Lily was sitting at the pianoforte. It was one of three such instruments throughout the house, all purchased by Mr. Quent. This had seemed a great extravagance to Ivy, for she was sure Lily could make do with one.
“It is true she might make do,” Mr. Quent had replied, “but I cannot, for I like to hear her play no matter where I am in the house.”
Lily was not playing at the moment, however. Instead, as had been increasingly the case over these past several months, she was using a charcoal pencil to scribble upon the pages of a large folio that lay open atop the pianoforte. Whatever she was working on, she was going about it with great zeal, and a small crease was evident between the dark lines of her eyebrows. Rose was being similarly industrious, sewing the sleeve on a white shirt. Miss Mew sat on the sofa beside her, tail wrapped around her paws, her yellow eyes watching the needle go to and fro.
“I see that Miss Mew is making certain you don’t miss a stitch,” Ivy said.
Rose smiled up at her. “I am sure she will bat at my hand if I do.”
Even if the cat were capable of noticing such an omission, Ivy doubted she would have any need for action. Rose never missed a stitch, as far as Ivy could tell, and it seemed every day she finished another shirt for the poor basket. Recently, Ivy had told her not to overtire herself with her diligent efforts, and to occupy herself on occasion with a more frivolous activity. But Rose had only shaken her head.
“The newspapers say there are more poor people in the city all the time,” she had said. “So that means I need to sew more shirts.”
Ivy had not been able to argue with that logic.
Now, as Miss Mew watched, Rose resumed her sewing, while Lily continued to apply the charcoal pencil to the pages of the folio with great speed and purpose.
A few times, after Lily first began such undertakings, Ivy had asked her what she was working on in the folio. Ivy had not meant to pry; she was only curious. Yet on each occasion, Lily slammed the folio shut and proclaimed it was nothing. Before long, Ivy gave up asking altogether. Though she could not help remaining a little curious about what her sister was so intent upon, and she hoped one day Lily would show them what it was.
For now, Ivy went to the bookcase on the opposite wall and ran her fingers along the spines of the volumes that filled the shelves. She hadn’t finished the latest treatise concerning the study of electrical forces which she had started to read the other day, but after her walk in the heat outside her mind was too dull for such a subject. Nor did any of the other books concerning science or the occult appeal to her. What use was there in reading them anymore if there was nothing in their pages that could help her father?
Just then Ivy noticed a small book bound in red cloth that had been carelessly tossed on top of a row of books about astrography. She picked it up. The title on the spine read, in gilded letters, The Towers of Ardaunto. It must have been one of Lily’s romances. On a sudden whim, Ivy took up the book. Perhaps it was time for her to follow the advice she had given Rose, and to pursue a more frivolous pastime for a while.
Ivy sat in a chair with the book while Lily sketched and Rose continued to sew. So familiar was the scene that, were it not for the grand size of the house around them, they might have been back in their little parlor on Whitward Street. It occurred to Ivy that, no matter how altered their situation had become, in many ways it was not so very different.
For a brief while, that had not been the case. After the party for her sisters, Lily and Rose had received more invitations to dances and dinners than could possibly be accepted—though Lily had certainly made a go of it. Seeing her sisters so happily engaged had given Ivy great joy herself. It seemed to her that Lily was benefiting from the influence of young women with refined manners; at the very least, she had given up speaking like a sea captain. And it was heartening to see Rose out in the world, being in the presence of others—if not always managing to find words to speak to them.
Then the bells rang out over the city, and with their tolling everything had changed. Upon King Rothard’s death, all of Altania entered into a period of mourning. Parties and balls and any grand affairs were suspended by royal decree, and so Lily and Rose were deprived of the society to which they had only just been introduced.
After two months, the formal time of mourning came to an end. Usually, a great celebration would immediately follow as a new monarch was crowned. Only for reasons that might be evident to Assembly, but which Ivy could not fathom, Princess Layle was yet to have her coronation.
What was more, in the interim, the situation in the country had become exceedingly grim. Candles and all manner of goods grew rare while the sight of destitute and desperate people on the streets became common. The royal army was in great need of rations and supplies; and while before it might be seen as an indicator of station to throw a lavish affair, nowadays it was just as likely to be considered distasteful, or even unpatriotic. So it was that, while it was no longer against any edict to hold parties and balls, it was no longer very propitious to do so.
As a result, Ivy and her sisters had lived quietly and modestly these last months. Rose and Lily had attended a few teas or luncheons at the houses of young ladies whose acquaintance they had made. But soon even these small affairs ceased to occur as a growing number of prominent families removed themselves from the city and went to their lodges and manors in the south and east part of the country to escape the growing troubles.
Of late, Mr. Quent, Ivy, and her sisters had had only themselves for society, supplemented by an occasional and welcome visit from Mr. Rafferdy, or somewhat more frequently from Mr. and Mrs. Baydon. And of course, they were always invited at Lady Marsdel’s. So far, her ladyship had hewed firmly to her position that they must not abandon Invarel for the country.
“If we let the fear of hooligans drive us from our own city, then it will be to concede them victory before the war has even begun,” she had declared one evening at supper. “We are Altanians. We must not abandon our principles, but rather stand bravely before any adversity.”
Ivy had raised her glass to that. While they did not have a great deal of society these days, she could make no complaint about the quality of what they had.
That Rose made no mention of the lack of parties and dinners and balls was expected. But to Ivy’s surprise, Lily hardly remarked about the topic either. At last Ivy grew so perplexed by this behavior that she brought up the topic herself one afternoon as they took tea.
“Why should I care if we are not being invited to any balls?” Lily had replied with a shrug. “I have no want for society or ways to occupy myself. Besides, I cannot see that there is any point in going to a party now when all the bravest and handsomest men have already gone off to become officers in the army.”
Ivy was at once surprised and pleased to hear her youngest sister utter a statement which seemed based on rationality. It was perhaps an exaggeration that there were no men of quality remaining in the city, but it was also a fact that the possibility of conflict had caused many young men from better families to buy commissions in the army—either out of a sense of duty to the nation, or from a desire to seek their fortunes in war.
All in all, Ivy could only be happy with how Lily and Rose were bearing up under the current circumstances. Still, she could hope for matters to improve. It was not fair that her sisters had been deprived of the benefits of wider society so soon after being introduced to it.
At the moment, though, Rose was contentedly sewing, and Lily was absorbed with whatever it was she was setting down in the folio, so Ivy opened the book she had found on the shelf. She turned to the first chapter and saw at once that, as she had suspected, it was a romantic novel. Ivy had never heard of the author, who, according to the brief paragraph following the frontispiece, was the son of a noble family from the Principalities, these being the wealthy city-states on the northern edge of the Murgh Empire.
Ivy doubted the veracity of the biography. More than likely the author was an Alt
anian schoolteacher who sought to lend an air of mystery to the novel by claiming a foreign background. That said, there was indeed an exotic flavor to the writing, which was of surprisingly good quality, and Ivy quickly found herself captivated by the story of a handsome but lowly young man, a gondolier in the ancient canal city of Ardaunto, and the beautiful daughter of a wealthy merchant whom he admired from afar.
Of course, circumstance promptly conspired to acquaint the two, and a romance was quickly kindled between them. Yet after that, the story did not immediately fall into the expected pattern. The young woman was not locked in her chamber by her angry father to await rescue by the young man who had conveniently discovered he was in fact the son of a nobleman.
Rather, there was a melancholy air about the young woman, for she seemed resigned to some unknown destiny. Curious what her fate might be, and if she could be saved from it, the young gondolier began to secretly pursue her father, despite the grave risk to himself should he be discovered. Then one night, as he followed the merchant to an abandoned tower, he discovered that his beloved’s father was a magician.…
“Is something wrong, Ivy?” Lily said, looking up with a frown.
Ivy realized she must have let out a gasp at the revelation in the book that the merchant was in fact a magician. It was silly, of course, but she had gotten caught up in the story. She shook her head but lacked the voice to speak, as if she had just awakened from some sort of spell.
Lily’s expression became one of concern. She set down her charcoal pencil and hurried over to Ivy.
“You’re very hot,” Lily said as she seized her hand. “And your face is flushed. I think we’d better call for the doctor. Rose, go see if Dr. Lawrent is in his room.”
“No, I’m very well,” Ivy at last managed to say. “The day is a bit warm, that’s all. It gets so stifling on long afternoons.”
Except the dim air of the parlor was still cool.
Rose was standing now, Miss Mew in her arms, her brown eyes wide. “Are you very sure you’re well, Ivy?”
Ivy smiled for Rose’s sake. “Yes, I’m sure. I want only to sit here a little while longer and finish the page I am on. I’m enjoying this novel of yours very much, Lily. But I don’t think I’ve seen you reading it. Is it one you purchased recently?”
Lily’s frown returned. “I haven’t bought any novels lately.”
“But I’m sure it must be one of your books. It’s a romance.”
Ivy held up the book so Lily could look at it, but her youngest sister shook her head.
“I’ve never seen that book in my life.”
“Are you certain?”
“I’m sure I’d know if it was mine! Besides, I’m far too busy to read novels. I don’t have time for frivolous diversions like you do, Ivy.”
With that, Lily took up her folio and departed the parlor.
Ivy put a hand to her temple, for her head had begun to ache. No matter how the book had come into the house, she had been reading it longer than she had meant to. Through the screen of wisteria that covered the window, she could see that the shadows outside had grown long. The lumenal was at last drawing toward a close.
It was past time to give Mrs. Seenly instructions for supper. Ivy rose from the chair, then set down the book. Oddly, she felt a reluctance as she did so. An urge came over her to sit and read more about the young gondolier and the merchant’s daughter and the labyrinthine canals of Ardaunto.
Now she was indeed being frivolous! She started toward the parlor door, then turned to look at Rose.
“I’m sorry to leave you all by yourself, dearest,” she said. “I don’t know where Lily’s gone to.”
Rose smiled at her from the sofa. “Don’t worry, Ivy. I won’t be alone.”
Ivy returned the expression. No doubt Miss Mew would keep Rose company until supper. Though now that she noticed it, the tortoiseshell cat was not on Rose’s lap, or anywhere in view.
Well, most likely she was under the sofa, waiting for Rose to dangle a bit of thread to entice her to leap out. Ivy left the parlor and made her way toward the kitchen, wondering what Mrs. Seenly had managed to find for their supper, and hoping there had been something good at the butcher’s, as they still had their guest, Dr. Lawrent.
IVY GAVE A great yawn as she climbed the steps toward the third floor. Despite the length of the lumenal, she had not taken a rest during the day. What was more, they had been longer at the supper table than she had expected, listening as Dr. Lawrent described some of his research, which he had recently been writing about in a scientific paper.
The research concerned a certain species of moth native to County Dorn, which Dr. Lawrent had learned, by looking at older samples preserved in the Royal Altanian Museum, had once possessed white wings. Yet it was the case that, over time, the color of the moth’s wings had darkened, and nowadays they were a smoky gray. Over that same period of time, the practice of burning coal to fuel industry had greatly increased in that part of the country, and the soot blackened the bark of the trees where the moths tended to alight and roost.
In the paper, Dr. Lawrent intended to propose the theory that the birds which preyed upon the moths were able to easily see and catch the white moths against the dark trees. But darker moths would have a better chance of blending in with the bark and escaping notice, and so would survive to pass their coloring on to their offspring. Thus the entire population of moths over time had gone from white to gray.
The topic was fascinating—to Ivy at least, if not her sisters—and she had asked Dr. Lawrent a number of questions about the paper, which he had been happy to expound upon.
Now, though, she was more than ready to return to her own roost. Only, as she reached the second landing, it occurred to her that she had not yet looked through her father’s journal. Ivy hesitated, a hand on the railing. It had been months since she had discovered an entry in the journal. Besides, if the umbral was as long as the lumenal had been, she would have plenty of time to look at the journal when she woke.
Except there was no guarantee that would be the case. And even if it was unlikely, due to the alterations of the heavens, that another entry would ever appear in the journal, it was a hope she was not yet ready to abandon. It would feel too much like she was betraying her father if she did.
Ivy sighed, then turned and went back downstairs.
The library was dark, so she took a candle from the front hall with her. As she entered the room, the wooden eye set into the lintel above the door watched her with (at least she fancied) an approving look. She set the candle on the writing table, opened the drawer, and took out the Wyrdwood box.
As she did, the old rosewood clock on the mantel let out a chime, already marking the end of the first span of the umbral. So it was not to be a long night after all, but rather a short one. Which meant it was well that she was checking the journal now.
Ivy opened the Wyrdwood box, took out the familiar book, and began to turn through it. She went at a fairly rapid pace, giving each page no more than a cursory glance. The night was already a third over, and she wanted there to be at least some of it remaining by the time she got to bed. She cracked a yawn, turning another page.
The flat white expanse on the desk before her suddenly grew dark, like the wings of the moths in Dr. Lawrent’s scientific paper.
The candle flame flickered, disturbed by the breath that escaped Ivy’s lips. She hesitated, then brushed her fingers over the page, as if to touch the words to make sure they were really there. So astonished was she that, for a minute, she did not even read the entry; she only stared at it.
At last the words became more than shapes, resolving themselves into things of meaning. As she read them, a strange feeling came over Ivy, a kind of gentle yet ominous sensation of floating, as if she were drifting in a gondola down a darkened canal toward some destination she could not see.
My dearest Ivy, the entry in the journal began. It is about time. If you can read this, then it means you must begi
n to gather the others. I don’t know where they will be by now, but you must seek them out. Bennick, Mundy, and Larken may all yet be here in Invarel. At least I hope that they are, for it will make your task easier. As for Fintaur, I believe you will find his whereabouts in the city of Ardaunto, across the sea.…
Her heart beating rapidly, Ivy read the rest of the page. Then she took a pen and a sheet of paper from the desk to transcribe the entry. The umbral would be brief, and she knew by the time the sun rose her father’s words would be gone from the page.
Just as she knew that she had not a hope of sleeping that night.
THEIR MEETING PLACE this time was in a room beneath a pewtersmith’s shop on Coronet Street.
The smith was the cousin of one of their number and so could be trusted. All the same, a heavy black cloth draped the door, blocking even the smallest chink, and no sound could pass beyond the line made by the silver cord that lay on the floor, encircling the edges of the room. They had not told the smith why they were gathering there. Which meant that, if he was questioned, he could in all honesty tell an agent of the Gray Conclave that he had no knowledge of magicians beneath his shop—a fact which would protect him as much as it did them.
“The Fellowship of the Silver Circle will now convene.”
It was Coulten who spoke the words this time. By design, their little order had no leader, no magus. Meetings were called by anyone who felt there was need and had arranged for a suitable place, and they were brought to order by the last to arrive.
“The Circle will not be broken.” The other eight men gave the customary reply.
And that was that for arcane ceremony.
“Well, what is it, Canderhow?” Rafferdy said at once, looking across the circle at the subject of his address. “This had better be worth our while. I was planning on spending a pleasant evening at my club before I opened my book and saw your notice had appeared.”
The Master of Heathcrest Hall Page 10
