“Lord Rafferdy, is that you?”
So he had not entirely lost his wits, then, to recall Rafferdy so well after only speaking to him once—and before Rafferdy was a lord, at that.
“Yes, that’s right,” he said.
“Did Lord Mertrand approach you, then? Did he invite you into the order?”
Rafferdy shook his head. “Lord Mertrand?” That was the magnate in Assembly who had called out for the destruction of the Wyrdwood—the same one Lord Bastellon had warned about speaking treasonous things. “No, I’ve never even met him.”
“Well, you can be glad of that,” Farrolbrook said, then he let out a soft laugh. “But I should have known Mertrand didn’t send you. After all, Lord Rafferdy, you aren’t wearing gloves.”
Rafferdy could only stare. What did Farrolbrook mean by that?
“Do forgive me, Lord Rafferdy. I have completely forgotten my manners. I’m afraid that I am … that is, I haven’t been entirely myself lately.” He picked up a cup from one of the trays littered about and held it out. “Would you care for some tea?”
Rafferdy managed to swallow. “That’s very kind, but no thank you. As I said, I only came here to ask you something. I apologize for calling on you in such an unexpected fashion, but it is a matter of some urgency.”
Farrolbrook took a sip from the cup. “Is it about the gray men?”
Rafferdy was so startled he was forced to put down his cane to keep from staggering. “You know about them?”
“Mertrand thinks that I don’t. He thinks I have no idea what goes on at meetings of the High Order of the Golden Door after I leave. It is always his habit to flatter me as he sees me out for the evening, and to tell me all that is left to do is uninteresting rigmarole that is beneath me—that he and the sages will send for me at once if they are doing any magick of importance and my expertise is required. And I suppose I have always believed him. That is, at least until recently.” He took another sip, then grimaced as he set down the teacup.
Despite the urgency of his mission, Rafferdy could only be fascinated, while at the same time he felt the hair on his neck stand on end. “So you think your order is doing something to its magicians—that it is making them into these gray men?”
Lord Farrolbrook moved to one of the paintings and picked up a brush and a palette. “I suppose I shouldn’t tell you. It is all meant to be secret. Only lately they have begun to say things around me as if I am not there. I think they believe that I won’t comprehend them.”
Rafferdy understood. Their opinion of Lord Farrolbrook was clearly no higher than his own. They had simply been using his popularity in Assembly to further their own ends, whatever those were.
“But they were wrong,” Rafferdy said. “You did understand them.”
Farrolbrook laughed at this. “Not so well as you might think! You see, I have come to realize that I am not much of a magician after all. You may have heard of all my famous exploits, Lord Rafferdy—how I called down lightning and made objects placed in a cabinet vanish. Well, I am convinced now that I achieved none of those things on my own. It was all their doing, weaving enchantments behind my back. They simply made it look as if I were the one doing magick. Only I never was.” He ran the brush over the canvas—an idyllic scene of a country cottage—staining it with black paint.
Rafferdy took a step closer to him. “Yet you are a magician.”
“Do not try to flatter me as they did, Lord Rafferdy!”
“That is not what I mean. I only note that you wear a magician’s ring.”
Farrolbrook’s brush ceased to move, then he raised his hand to regard it. The gem set in his House ring glinted red in the thin beam of sunlight that passed between the curtains.
“I do not know,” he said softly. “I am descended of magicians, for whatever that is worth. Anyway, I suppose it doesn’t matter if I tell you about the gray men. Mertrand and the sages are already angry with me—they made that very clear the last time they were here. Besides, you’re not the only one who suspects something. Lady Shayde has sent that hooligan of hers to speak to me more than once.”
Rafferdy was astonished anew. “Moorkirk? What has he wanted with you?”
“Lady Shayde knows about the gray men,” Lord Farrolbrook said, daubing his brush against the palette. “What’s more, she’s pieced together enough evidence to suspect that at least some of them belong to the same magickal order that I do. I haven’t told her anything, though. Not yet, at any rate.” He blotted out a cloud with black. “So why was she looking at you at Assembly the other day?”
Rafferdy could only wince. “I’ve had the unfortunate luck to encounter her and her man Moorkirk while they were in the process of investigating some of these gray men.”
“Ah, that is ill luck indeed—though not as ill as that of the men whom Lady Shayde was investigating.”
Rafferdy thought of Eubrey, the black symbol on his hand, and his throat grew tight. He could only nod.
“I fear more will be similarly unlucky,” Farrolbrook went on, still working his brush. “Lord Mertrand has made some bargain with the magus of another order. Mertrand gave this other magus something of great value, and in return he gets more magicians to turn into gray men—something he needs, for our own order grows depleted, and he cannot recruit young men quickly enough to suit his purposes.”
Rafferdy could only shudder at this abominable activity. “But what is his purpose? What are the gray men for?”
“I don’t know. To ruin things, I think. And to sow disruption and suspicion in Altania. For so long I thought nothing about what the others in the order did—I cared only for my experiments, my paintings, and my speeches. Only ever since my father passed, a feeling has been growing in me, stronger and stronger every day. It is …” He shook his head. “But I cannot explain it. Still, I fear they are doing something awful.”
“Something awful?” Rafferdy thought of the words his father had said in their final conversation, how magicians were responsible for working great ill—perhaps the greatest ill ever done in all of history. “But what do they mean to accomplish?”
“I don’t know.” Lord Farrolbrook’s brush went still, and he cocked his head. “No, that’s not true. I do know. It has something to do with the Wyrdwood. They want to destroy it, to cut it all down and burn it up, only they must not be allowed to do so.”
“But why not?”
Farrolbrook pressed a hand to his temple. “I’m not certain. But if it is something they wish for, it cannot be good. And without doubt they are scheming to do it. I heard them talking as they left here. They said the magus of that other society—the one Lord Mertrand has a bargain with—is sending a magician to the wall to perform another experiment.”
Again Rafferdy suffered a shock. “To the wall—you mean to Madiger’s Wall?”
“Yes, Madiger’s Wall, I’m sure of it. I’m not certain what this experiment involves. I believe I heard them say it has something to do with some door that was discovered there.” Lord Farrolbrook turned away from the easel. “Only, I have forgotten my manners again. You said you came here to ask a question, Lord Rafferdy—what is it?”
Rafferdy stared past the tall lord at the painting. All traces of the country scene were gone now; the canvas was solid black.
“Nothing important,” he said. “I am sorry to have disturbed you. I beg your leave, my lord.”
He gave a swift bow, then turned to hurry from the parlor. As he reached the door, Rafferdy glanced back into the room. Farrolbrook had set down his brush, and he stood in the dimness of the room in his ruffled black robe. His lips moved silently as he turned the House ring around and around on his finger.
Rafferdy felt a peculiar compulsion to go back to him, to try to listen to what he was saying, but there was no time for that. The sages had sent Coulten back to the door in the wall. For what purpose, Rafferdy did not know, but it could not be for good. He rushed through the front hall, out the door, and down the steps to his ca
rriage.
“I must leave the city,” he said as his driver helped him inside and shut the door. “Drive me to Madiger’s Wall at once.”
The man appeared surprised by these directions, but he only nodded. He climbed back into his seat and snapped the reins, and the carriage rolled into motion. As it did, Rafferdy slumped back against the seat. It would take at least three hours to get to the wall.
“Good God, Coulten,” he said aloud. “Please try not to do anything foolish before I get there.”
And he twisted his own House ring on his finger as first the city and then the countryside flickered by outside the window.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
IVY GLANCED IN a mirror, making sure her hair was pinned firmly in place, then took up her bonnet and parasol.
That morning at breakfast, quite to her surprise, Mr. Quent had asked her if she would like to take a drive in the country. Ivy was thrilled by this idea. All the same, she had tried to remain composed, and she said that while a drive sounded very nice, she wondered that he didn’t have to go to the Citadel. However, he assured her that nothing could be more important than to take her on a drive, that it was long overdue. He had some correspondence to go through that morning, but come afternoon they would be off.
Now the sound of bells drifted through the window as the church down the street chimed the start of the third farthing. Ivy left her chamber and went downstairs, taking the steps at a swift pace. She could not think of anything more delightful than going out to the country with her husband. Nor did she have to worry about abandoning her sisters, for they had not one but two affairs to attend that day, and so would be well occupied. Her thoughts thus happily directed, she leaped off the last step into the front hall.
Mr. Quent was not there, as she had expected. She looked out the front door, wondering if he had already brought the cabriolet around, but the street beyond the gate was empty. She shut the door and went to his study off the north end of the hall.
And there he was, sitting at his desk, looking at a letter. He glanced up at the sound of her entrance.
“Forgive me, Sir Quent,” she said, smiling at him. “I didn’t realize you were still working at your correspondence. I will wait in the front hall while you finish.”
He set down the letter and stood. “No, Ivoleyn, there is no need for you to wait for me.”
At once her cheerful mood went dim. She clutched her parasol and bonnet, as if loath to let go of what they had represented. Only then, slowly, she set them down on a sideboard.
“You have to go to the Citadel after all,” she said.
He gave a solemn nod. “I am sorry, dearest. A message just came for me. There was an … attack by rebels before the Halls of Assembly a little while ago.”
She felt a note of alarm. “An attack? Was someone harmed?”
“I fear so.”
“That is dreadful news! Only …” She shook her head. “It’s just that I would think such a thing was for the redcrests or perhaps the Gray Conclave to deal with. Is such a matter really your business?”
“In this case, I fear that it is.” He folded the letter and put it in his coat pocket, then went to her. “I am sorry, Ivoleyn. I know that this means I must ruin our plans. But I promise that I will take you for a drive soon.”
Just not today, she wanted to say. Only how could she worry about her own whims and desires when some poor soul had lost their life that day? Besides, if he was truly to rise to an even higher position, and so put himself beyond the reach of any who might seek to reproach him for his actions in Torland, then she needed to provide him with the necessary encouragement, and to reassure him that his duties to the Crown were more important than drives in the country or any other thing she might want.
She touched his bearded cheek. “Be as long as you must,” she said. “I will be waiting for you when you return.”
His look was one of gratitude and affection. He held her, and kissed her with a great fierceness. Then he departed the chamber.
IVY RETURNED HER bonnet and parasol to her chamber, then went back downstairs to the library to turn through the pages of her father’s journal, as she had not yet done so that day. However, the pages were all blank. There had not been a new entry in the journal since the one that had appeared just before her sisters’ party, the one in which he revealed it had been his friend Gambrel who had betrayed the order and stole the key to the door Tyberion.
How she wished another entry would appear! She wanted to know if her father had ever found Gambrel, or if the traitorous magician was still at large after all these years. She would have felt terrified by the prospect, except that she knew the wards her father had placed upon the house would warn her if Gambrel ever attempted to enter. Besides, those protections had been renewed and strengthened by Mr. Rafferdy’s spell. That Gambrel could come inside the house without being invited was impossible.
Ivy returned the journal to the Wyrdwood box, along with the pages she had transcribed and the triangle-shaped bit of Old Wood that Lord Rafferdy had given her. With an absent touch, she bid the tendrils that coiled about the box to entwine themselves, locking it.
She returned the box to its drawer, then took up a folded piece of paper that lay atop the writing desk. It was a note from Mr. Rafferdy and had arrived earlier that morning. Again she read the letter, wondering at the knowledge it contained.
I believe you may find this of interest, he had written. I have discovered there is indeed a door that, by means of magick, leads from the tavern where my society meets directly to Durrow Street.
This fact was indeed of interest to her. Yet she did not know what to think. It was utterly improbable that that magickal society Rafferdy happened to belong to met in the exact place where Dratham’s arcane order had nearly three centuries ago. All the same, logic demanded that this must be the case. For all she knew it was the very same society, and had been perpetuated by magicians meeting in secret during the long, dark years when the study of the arcane was in disrepute.
A sudden thrill passed through Ivy. If Mr. Rafferdy belonged to the same occult society Dratham had, perhaps there were things Mr. Rafferdy knew, or that he could find out, that would teach her more about the man who had first constructed the house on Durrow Street.
Ivy took out a fresh sheet, picked up a pen, and wrote a reply to Mr. Rafferdy’s note. I hope we can indeed go walking together soon, she concluded the note, and signed her name.
She sealed the note, then went out into the front hall, where she found Mrs. Seenly.
“Would you please see that this is delivered as soon as possible?” she said, handing the note to the housekeeper.
“Of course, Lady Quent. I will see that it goes out at once.”
“Oh, and Mrs. Seenly, my sisters are off to an affair this afternoon and another one tonight, and I expect Sir Quent will be late at the Citadel. Therefore, once Lily and Rose have gone, I think you and Mr. Seenly and the staff should take the rest of the lumenal off.”
At this the housekeeper’s eyes shone. “But are you certain, Lady Quent? There will be no one to serve supper.”
“It is not very long since I served supper myself,” Ivy said with a laugh. “I will do very well if you leave something out for me.”
Thus assured, the housekeeper smiled and thanked her, then tucked the note into her apron and bustled off. Ivy proceeded upstairs to see if her sisters had begun preparing for the parties they were to attend.
As she reached the gallery on the second floor, she paused. The door Tyberion commanded the south end of the gallery as usual, the sword carved upon it gleaming in the morning light so that it seemed forged of bronze. At the north end, the door Arantus was still hidden behind the white curtain, for she had not directed the servants to take down the cloth.
The man in the black mask had told her to conceal Arantus, and he had not shown himself to her since. She did not know why he had wanted her to conceal the door, or from whom. And as there were often
people in the house—from servants and craftsmen to agents of the Crown who came to visit her husband—she had decided it was best to leave the curtain up until the man in the black costume appeared to her again. That he would do so eventually was something of which she was certain, even if his purposes were a matter of doubt.
A temptation came upon Ivy to go to the white curtain, to lift the cloth, and to look at the door carved all with leaves. However, sisterly duty compelled her to delay no longer, and instead she went upstairs.
It was good she did, for she found her sisters in great need of assistance. They were having much difficulty choosing what to wear for their affairs, for Lily despised each of her gowns as much as the next, while Rose adored all of hers in equal measure.
Ivy did her best to offer aid. Gowns were put on and taken off. A light luncheon was called for. Cakes were eaten, and more gowns were modeled. At last, after a great deal of effort on the part of Ivy, Lily was finally convinced that one of her dresses was slightly less awful than all the others. Rose, in turn, was coaxed into admitting that she found one of her gowns to be just the littlest bit prettier than the rest.
With so much time spent in deciding what to wear, there was little time left to actually put it on, and the lumenal was moving more swiftly than the almanac had called for. All in a rush, bodices were laced, sleeves buttoned, and ribbons tied. Lily and Rose fluttered downstairs like colorful birds, with Miss Mew chasing after them. Then they were in the cabriolet, with Lawden at the reins, his homely face hardly to be noticed for his handsome hat and coat.
Ivy stood outside the gate to see them off. They both looked, she thought, very pretty.
“If you are weary after the dinner, you need not go to the ball,” she said. It was not the first time she had mentioned this, as she had been concerned when Lily accepted both invitations.
“Nonsense!” Lily exclaimed, lifting her parasol against the swift-moving sun. “Now that Rose and I are finally out, we may go to as many parties as we wish—and we must meet as many good-looking men as we can!”
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