The House on Durrow Street

by Galen Beckett

  With so fine an example to follow, Ivy could only do her best to summon her own bravery and approach the wall. Unlike Mr. Rafferdy, she kept her eyes on the trees.

  You have no cause to fear us! she cast the thought outward. We wish no harm to you!

  She had no idea if these unspoken words had any effect, but while the trees continued to toss about, and a few branches scraped the top of the wall, none reached downward.

  By the time she reached Mr. Rafferdy, he was already speaking harsh, ancient words. As he did, a row of crimson runes flickered to life, like flames dancing across the surface of the stones.

  Her dread was momentarily superseded by curiosity. For as long as she could remember, she had been fascinated by magick, and here was a spell being worked before her. She wondered what sort of enchantment it was, and how he had known what runes to speak. However, she kept these questions to herself lest she disturb him as he worked the spell.

  He ran a finger below the runes, as if making a quick study of them. Then he began another spell—the one inscribed in the fiery runes, she presumed. This one was longer than the first and seemed more complicated. Lines creased his brow as he uttered the words, and some were of such strange sound and inflection that merely hearing them made Ivy’s head start to throb.

  Mr. Rafferdy spoke one last word with great force and struck the end of his cane against the red stones. A blue flash traveled from his hand down the length of the cane.

  The stones vanished.

  He turned around. The ring on his right hand still threw off blue sparks, and his eyes seemed to do the same. “There, it is open,” he said, only then he shook his head. “Yet now that it is, how can I let you step through it?”

  “You must, Mr. Rafferdy.”

  For a moment he gazed at her, then he sighed and stepped aside. Ivy approached the opening in the wall. Beyond was a rough stone passage, and at the far end was a tangle of green and black.

  “I will be directly behind you, Mrs. Quent.”

  “No, you must stay out here. I cannot be sure you will be safe if you go within.”

  His expression was one of shock. “Then it cannot be safe for you either! How will I reach you if something goes amiss?”

  She looked up and met his gaze. “If something goes amiss, Mr. Rafferdy, then you must close the door as quickly as you can.”

  Before he could say anything more, she stepped into the passage. It was cooler within, and quieter, for the stones muffled some of the furor of the wood. The air was moist and thick with the scent of decaying leaves. She felt a faint wind moving through the passage, first inward, then out, as if the Evengrove was breathing. She exhaled a breath herself, then proceeded down the passage, trailing a hand along its rough sides to steady herself.

  She would not have to enter the grove; at least she did not think so. There was a large tree just past the end of the passage. All she had to do was get close enough to touch it.

  The passage was not long, and she quickly reached the end. Beyond, a dim green light found its way through a crooked labyrinth of branches and trunks. Leaves rained down from above, along with small twigs and acorns. She ignored these things and instead fixed her attention on the tree before her. It was an Old Ash, its trunk thick and speckled with moss. The tree was less than an arm’s reach from the end of the passage. She could remain within the protection of the stones and still touch it.

  Yet what would she do when she did? Now that she had reached the end of the passage, the sound of the trees was once again a roar in her ears. What if their voices were the greater, and drowned out her own?

  Before she could consider this question, she noticed a glint of silver. Protruding from the trunk of the tree was a knife with a pearl handle. A horror came over Ivy at the sight. Quickly, she reached out and grasped the knife, trying to pull it from the tree, only it was stuck more firmly than she thought. Her second attempt wrenched it free, but she lost her balance in the act. The knife dropped from her hands to the ground as she flung her arms out to catch herself. She stumbled as her foot caught a snag—

  —and her hands fell upon the trunk of the tree.

  At once a green veil descended over her vision. Ivy tried to retreat into the mouth of the passage, but her feet seemed to take root in the ground. She thought she heard a shouting behind her, but any words it carried were swept away by the furious chorus that filled her ears. The voices spoke in no human language, yet all the same she understood them.

  Pain—there had been pain. Only now the cold, sharp prick of metal was gone. Yet there was danger still. Flame and bright metal—they were close by. Ivy rose upward, stretching toward the sky, straining to see where they were. Men—it was men who had done this. It was always men who came, who cut and burned and destroyed.

  And men would suffer for what they had done.…

  An awful sort of delight came over Ivy. Her face grew tight, and she perceived that she was smiling.

  Yes, I can tell you where the men are, Ivy thought. I can tell you from which direction they come. And there is something more—a gap has been made in the wall that has long imprisoned you.

  She felt their interest, their desire to know more, and her smile grew broader.

  I can show you where it—

  “No!” Ivy cried out.

  She snatched her hands back from the tree as her eyes flew open. The force of the sentiments that had come over her, and their suddenness, had nearly overpowered her. How easy it would have been to let herself be swept away, as if on a surging green sea. For a moment she had wanted nothing more than to tell the trees how to escape the bonds of the wall.

  However, Mr. Quent had warned her of the danger the Wyrdwood posed to a witch. The first Mrs. Quent had perished because he had failed to do so, and he had not made that same error with Ivy. She had known she would be entranced by the trees, and she had guarded herself against it.

  Even so, she had nearly been overcome. Without the benefit of such knowledge, how could the first Mrs. Quent have ever hoped to resist the call of the remnant of old forest so near to Heathcrest? And how could Merriel Addysen have done anything but provoke the trees with her own agony and rage that day men, their will bent on awful acts, pursued her to the grove atop the hill north of the village of Cairnbridge?

  The thought of Gennivel Quent and Merriel Addysen lent Ivy a new strength. They had not known what they were when the trees called to them, but Ivy did. The voices of the trees, though still a roar in her ears, no longer overwhelmed her own thoughts.

  “Mrs. Quent!” she heard Mr. Rafferdy’s voice behind her. “You must come away from there!”

  She shook her head. “Not yet,” she murmured, and once again she laid her hands upon the tree.

  This time, while the sensations were no less powerful than before, she was not subsumed in them, and it was not their will that shaped her thoughts, but rather her own.

  There is no peril to the wood. The man who set the fire is gone. The flames cannot reach through the wall. The men beyond are putting out the blaze. You must not harm them. There is no peril to the wood.…

  Again and again she repeated these thoughts, over and over. She encircled the tree with her arms. She pressed her cheek to the roughness of its bark and felt the violent shudder of its throes. The noise of the trees filled her head, so that she could not hear herself think. All the same, she kept repeating the words in her mind, until at last she fell into a kind of stupor in which she heard nothing, and saw nothing, and thought nothing at all.

  “Mrs. Quent?”

  “There is no peril to the wood,” she murmured through dry lips. “The man who set the fire is gone.…”

  “Mrs. Quent, can you hear me? Are you harmed?”

  With great effort Ivy opened her eyelids a crack. She saw a circle of pale light, and in the midst of it the dark shape of a man, like one of Lady Crayford’s silhouettes.

  “Mrs. Quent?”

  She blinked, and the silhouette resolved into the f
amiliar sight of Mr. Rafferdy. He crouched beside her at the base of the tree, where she must have collapsed. On his face was a peculiar expression: wrought at once with concern and, she thought, a keen curiosity.

  Ivy craned her neck, looking upward. Above, the boughs of the Old Ash were motionless. The air of the grove was heavy and still.

  “They’ve stopped,” Mr. Rafferdy said, looking upward as well. “All of the trees have, as far as I can tell. Yet I do not know why they should have ceased their movements.”

  “Don’t you?” she said, lowering her gaze to look at him.

  He met her look, held it, and after a moment she saw understanding blossom in his eyes. And now that he understood, he would recoil from her as if from the most loathsome thing, and she would never in her life see him again, unless it was as her accuser before a magistrate.

  Only he didn’t do these things. Instead, he took her hands in his own and helped her regain her feet. She was dizzy for a moment, then her head cleared a bit. She could not bear to look at him now, so instead she brushed the leaf litter from her gown.

  “You are full of many surprises, Mrs. Quent. Now I wonder what you did that day at your father’s house when the magicians saw fit to put me under an enchantment. I had thought the orb itself did them in all of its own, but I suppose that’s not the case.”

  She plucked a small twig from her gown and held it in her fingers. “The stand that held the Eye was made out of Wyrdwood. My father believed that there was some power of the wood of the Old Trees that helped it to resist and contain the influence of the orb. Only, the Wyrdwood the stand was made of had another power as well, one that I was able to awaken.”

  “Ah,” he said. And then, after a moment, “Ah!”

  Yes, he understood now. There was no more use in hiding what she was. With a thought she awakened the bit of life that still lingered within the twig, causing it to coil around her finger like a tiny brown serpent. Then she willed herself to look up at him.

  “I am sorry, Mr. Rafferdy. I know in the past you have regarded me with affection. For you to now discover such a thing about me—I can only imagine what a horror you must be suffering.”

  “Why should I suffer a horror? Because you have some peculiar ability that most others do not?” He raised his right hand. The blue gem of his House ring shone dimly in the gloom of the grove. “If that was the case, I should have to be horrified of myself, don’t you think? And as I am sure you are aware, Mrs. Quent, I am in fact rather fond of myself.”

  Ivy could hardly believe this reply. “But in history, witches have always been regarded as the most abhorrent beings!”

  He gave a shrug. “You know how little I read, Mrs. Quent, and how ignorant of history I am. I suppose it’s true that men have always had a wish to keep women from having any sort of influence over affairs. I am sure this is because, in general, women possess superior sense compared to men. If they were to have greater strength as well, then men would have no advantage over women whatsoever.”

  His gaze went to the tree behind her. Then he looked at her again, and the hint of a smile curved his mouth. “All the same, I cannot help but think that if anyone in this kingdom should have power, it should be you, Mrs. Quent. If we were all under your benevolent influence, I have no doubt Altania would be the better for it.”

  Ivy could form no response to these words. Her heart had swelled, leaving no room in her chest for her to draw in a breath. So she squeezed his hand instead, and only let go when she at last had to wipe a dampness from her cheek.

  “Oh, Mr. Rafferdy!” she was able to say at last.

  Now he did appear uncomfortable, and he quickly turned away. “We had better go. The others will be concerned for us.”

  He stooped to retrieve the ivory-handled knife from the ground and put it in his coat pocket. Then he moved back through the passage. For a moment Ivy felt a compulsion not to follow and to remain in the grove. She ignored the sensation and moved after him.

  They emerged on the other side of the wall. The smoke was now only a thin blue veil upon the air; the men must have succeeded in putting out the blaze. At once, Mr. Rafferdy began speaking words of magick.

  As he did, a coppery glint caught Ivy’s eye. She bent down and picked up something from the ground. It was a gilded button, and by its shiny surface and lack of tarnish it had not lain here long. One of the soldiers must have lost it while running to and fro by the wall. A fear came over her, but when she glanced around she saw no one in sight.

  “There, it is shut,” Mr. Rafferdy said.

  Ivy looked and saw that the red blocks had indeed reappeared in the wall, sealing the opening. The runes flickered crimson for a moment, then they faded and were gone.

  “Let us hurry,” he said. “I am sure our parties are wondering what has became of us.”

  This received no argument from Ivy. She took his arm, and they started back through the grass and poppies. They had gone only a little way when they saw Captain Branfort striding toward them across the field. His short, sturdy legs moved swiftly, and he was quickly upon them. His blue coat was open, and his face and shirt were smudged with soot.

  “By God, I am glad to find you!” he exclaimed. “We were all of us in a dread when I returned to the carriages and learned you were missing. Where were you?”

  “We could not see for all the smoke and got turned around,” Mr. Rafferdy said, his tone so easy and convincing that Ivy nearly believed him. “Once it began to clear we discovered we had quite gone the wrong way. Is the fire out?”

  “Yes, the men got a train of buckets going from the water tower. It’s all extinguished now.”

  “That must be what calmed the trees in the Evengrove.”

  Captain Branfort frowned as he regarded him. “Indeed, what else could possibly have done it?”

  “Nothing, of course,” Mr. Rafferdy replied quickly. “I am very glad a Rising was averted.”

  “Was it averted? Three men have lost their lives today.” The captain shook his head. “Forgive me, now is not the time to discuss such things. Come, Lady Quent—Lady Crayford and the others will be very glad to see you.”

  He extended his arm. While this was a gallant gesture, it was another’s arm Ivy might have preferred to lean upon. Instead, she accepted the one proffered and let Captain Branfort lead her across the field while Mr. Rafferdy walked alongside.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  ELDYN PICKED A bit of lint from the sleeve of his gray coat, then looked in the small silver mirror to check the arrangement of his hair. He ought to do his best to make a good impression, for it had been many months since he had last had occasion to see Lady Quent. Indeed, she had not even been a Lady when he saw her last.

  Now she was one, and her husband a Sir, and he had no doubt there would be all manner of fine beings in attendance at the party that night to see the remaining Miss Lockwells introduced. To a degree, he had been astonished when the invitation arrived for him several lumenals ago. If she had not deemed him to be of a station suitable to the affair, he could neither have argued nor taken offense. Yet her note had been written in the warmest fashion; and in it she had expressed a fond hope that he would attend the party, and also that he should bring any guest he liked.

  Such a considerate invitation could only be accepted, and he wrote back to express his thanks and assure her he would indeed attend. Now Eldyn had to hope his gray coat was fashionable enough, and that he would not seem out of place or bring discredit to Lady Quent with his appearance. He saw that a lock of his hair had escaped the ribbon behind his neck, and he started to tuck it back. Then it occurred to him that it was not only Lady Quent he would be seeing for the first time in a long while, but also her sisters—including the youngest one.

  Perhaps, he thought, it would be good not to look too well. He left the stray lock as it was, and turned from the mirror.

  “Are you sure you won’t change your mind, dearest?” he said. Sashie sat by the window, reading her copy of
the Testament in the dwindling light of the brief day. “I’m certain you would have a very good time at the party.”

  “I am certain I would have no such thing!” she said, not lifting her eyes from the book. “For I have little doubt that there will be young ladies there dressed in all the vile sorts of gowns that are popular these days, and young men begging them to engage in the most lurid dances, such as one can hardly imagine are permitted in public. I know propriety requires you to attend no matter how shameful it is, dear brother, given your prior association with these people. Yet you must know it would be the most wicked thing for me to attend such an affair.” She turned a page of the Testament; the edges of its papers were growing frayed.

  Eldyn was vexed with this reply, though far from surprised. She had made her case against attending very strongly the day the invitation arrived. All the same, he had hoped she might reconsider. He thought it would be a great benefit for Sashie to engage in the society of other young ladies. It would give her an opportunity to see that just because they wore pretty dresses and smiled did not mean they were not in every way respectable.

  It was difficult to reproach the avidness with which she had engaged in her activities at Graychurch these last months. Then again, a virtue pursued to the exclusion of all else is no such thing, and it was high time for his sister to begin thinking in a practical manner about her future. It had been a while since Mr. Fantharp had inquired about her, and Eldyn feared that, without any reciprocation, the man might give up. Going to the party and seeing other young women vying for the interest of eligible young men, he had hoped, might awaken a similar and natural compulsion in Sashie.

  However, there was no use in arguing. She had bent back over the book, her face sharp and colorless in the wan light. Besides, how could he have taken her anyway? Yesterday he had looked inside her wardrobe to see what gown she might wear to the party, only to discover she had thrown away all of the pretty dresses he had bought her. All that remained were those plain, ash-colored garments she wore every day to the church.