The Master of Heathcrest Hall

by Galen Beckett

  This idea was terrifying. But then Layka thought of the way she had felt when she spoke with the trees, and she realized she was excited as well.

  “Will you be with me?” she said.

  “I will.”

  She pressed her own hand over his. “Then I am not afraid.”

  He smiled, his teeth white and straight. “Yes, I understand now how Gauldren did this.”

  Layka did not comprehend these words, but she quickly forgot them as he removed the gray wolf fur from his broad shoulders and spread it upon the floor of the cave. His bare chest gleamed in the crimson light. Having dwelled in a tiny hut with her parents all her life, it was no mystery to Layka what men and women did beneath the furs. Nor was she in any way afraid—though her heart had quickened all the same.

  His hands were gentle as they stroked her hair, her throat, her shoulders. Then they became strong as they lowered her onto the wolf pelt. He laid himself down beside her. Their leathers had fallen aside, and she could see he was ready. As was she.

  “Layka,” he said, and her name seemed beautiful from his lips. “Through you, I will truly live again.”

  Once again she did not understand his words, but it did not matter. All that mattered was his touch upon her body. His fingers roved over her breasts, her stomach, and below.

  “There will be a pain,” he murmured in her ear. “But only a little.”

  It was so. But it was a joy as well. Their limbs entwined around one another, like the coiling branches of trees. She cried out his name. And as their bodies became one, Layka knew that they were making a child this night.

  That they were making a son.

  IVY KNEW AT ONCE that something was terribly wrong.

  She pushed herself up against the pillows, then groped a hand toward the nightstand, fumbling with the brass shield that covered the candle. The shield fell aside with a clatter, and a gold illumination welled forth.

  At first she thought the commotion would wake Mr. Quent, but then the light burned away some of the fog in her brain and Ivy recalled that he was not in the city at present. He had gone to County Engeldon south of Invarel to meet with several of the inquirers and hear their reports regarding the state of the Wyrdwood in that part of Altania.

  When Mr. Quent first made these arrangements, the intention was that Ivy would accompany him. She had not been out of the city since the events at the Evengrove several months ago, and a longing had been steadily growing in her to see clear skies and fields and—perhaps from a distance—feathery trees standing behind old stone walls.

  There had been no opportunity for such a sojourn previously, as the destinations to which Mr. Quent’s work took him were not usually the sort of places that one would go for a holiday. It was the matter of the Wyrdwood that occupied the inquirers, and—other than the Evengrove—the majority of the remaining stands of Old Trees were in the north and west of Altania. And these were precisely the parts of the country that were in the greatest upheaval at present. It was hardly safe enough for Mr. Quent to make the journey in the company of soldiers, let alone take his wife along with him.

  Ivy did not know if it was strictly necessary for Mr. Quent to travel to County Engeldon, or if she had done a poor job of concealing her longing for a trip to the country. Either way, she had been delighted when Mr. Quent had proposed the excursion, and she had quickly agreed to the plan. Not only would it be an opportunity to see the countryside, but there was a chance they would be able to call on Mr. Rafferdy—or Lord Rafferdy, as he was now known to everyone else. His manor, Asterlane, was located in County Engeldon, and Ivy knew he went there when time allowed to make a survey of his estate—and, she presumed, to remove himself as far as possible from Assembly, where he sat in the Hall of Magnates. Given the grim affairs that consumed the nation at present, frequent respites from the workings of the government were likely a necessity.

  Arrangements for the trip were soon made. Ivy wrote to Mr. Rafferdy, who replied that he would make it a point to be in Asterlane while they were in the vicinity. Mr. Quent agreed that this was excellent news, and a pleasant anxiousness filled Ivy as the day approached.

  At the same time, however, a different sort of anxiousness arose. A regular event did not occur at its usual time. A quarter month passed, a half month and more, and still things did not proceed as expected. In addition, Ivy had begun to find it increasingly difficult to rise after sleep, and she was often gripped by a violent illness when she did.

  By the time a doctor was summoned, few in the household had any doubt what the diagnosis would be—and indeed, his declaration that Ivy was now afflicted with a most tender and precarious condition was greeted with little surprise, though much interest. The doctor at once restricted her to the house and grounds for the majority of her time, with no more than one brief outing per day. And even that was to be discouraged, for she was to have only rest and quiet until she was well again.

  A trip to the country, of course, was out of the question.

  “He speaks as if I have contracted some grave malady!” Ivy had exclaimed after the doctor departed. “I am sure I am able to go to the country. Despite what some might say, it is all perfectly natural. It is not as if I am actually ill.”

  “I don’t know, Ivy,” Lily said as she played a mournful air on the pianoforte. “I thought you looked rather green this morning.”

  Ivy frowned at her youngest sister, though she could not deny she had felt rather poorly that morning.

  Rose shook her head. “No, she’s not just green anymore. There’s a spark of gold to her now.”

  Ivy was curious at these words. It was not the first time her middle sister had mentioned seeing a light around Ivy, or around others. But before she could ask Rose about it, Mr. Quent said that he would stand by the doctor’s prescription. Ivy would not accompany him to the country. Nor, by the look on his craggy visage, would he accept any argument on the matter.

  “Do not be forlorn,” he had said after her sisters departed the parlor. “Will not any disappointment you feel now be more than offset by the great happiness we will enjoy some months from now?”

  Ivy could only concede it was true, and had kissed his bearded cheek. “But do not hold me so lightly,” she admonished. “I have not become suddenly fragile. You will not break me!”

  So encouraged, he enclosed her within his strong arms, and her disappointment was thus ameliorated.

  A half month later, she was less sanguine when it came time for him to depart for the south. For his sake, though, she kept her expression brave.

  “Be careful,” she told him. “And do not feel you must interrupt your labors to return with great haste.”

  “On the contrary, I will be as brief as possible,” he said, his brown eyes sober. “Indeed, I would not leave at all had Dr. Lawrent not recently arrived.”

  Dr. Lawrent was an acquaintance of his from County Westmorain, who had been a frequent visitor at Heathcrest Hall during the years when Mr. Quent resided there with the first Mrs. Quent. When Dr. Lawrent wrote that he was coming to the city to perform some work at the university, at Carwick College, Mr. Quent had invited him to take up residence at the house on Durrow Street during his tenure in the city.

  “I am sure I will have no cause to disturb Dr. Lawrent and distract him from his research,” she had said, “but he is very welcome here, and if it eases your mind, then I am doubly glad for his presence.”

  So Mr. Quent had departed again, and the quarter month that followed passed without incident—save for those that were reported in the broadsheets, which every day had another story of some violence perpetrated by rebels on the border with Torland, or up in Northaltia.

  Yet distressing as these events were, they were far from Invarel. And while shortages of various goods had led to raised prices as well as tempers, the government had taken matters firmly in hand. Affairs in the city proceeded generally as they always had—as long as one made an exception for the many companies of soldiers tha
t patrolled the streets, and which were gathered in great numbers around the Halls of Assembly and the Citadel.

  Having a guest each evening at the supper table was not only diverting, but helped Ivy to bear Mr. Quent’s absence—especially as Dr. Lawrent was able to provide interesting conversation regarding his work at the university. His research concerned the methods by which traits might be inherited between generations of animals, and Ivy was always eager to listen to him describe his theories. Though, given Lily’s frequent sighs or Rose’s yawns, Ivy was perhaps alone in this. What was more, Dr. Lawrent had been able to concoct a restorative for Ivy that did much to alleviate the sickness she felt upon rising. Save for the lack of Mr. Quent’s company, the time passed in a pleasantly unremarkable manner.

  Until she began having the dream.

  It had started several nights ago, when she woke in the middle of an umbral from a dream that was unusually vivid. Yet even as she attempted to recollect the events of the dream it seemed to break apart, like a tattered letter that fell to pieces even as one tried to unfold it. She thought she remembered looking for shells along the seashore, and then huddling in some cold, dark place. That was all.

  The next lumenal turned out to be long—not that this was a fact which any almanac had predicted. The new planet, Cerephus, had fundamentally altered the movements of the celestial spheres. As a result, the once infallible timetables in the almanac were now all in error—unlike the old rosewood clock on the mantelpiece in the library, which somehow kept perfect time no matter how wildly variable the umbrals and lumenals were.

  In the light of that long day, Ivy quickly forgot about the peculiar dream. Fifteen hours later, when it became obvious that weariness would overcome them long before the sun set, they shut the curtains to make the house dark. This caused it to become hot and stuffy as well, but Ivy laid down, eventually falling into a fitful sleep.

  And the dream came again. When she woke, a cool night had finally fallen, and she remembered more than she had the last time. She had been with other people who wore not silks and satins, but garb made of animal skins, walking across the land away from the shore. She remembered looking up at the sky and seeing the red spot of Cerephus. Only it was larger than she had ever seen it—a crimson circle as big as the moon.

  Each time Ivy slept over those next lumenals and umbrals, she found herself caught in the same dream. And each time she recollected more and more upon waking. While she did not remember everything, what she did recall was peculiarly clear, as if she had really been present. She remembered the soft feel of the doeskin she wore, the smoothness of the shells in her hand. The dark space she and the others huddled inside was a cave. They had gone there to flee from something.

  Only from what? Ivy couldn’t remember, except that it was something terrible. And even as her recollections of the dream grew more detailed, so too a sense of foreboding grew within her. What was the source of her apprehension, she could not say, but it seemed to draw ever closer. Now, as the light of the candle sent the shadows scurrying to the corners of the bedchamber, a veil of dread draped itself over Ivy. Something awful was going to happen.

  Or had it already?

  She thought back, trying to recall the dream. It had progressed further this time—or perhaps it was simply that she had remembered more of it. She recalled the face of a woman, preternaturally white, and a man with blue eyes who wore a silver fur. And she remembered the way a darkness closed in around them like a black flood.

  Only suddenly the darkness was gone, and she was back in the cave with the blue-eyed man. Something had happened there, something that mattered for some reason. It was important that she didn’t forget it. Only … what was it? Ivy tried to will her sleep-muddled brain to think. A memory began to come back to her, a memory of joyousness and of—

  —pain. Violent pain coursed through Ivy, piercing deep. Shocked by the suddenness and severity of the spasm, her back arched away from the pillows and she let out a cry. At the same moment, the door of her bedchamber flew open.

  “Great Gods, Ivy, what’s going on?” Lily exclaimed. She stood in the open doorway in her night robe, the pretty oval of her face lit by the wavering candle in her hand. “I heard you give a great shout. I wasn’t sleeping, as I’m reading a very horrid book, but I’m sure the noise would have woken me even if I had been asleep.”

  The pain fogged Ivy’s brain. Lily’s bedchamber was at the opposite end of the corridor from Ivy and Mr. Quent’s. “How did you get here so quickly?”

  “It wasn’t so very quick,” Lily said. “It took me a minute to put on my robe. But you gave another shout just as I reached your door. What is it? Were you reading a particularly horrid scene yourself?”

  Ivy held a hand to her brow; it was damp with perspiration. “It was … I was having a dream.”

  “A nightmare is more like it,” Lily said, and frowned. “But I say, you look very queer. Are you all right?”

  Ivy shook her head. “I don’t know. I woke up and—” She grimaced as another spasm convulsed her.

  Now Lily’s expression grew worried. She hurried across the room and set down her candle on the nightstand. “What is it, Ivy?”

  Ivy drew a tight breath. “I think something’s wrong.”

  “It’s your light,” spoke a soft voice.

  They both looked up to see Rose in the doorway, clad in a pink robe. Her soft brown eyes were wide.

  “Her light?” Lily said. “What in the world are you talking about, Rose? There are only the candles.”

  Foreboding filled Ivy anew. Pushing herself up in bed, she threw back the covers. And all three of them stared at the dark spot that was slowly spreading across the white fabric of her nightgown.

  “There was a spark of gold in your light before,” Rose said, her voice barely a whisper. “Only now it’s green again. Just green.”

  Ivy felt a terrible wrenching inside. She let out a gasp, then looked at their youngest sister.

  “Lily, go find Mrs. Seenly. Tell her to bring Dr. Lawrent at once.”

  IT WAS LATE in the long afternoon, and little beams of sunlight darted among the leaves of the ash tree outside the window to dapple the room when Dr. Lawrent came once more to see how his patient was faring.

  “I am sorry to have to disturb you yet again, Lady Quent,” he said as Mrs. Seenly let him in. “However, as I mentioned earlier, in cases such as this it is important to make sure the loss of blood does not resume.”

  “Of course,” Ivy said, pushing herself up against the pillows. “You must not be concerned, Dr. Lawrent.”

  “On the contrary, it is my business to be concerned. And I will be so until it is clear that you are perfectly well.”

  Dr. Lawrent was somewhat older than Mr. Quent. He was a small, neatly kept man with a pointed silver beard and clear gray eyes. These now peered at Ivy over a pair of spectacles that were perched improbably on the end of his nose.

  “I will leave you to speak privately,” Mrs. Seenly said. Usually the housekeeper’s ruddy face was open and cheerful, but today it was drawn in tight lines.

  The door shut, leaving Ivy and the doctor alone. Her sisters had sat with her through the night and for much of that day, valiantly stifling their yawns toward the end. At last Ivy had convinced them to go to their rooms, and she hoped they were still asleep.

  “How are you feeling?” Dr. Lawrent asked.

  It seemed impossible, but physically Ivy felt much improved. The pain she had suffered last night was gone. She felt tired, but that was all. And the pain was not the only thing that had vanished. The sense of foreboding that had haunted her over the past few days had departed as well. What weighed upon her now was not a dread of some vague and awful thing. Rather, it was an all too comprehensible sorrow.

  “I am well,” she said. “There have been no more—that is, the discomfort is gone entirely.”

  He reached out his hands, then hesitated. “May I?”

  She nodded, and with gentle motio
ns he laid aside the clean white coverlet and placed his hands on her robe. He probed with precise, gentle motions, then withdrew his hands and replaced the coverlet.

  “I believe the spasms have indeed ceased,” he said, leaning back. “We must remain vigilant these next few days, of course. But seeing how rapidly you have progressed, I predict that you will make a swift recovery.”

  Tears stung her eyes. It seemed wrong that she should suffer so few consequences from what had occurred. How resilient was the body, to return to its prior form so quickly! Yet the mind was formed of a less pliable substance. The emptiness in her thoughts would not be so easily filled. Instead there was a hollowness among them—a place she had reserved for future joys which now would never arrive.

  “That is good news, Dr. Lawrent” was all she could manage.

  He laid his hand over hers on the coverlet and gave it a fatherly pat. Then, as was his habit, he gazed at her past the rims of his spectacles. In fact, so seldom did he actually look through the lenses that she had begun to think he wore the spectacles not out of any need, but simply so he could peer over them for effect.

  “I know it can provide you little comfort now, Lady Quent, but you can have every reason to expect to be a mother in the future. You are very young and in excellent health.”

  She gave a hesitant nod. “But is it not possible that, under similar circumstances, a similar result may occur?”

  “There is always a possibility. Nature is far from perfect in its workings, but it makes up for this with a remarkable persistence. And sometimes it can astonish us. Your own mother, Mrs. Lockwell, is proof of that. I examined her myself once, and I was quite convinced she would never be able to realize her wish to have another child after her first was taken from her. So I was very glad when you were brought into the household. Then, hardly a year later, your sister Roslend is born, and Liliauda two years after that. It was as if a capability that had lain dormant within Mrs. Lockwell was suddenly awakened by having a child about.” He paused for a moment. “Or more specifically, by having you about.”