The Master of Heathcrest Hall

by Galen Beckett

  Despite her puzzlement, Ivy only said, “I am glad we are here as well.”

  Rose smiled, then moved back to the fireplace. On the mantelpiece, one of the carved eyes rolled in its socket to peer at her for a moment, then at Ivy. As if satisfied by what it saw, its wooden lid drooped shut.

  “Were you reading aloud from something?” Ivy asked.

  Rose shook her head, running a hand along the mantelpiece. “No, I wasn’t reading anything.”

  “It’s just that I heard you speaking a moment ago, when I was out in the hall. I thought you were talking to someone, but there’s no one else here.”

  Rose appeared suddenly startled. She took a quick step away from the fireplace and clasped her hands together. This behavior renewed Ivy’s puzzlement.

  “I didn’t mean to pry, Rose. If you were simply speaking to yourself, there is hardly anything wrong with that. I do the same very often!”

  “But I wasn’t talking to myself,” Rose said, looking up.

  Now Ivy felt a growing sense of alarm. Her eyes went to the window, but she could see nothing through the screen of wisteria that covered the glass panes. Despite her sudden concern, she kept her voice light. “Then who were you speaking to, dearest?”

  Rose hesitated. “I don’t think you would believe me.”

  Ivy did not always understand her next youngest sister, but to deliberately tell a mistruth was not a capability that Rose possessed. And while Ivy did not want to press, a worry had begun to grow in her: a fear that the man in black had appeared to Rose.

  “Of course I would believe you,” Ivy said seriously.

  Rose bit her lower lip. “I was speaking to Father,” she said at last.

  Her voice was so soft that Ivy wasn’t quite certain she had heard correctly. “To our father, you mean?”

  Rose nodded.

  Ivy moved to her. “But there is nothing wrong with that. I often speak to him myself as I go about the house or put away books.”

  Rose’s eyes went wide. “You do? And he answers you, too?”

  “Answers me?” Ivy could not help a small sigh. “No, of course he does not answer. How can he when he is not here?”

  Rose shook her head. “But that’s not true. He is here.” She laid a hand upon the mantelpiece.

  Now Ivy’s concern was of a different sort. She kept her voice gentle, but made it somewhat stern as well. “Rose, you know that is not the case. Our father is at Madstone’s, where he is receiving treatments for his illness. If it gives you comfort to speak aloud to him, and to think of him answering you, that is very well. But you know it isn’t right to speak about things that you imagine as if they are fact.”

  “But it’s not imagined!” Rose said, her voice rising and her agitation evident. “I had forgotten how bright and blue he used to be before he got ill—just like Mr. Rafferdy, only softer and a bit more silvery around the edges. It’s been so long since I’ve seen Father like that, but I see that same blue light there now.” She pointed at the mantelpiece. “And I’ve seen it by the stairs, and in the library, and in a dozen other places. Father isn’t at Madstone’s at all. He’s here right now—here in this house.”

  Ivy was at a loss for words. It was not the first time she had heard Rose mention seeing a color around someone. She had always thought it to be one of Rose’s peculiarities, that she liked to assign colors to people and things she cared for. But what if that wasn’t the case? Now that Ivy considered it, there was a pattern to Rose’s statements. She had said their father and Mr. Rafferdy were both blue—and both were magicians. And the night of Ivy’s loss, Rose had said Ivy’s color had changed, and that the spark of gold within the green had vanished. She had been right, hadn’t she? Ivy had indeed lost the spark of life that had been growing in her.

  Before Ivy could consider the matter further, Mrs. Seenly appeared in the door of the parlor.

  “What is it?” Ivy said, startled, for the housekeeper was red-cheeked and appeared to have arrived in a great hurry.

  “Pardon me, ma’am, but I knew you’d want to be told at once that he is come.”

  “You mean Dr. Lawrent has come down for breakfast?”

  Mrs. Seenly shook her head. “No, ma’am, I mean the master—he has returned from his trip. I just saw him myself!”

  In an instant, all other thoughts fled from Ivy’s mind. A feeling passed through her, one so severe that she suffered it almost as a kind of pain, though she knew it was joy.

  “Where is he?”

  “I saw him out in the front garden. He had just come through the gate and was speaking to Dr. Lawrent, who had gone out for a stroll before breakfast.”

  “I’ll go to him at once. Please set another place at the table, Mrs. Seenly. He is bound to be hungry and weary after traveling through the night.”

  As Ivy returned to the front hall, her heartbeat quickened. For a half month, she had wanted nothing more than to have Mr. Quent back. But now that he was here, she almost found she could not bear to face him. What would he think of her? She placed a hand on her stomach, then willed herself to look out a window.

  Mr. Quent was indeed in the front garden, speaking with Dr. Lawrent. Both men wore somber expressions, and she supposed she could guess what news was passing between them.

  Ivy sighed. She could only be relieved that she would not have to be the one to tell him what had occurred; she was not certain she would have been able to form the words herself. Yet that did not mean it would be an easy thing to come before him. Slowly, as if each step were taken through a thick mire, she moved to the door and went outside.

  Mr. Quent saw her before she had passed the pair of stone lions that flanked the front steps, and he went to her at once. His riding coat and boots were thick with dust, and his curly brown hair was tousled. He looked like some wild being just emerged from the moors; and with his deep chest and the thicket of a beard, Ivy could only think that when the soldiers of the Tharosian empire first landed on the shores of Altania, it was men like this they found waiting for them, bronze swords in their hands.

  Yet his demeanor was anything but warlike. Perhaps aware of Dr. Lawrent’s presence, Mr. Quent did not enfold her in his arms in an embrace. But he took her hand, kissing it, and when he looked up his brown eyes gazed upon her with an expression as intimate as any caress.

  “I should have been here sooner,” he said, his voice so low she felt it rumble within her. It was a comforting sensation.

  “You are here now,” she said, holding his hand tightly, and then found herself unable to speak anything more.

  “I believe I’ll go indoors now,” Dr. Lawrent said, ascending the front steps. “But it’s very fine out. The two of you may wish to stay outside and enjoy the morning while you can, for it looks to be going swiftly.” His gray eyes were thoughtful behind his spectacles.

  Ivy gave the small silver-haired man a grateful smile, and Mr. Quent shook his hand.

  “Thank you again, Dr. Lawrent.”

  “Of course, of course,” the doctor said, and went into the house.

  “The doctor is right,” Mr. Quent said when they were alone. “I think we should stay out awhile.”

  He offered her his arm, and she wrapped her own around it tightly, as if she could borrow some of its great reserves of strength for her own. They walked through the garden, not speaking for the moment, content to simply be in each other’s company again. But presently the compulsion to speak overwhelmed Ivy’s trepidation.

  “Forgive me,” she gasped as they stepped beneath the arching limbs of a plane tree.

  He disengaged her arm from his and turned to face her. “Forgive you, Ivoleyn? And for what awful deed should I forgive you? For bringing light into my life when I had heretofore dwelled in shadows? For giving me a reason to return home each time that I go away? Or is it for helping me remember how to laugh and breathe and feel the racing of my heart like a living man rather than a being of clay?” He laid his hands upon her shoulders. “Are these th
e things that I should forgive you for?”

  She shook her head, and the dappled light beneath the tree turned to stars as moisture welled forth in her eyes.

  “You have never done me any wrong that must be forgiven, Ivoleyn. Rather, it is I who owe you a debt—you who have given to me so generously, and have asked for so very little in return.”

  “But I would have given you more!” She at last managed to speak through her anguish. “I would have given you a son.”

  “A son?” he said, and he could not help but appear astonished. Then he looked away, and she could see his throat move as he swallowed. Nor could his beard entirely disguise the trembling of his lip.

  “Didn’t Dr. Lawrent tell you that as well? No, I see that he did not, and I suppose it is only right that he left it for me to give you that particular news.” She turned away from him, unable to endure the lines of sorrow written upon his face. “Now do you see why I must ask you to forgive me, Alasdare? I know you can only have hoped to have a son.”

  For several moments the silence was broken solely by the whisper of the leaves above. Then she heard his footsteps behind her, and felt the warmth of his breath upon the nape of her neck.

  “A son?” His voice was very low. “No, Ivoleyn, when I wed you, it was not out of any hope that we would ever have a son.”

  Now it was Ivy who was astonished. Did not every man hope for a son to succeed him? Only then she thought of her conversation with Dr. Lawrent the day after the spark within her was extinguished.

  I’ve heard it said in the county that there aren’t many sons in the Addysen line, she had said.

  I am given to understand there have only ever been a few male children born into that family, the kindly doctor had replied.

  A strange sort of calmness filled her, and a clarity of thought. “So you knew,” she said now, turning around and looking up at Mr. Quent. “You knew, given my nature, that I was unlikely to ever bear you a son. And that even if I did, he would be …”

  “That he would be like Mr. Samonds, you mean?”

  Ivy could only nod, a tightness in her throat. Mr. Samonds was the farrier in Cairnbridge, the village near Heathcrest Hall, and like Ivy he was a great-grandchild of Rowan Addysen—one of the scant number of sons ever born into that line. It was his sister, Halley Samonds, who had vanished into the stand of Wyrdwood east of Heathcrest.

  Mr. Quent took her hands, enfolding them easily within his own. “Know that I would have given him all of my love and attention no matter what, for he would have been our own. If society might have sometimes made his existence more difficult, or caused him to think poorly of himself, then I would have done even more to forge an easier path for him, and make him know how highly he was regarded and wanted.”

  An ache surrounded Ivy’s heart, for she could almost picture him now: a boy with Mr. Quent’s tousled brown hair and her own green eyes. It was only when she felt the warmth of tears flowing down her cheeks that she understood she was weeping. Mr. Quent was weeping as well, his usually stoic features arranged in grief. His thick arms went around her—not in an attempt to grant comfort this time, but rather seeking it. She clasped him tightly in return.

  Though she might have expected otherwise, it was Ivy who first ceased to produce tears. Then, in time, he followed suit, and they moved apart.

  “Not all men would think the same on the matter as you,” she said after they had been silent for a while. “Many men would not be so accepting of such a son as we might have.”

  His thick shoulders heaved with a sigh. “Many men do not know what an inquirer knows. Society has not generally taken a kindly view of witches, either. But Lord Rafferdy long believed that they would play some important purpose in the scheme of things. And have you not proven him right with your actions? Given that, I can only believe the same is true for the sons of witches as well—that they have some vital role in all of this. What that might be, I cannot say. Perhaps it is simply to bring more beauty into the world. If so, then that is no small thing.”

  Ivy thought of the illusionists she had once seen working their craft at a party at Lady Crayford’s. Though some considered it scandalous to have any sort of contact with Siltheri, Ivy had detected nothing inherently unwholesome in the visions they had conjured. True, they might as easily concoct lurid or violent scenes as beautiful ones. Yet that was merely the same choice that all people had—man or woman, magician, illusionist, or witch—the choice to live their life for good or ill.

  “Thank you,” she said at last.

  Now it was a quizzical look that he gave her. “For what?”

  “For always choosing to be good.”

  This time it was she who threw her arms around him, leaning her cheek against his chest. He enclosed her in his arms, holding her tightly.

  “No, it is I who must thank you—you, who have let me know happiness one last time, when I believed I never would again.”

  Despite the warmth of his embrace, and the comfort she felt enclosed within the strong circle of his arms, a note of alarm entered into Ivy’s thoughts. The words he had chosen seemed odd to her for some reason.

  She pulled away enough to look up at his face. “But I am sure we will have much more happiness in the future! Even if we are never blessed with a son, can we not at least hope for a daughter?”

  “Of course we can,” he said, and brushed a lock of hair from her face.

  She nodded, but she could not help a sigh. “A daughter would be a great joy, but she would not be able to inherit your title. There will be no one to carry it onward, I fear.”

  For a moment he looked away, as if he saw something in the distance. Then his gaze returned to her, and he smiled. “As the title has been so recently granted, that can hardly be of much concern. But come—if I am to be the lord of this manor for the present, then I must have my lady beside me as I enter.”

  Gladly she acquiesced to the will of the master of the house, and together they went up the walk and passed within.

  ELDYN STEPPED through the door, its square glass panes fogged with steam, and into the warm interior of the coffeehouse.

  The establishment was crowded despite the fact that it was pitch-black outside the windows; or rather, it was crowded because of it. The umbral had persisted for close to twenty hours now, and there was no sign of an end. The city was glazed over with frost, and there were more than a few people in want of a hot cup to warm the blood and open the eyes. It was time for everyone to make a day of it, whether the sun would show itself or not.

  At last Eldyn found a corner at the end of a table where he could crowd in. He called for a pot of coffee, and when this was brought he pressed his fingers against it to thaw them. It had been foolish to walk so far in the cold and dark, but he had wanted to get a copy of The Swift Arrow as soon as it was off the presses, and that meant going all the way across the Old City to the broadsheet’s offices on Coronet Street.

  He could have afforded a hack cab, given the regals he had just earned, but none could be found for hire, as carriages were always greatly in demand during long umbrals. So he had gone on foot through the streets of the Old City, keeping the shadows close about him any time he drew near a group of men who huddled around an open fire, wrapped in rags and old blankets. If someone were to slit his throat to take his coat and boots, it wouldn’t be the first time it had happened of late.

  The bales from the printer arrived at the offices of The Swift Arrow just after he did, and he paid a penny to get a copy off the top of the stack. By then he was shivering, and his fingers were too numb to turn the pages of the broadsheet. Seeing the sign advertising the coffeehouse across the street, he had hurried to it.

  Now Eldyn tipped the pot to fill his cup. The coffee was too scalding to drink, so he poured some onto his saucer. He let it cool, looking around him as he did. The establishment reminded him a little of Mrs. Haddon’s, for the tables were well worn and the air was thick with steam and the burnt caramel smells of tobacco a
nd roasted coffee.

  There was no more to be made of the comparison, though. This place was far from Covenant Cross, and the men who filled it were by appearances an older and coarser lot than the young men who attended the various colleges at the university. Nor did they engage in animated conversations about politics. Instead they quietly hunched over their cups. The various copies of the Rules of Citizenship posted around the room were all crisp and unmolested.

  At last Eldyn’s coffee had cooled and his fingers had warmed to a sufficient point that he was able to tip his saucer over his cup and take a long, satisfying drink. At once, a pleasant tingling coursed through him. He took another sip, then set down the cup and removed the broadsheet he had bought from his coat.

  The story at the top of the front page discussed reports of a violent earthquake that had struck on the southern continent, on the edge of the Murgh Empire. According to the article, an entire city had been thrown down in rubble, and countless souls had perished in the devastation. As shocking as this news was, Eldyn’s attention barely lingered upon the story. Instead, it was the headline just below that caught his gaze.

  SEE AN ASTOUNDING IMPRESSION OF HER MAJESTY, it read. And just below it, in a slightly smaller typeface, You Will Feel as if You Are Standing Before the Princess Yourself!

  While sometimes broadsheets put impressions on the front page to attract attention, it was the custom to print the most exclusive images on the second page, so that no one might sneak a look atop the stack without paying a penny first. His fingers trembling—with excitement now rather than cold—Eldyn turned the page.

  And there was Layle Arringhart, gazing up at him.

  He had worried that ink and paper would not be able to reproduce all of the details he had attempted to capture in the impression, but he need not have worried, for the quality of the printing was superior. He could easily make out each of the tiny pearls on the bodice of her gown and the facets of the large emerald that dangled at her throat. Fine lines were visible around her eyes, a reminder that she was not really so young anymore, though she remained a pretty woman.