later.
After this was done, Lily declared that the paper and plaster rocks did not look natural enough and so would require bits of seaweed; this she was certain Rose could make very easily by knitting green yarn, as long as Lily directed her how to shape the strands. As the two busied themselves with this new task, Ivy walked toward the north end of the room. It was difficult for her to pass through the gallery without making an examination of the two doors that had been uncovered during the renovation.
The door at the south end of the gallery, with its carving of a rune-covered sword over a shield, was certainly remarkable. However, it was the northern door, the one carved with leaves, that fascinated her the most. As she approached it, the wooden leaves carved upon it seemed to ripple as if they, too, felt the wind that Lily had imagined for Rose.
Indeed, so pronounced was the effect that Ivy wondered if he was near, but when she glanced out the nearest window she saw that the garden below was empty save for the little hawthorns and chestnuts that grew there. It was merely an effect of the light filtering through the gauze curtains that made it appear as if the leaves on the door were trembling.
The man in the black mask had not shown himself to her since the day she had spoken with Lord Rafferdy. Why the stranger had wanted her to find the Black Stork that day, she did not know. And while the things Lord Rafferdy told her had been fascinating, she did not know how they could be important to him. Still, as she had done his bidding, perhaps the mysterious being was done with her now. She hoped that was the case.
Wishing to see how her sisters were progressing, Ivy started to move away from the door, only then she turned back. Increasingly of late, a peculiar feeling had come over her when she studied the door—an impression that something was missing from it. This hardly seemed possible, of course. The door had been so perfectly fashioned by its maker that she could not imagine a flaw would have gone unnoticed or uncorrected.
All the same, she had sensed it again just now as she was turning away. When she was a girl, her father had taught her that the very faintest stars were actually easier to see when you looked at them out of the corner of your eye rather than gazing at them directly. Perhaps there was something about the door that was similar in that regard.…
“Well, Ivy, what do you think of it?”
“I don’t know what it could be,” she murmured.
“Avast, what do you mean you don’t know what it could be? It’s seaweed, of course!”
Ivy blinked, then turned her head to see Lily standing beside her, holding a thick green strand.
“I think Rose did a very fine job,” Lily went on. “That is, once I told her how it must be shaped, for she had it all wrong at first. ‘It has to be crooked, Rose, not straight,’ I told her. ‘Otherwise it will not look at all natural.’ ”
Ivy smiled. “It looks very authentic. I should fear it was going to drip seawater on the floor if I did not know it was made of yarn.”
Lily appeared very pleased by this. “I’m not surprised you should think such a thing. It’s quite convincing. Now we must make a dozen more.” She glanced at the windows. “Blast and blunder, can the sun already be so high? If we keep having such short lumenals, we’ll be slaving by lamplight to have the tableau done in time.”
She hurried back across the long room to Rose to continue their labors. Deciding her assistance was no longer needed, Ivy departed the gallery and proceeded downstairs. As she drew near the door of the library, the wooden eye carved in the lintel above opened with an audible snick, then turned to peer down at her.
“And good morning to you,” Ivy said, looking up.
The eye gazed at her for a moment, then snapped shut. Ivy gave it a fond smile, then entered the library. This was a spacious room populated with many comfortable chairs and whose large windows let in plenty of light to read by. It was, in Ivy’s opinion, the best room in the house.
There was a cherrywood writing table beside one of the windows that offered a view of the garden. It was here that Ivy liked to compose letters or work on the house ledger. And it was here as well that she performed another task eac
h day and night.
Ivy took a key from her pocket and unlocked a drawer beneath the table. She removed the Wyrdwood box and, with a light touch, unbound the tendrils that held it shut. Since discovering the secret of her father’s journal, she had made sure to look through it at least once each lumenal and umbral, or twice if they were especially long. She would go through the pages one by one, turning each carefully, and if she came upon a new entry she would transcribe it on a fresh sheet of paper.
In this way, she had discovered at least half a dozen more entries written in her father’s thin, wandering hand. As with the first two she had found, each entry was preceded not with a date but rather with a description of the position of certain celestial objects. From her experiments with the celestial globe, Ivy knew that an entry appeared in the journal only when particular stars and planets were aligned in the heavens just as they had been when her father originally wrote the words.
It was a remarkable enchantment. Yet why had he placed it on the journal? He had written to her in his foreword that the knowledge contained therein must not come into the possession of others—presumably the magicians in the Vigilant Order of the Silver Eye. But surely locking it in the box of Wyrdwood would have sufficed in that regard. Besides, she could not think she was so clever that others would not be able to discover the secret to the puzzle if she could. There had to be some other reason her father had enchanted the journal.
Unfortunately, the recent entries she had discovered had cast no light on the matter. Nor had they made any mention of Tyberion and Arantus. What these objects were, Ivy still did not know. For a while she had begun to wonder if they might in fact be the two doors that had been discovered in the second floor gallery. After all, despite their beauty, both doors had been deliberately covered up. What’s more, her father had described Tyberion and Arantus as having keys, and he had stated it was important they not be opened—both of which suggested doors of some sort.
However, she could not recall seeing a keyhole on either of the doors in the gallery, and a thorough examination confirmed this fact. Besides, neither of the doors was locked, and there was nothing on the other side of them save for stone walls. Thus, disappointed, she had been forced to admit that she had no idea what Tyberion and Arantus might be, or where they were.
All the same, there was one thing she had learned about them. She had thought she had seen the names before, and after going through some of the books of Tharosian myths Lily had brought into the house, Ivy had discovered she was right. Both of them were lesser Tharosian deities. Tyberion was a god of vengeance, while Arantus, his sister, was a figure associated with hunts and the bow. They were two of the numerous children of Dalatair, who himself was one of the greater gods of the Tharosian pantheon, being the master of fates and chance.
Dalatair was also the name of one of the eleven planets. It was at times the brightest planet in the sky, and its motions were the most complex. Through further reading, Ivy had discovered that two of Dalatair’s many moons were named Tyberion and Arantus. That was fitting, given their association with Dalatair in myth. But what did any of this have to do with the things her father had written about in the journal?
Ivy didn’t know. She hoped she would come upon more entries that would explain what these objects were. Lately it was her impression that the journal entries she found had all been written at a time prior to the events involving Tyberion and Arantus.
This was not to say she was in any way disappointed with what she had discovered within the journal’s pages. It was fascinating to gain a glimpse of what her father had been like years ago. As a child, she had been aware only of those qualities of her father that affected her: his gentle manner, his sternness if she was naughty, and the stories he told her that caught and enflamed her curiosities about myth and science and magick. How much more there had been to him than what a small girl could apprehend!
Some of his entries had concerned his arcane studies, which had been even more extensive and varied than Ivy had guessed. As she long suspected, he had first gained an interest in the subject of magick from the older magician who had sold him the house on Durrow Street. On other pages, he discussed his own research into the history of the house. The identity of the house’s original owner had been known to him, and in one particularly fascinating entry he had written about the latest bit of information he had discovered about the man Dratham.
From the box, Ivy took the sheets on which she had transcribed the entries in the journal. She looked through them until she found the one he had penned about Dratham.
I have learned he belonged to a magickal order as I do, her father had written, the slant of his hand suggesting his excitement. Of course, in those days such societies had to take greater precautions for remaining concealed than we must in this modern age. Magick might be somewhat disreputable now, but in that time it was criminal. So they met in a hidden chamber, one locked by magick, which was situated beneath a public house or tavern. I know not the name of this establishment, only that the tavern was located on Durrow Street—closer to what is now its more disreputable end, I presume.
Ivy wondered how much more her father had learned of the house’s history, but so far she had encountered no further entries in which he had discussed the topic. Which meant she would simply have to continue her own research into the house’s past. Now, however, it was time to commence her daily task. Ivy took the journal from the box, opened it, and began turning the pages one at a time.
Almost at once she came upon a page that was filled with words.
Her heart gave a leap, for she was certain this was a page of the journal that had heretofore always been blank when she examined it. Eagerly she read the lines scribed in her father’s hand, the letters as thin and wispy and prone to fly away as the hair on his head had always been.
REGULUS AND ACREON DIRECT IN CASSIADES
Bennick and I opened the chamber and showed it to the others today. Well, to some of them at least. Mundy wouldn’t so much as set foot in the room! He was quavering in his boots and said he had no need to look at it, that he could feel it well enough. But Fintaur, Larken, and Gambrel all went in, for which I was glad; I value their opinions more than that of anyone save for Bennick. They all of them agreed with our conclusions, so there can be no uncertainty about the matter now—the Eye is quiescent no longer.
Not that I had any doubt. The red light is no longer a faint spark at its center, visible only when the room is absolutely dark. Instead it has brightened and dilated by a significant degree. Though there seems to be a slow periodicity to it, like the rhythm of the most torpid pulse, sometimes contracting inward, at others expanding outward from the center of the crystal.
A few times, when the glow has been at its most pronounced, I have had the sensation that there were things moving within the orb, like black flecks of ash floating above the embers of a fire. I feel I might almost be able to tell what they are if I was to look closer, but I know better than to peer within its depths! Mr. Bennick has warned us all of the grave peril of gazing into the Eye, and I would warn you the same, Ivy. Do not gaze into it! To do so is to invite madness. Or perhaps to invite something even worse.
However, if you are reading this, then it means my house is in your possession, and the Eye is safe within the enchanted wards around it. So bound, I do not believe it can cause great harm. What’s more, the stand of Wyrdwood upon which it rests seems to have an innate property that allows it to resist and even contain the influences of the orb.
I had hoped that would be the case; that was why I commissioned the stand prior to the Eye’s removal from Earl Rylend’s house at Heathcrest. The stand was made by a young man—or boy, really, for he could not have been more than fifteen—whom I had the good fortune to meet at Heathcrest Hall. He had a talent for gleaning fallen twigs and branches from outside the wall of a local stand of Wyrdwood and shaping them into the most marvelous objects—baskets and chairs and the like.
Seein
g examples of his work, I asked him to make a sturdy frame—though I did not tell him what it would hold, and merely described the required dimensions. This he did. He also made the box of Wyrdwood in which you found this journal you are reading now. It was made with the cleverest hasp that, once shut, could never be opened again save for one who could bend and shape Wyrdwood like the box’s maker.
Like you, Ivoleyn.
As for the Eye of Ran-Yahgren, I am grateful it is well guarded by the order of magicians to which I belong. Why the crimson light within it has been growing now, after being quiescent for so many eons, I am not certain, but I have a hypothesis. If I learn more, then I will be sure to tell you of it. Someday I will tell you as well how the thing came to be in the house on Durrow Street and under our care.
Only I will save that tale for another time. As I write this, it is deep in a greatnight, and the world is too dark to recount such a tale. Instead, I will set down my pen, tread upstairs, and kiss you and your sisters lightly so that you do not wake. Then I will lay my own head down to sleep. If I can.
G.O.L.
Ivy looked up from the page. So her first impression of the Wyrdwood box had been correct! When Mr. Quent brought it to her, she had been reminded of the bent willow chair in her attic room at Heathcrest Hall, the one made by Mr. Samonds when he was a youth, before he traded working wood for iron and became the farrier at Cairnbridge. The box had also reminded her of the stand of Wyrdwood on which the Eye of Ran-Yahgren rested, and which—by means of some property of the Wyrdwood itself—helped to contain its arcane energies. Now she knew that Mr. Samonds had made both the box and the stand at the request of her father.
Fascinated, Ivy read the entry again. This must have been one of the earliest entries in the journal. If the Eye was only just beginning to brighten, it meant that Cerephus was still far beyond the sight of even the most powerful ocular lenses. Yet somehow her father had known about the existence of the planet—she was certain that was the hypothesis he had alluded to.
The House on Durrow Street Page 43