Aegis. It was a word that meant auspices or protection.
Or shield.
Ivy knew now where she could find her father’s old compatriot Mr. Fintaur. Indeed, she already had found him.
Quickly, she returned to the writing table and used a shaker to sprinkle sand over the sheet on which she had transcribed her father’s words. She shook off the excess, made certain the ink was dry, and put the paper in the Wyrdwood box. She started to close the journal, to put it in the box as well, then gasped.
Even as they had appeared on the page, the spidery words were now vanishing one by one. Only it could not have been more than half an hour since they first appeared. Never had Ivy noticed one of her father’s entries vanish so soon after transcribing it. Usually the writing was visible for hours.
But not this time. Even while she had been transcribing them, the words in the journal had been unusually faint—more gray than black—as if they had not fully appeared. Now, as Ivy watched, the last of them faded away. A dread came upon her. What if she had not happened to look at the journal when she did? She would never have seen this entry!
Only she had seen it, she reassured herself. All the same, something was happening to the enchantment of the journal—something that had made this entry appear more faintly and briefly than those before it. What if, as a result of this effect, there were other entries she had missed?
If that was the case, there was nothing she could do about it now. She could only check the journal more frequently in the future. But at present, her first concern was to go to Greenly Circle. Ivy put away the journal and box, then hurried from the library. Rain lashed against the windows of the front hall. She passed through and found Mrs. Seenly in the dining room, making the table ready for breakfast.
“Mrs. Seenly,” Ivy said, a bit breathlessly, “please tell Lawden to ready the cabriolet.”
The housekeeper could not conceal her astonishment. “You’re going out, ma’am? But it’s raining in sheets out there!”
“I’m sure he will put the top up. Tell him to be ready in a quarter hour.” Without waiting for a reply, she left the room and swiftly ascended the stairs.
In her chamber she prepared herself to go out into the inclement weather, putting on a dress of brown velvet, a sturdy bonnet, and a woolen coat. All the while she thought of her last trip to Greenly Circle, and of the bookshop where she had purchased the complete copy of The Towers of Ardaunto. The shop had seemed peculiarly familiar to her, but she had been so intent upon the book she had seen in the front window that she had not really paid attention to anything else in the shop.
Except there had been one thing besides the book she had noticed. It was the intricate piece of stained glass above the door: a beautiful work that depicted a lion standing rampant against a blue background.
A lion with wings.
It was the crest of Ardaunto. The aegis. Which meant the hunched, white-haired proprietor from whom she had purchased the book was …
“… Mr. Fintaur,” she said aloud as she hastily fastened the buttons of her coat.
Now she knew why the bookshop had seemed familiar to her. She had always had a memory, from when she was a girl, of her father taking her into a bookstore. She remembered how she had breathed in the dusty air, as if she could somehow inhale the knowledge the books exuded, until she became light-headed and her father had been forced to take her outside. That the bookshop of her memory was the very one where she had bought The Towers of Ardaunto, she was certain.
Ivy almost laughed at herself, though if she had, it would have been a rueful sound. Here she had been wishing for another clue from the man in the black mask, when he had already led her right where she needed to go. He had left the book on the steps of the house knowing she would find it, knowing she would be curious as to why the last pages had been cut from it, and that when she saw the book in the window she could only enter the shop. All of which meant that if he was not the peculiar customer who had put the book in the shop window, then it had to have been some accomplice of his.
That was an interesting idea, to think the stranger in black was perhaps not working alone, but that was something she could consider while Lawden drove her to Greenly Circle. She fastened the last button of the coat, then hurried from her chamber.
The quarter hour had barely passed by the time she descended to the front hall. Mrs. Seenly met her at the foot of the staircase.
“Is the cabriolet ready?” Ivy asked.
Mrs. Seenly clasped her hands tightly before her waist. “You have a visitor, ma’am.”
“A visitor?” Who would come to call so early in the lumenal, and when the weather outside was so foul?
She started to ask who it might be, but before she could do so movement caught her eye. Across the hall, a figure in a gown as black as a mourner’s rose from a chair by the window. Her visage was pale and smooth in the gloom beneath the sharp brim of her hat, like the face of a porcelain doll. Yet unlike a doll, her lips and cheeks were not touched with pink, but rather with blue-black shadows. The woman approached, the crackling of her dress audible in the silence of the room.
“I will leave you with your guest, ma’am,” Mrs. Seenly said, or rather gasped, and hurriedly departed from the hall as another roll of thunder rattled the windowpanes.
The noise seemed to rattle Ivy’s nerves as well. She tried to gather her thoughts, to comprehend how and why this most unexpected visitor was here, but the other closed the distance before she could do so.
“Good morning, your ladyship.”
The other woman did not make a curtsy, for she was a lady herself. Though what her precise rank was, or indeed if she had any title at all, Ivy had no idea. All she knew was what people called her guest.
“Lady Shayde.” She managed to speak the words, though they were rather faint.
“I hope you will forgive me for calling upon you unannounced.” Her voice was not harsh or piercing, but rather low, and with the slightest hint of an exotic accent. “I am sure it is impolite of me. Yet I come on an errand of some importance.”
Ivy shook her head. “But Sir Quent is not here. He has gone up to the Citadel this morning.”
“Yes, I know, Lady Quent. But it is not for your husband that I have come. Rather, I came to see you.”
Ivy stared stupidly. Inside her heavy dress and coat, moisture trickled down her sides, yet she felt chilled. The wooden eye on the newel post regarded the visitor with curiosity, though it had sounded no alarm. All the same, something told Ivy that she was in peril.
“To see me?” Ivy said, and lifted a hand to the base of her throat, as if to press the words out. “You are of course very welcome. I know you are … that you have long been acquainted with my husband. But I hope you can understand my surprise, for I am sure any business you might need to conduct would be better accomplished if Sir Quent were present.”
“On the contrary, Lady Quent, my business is something that can only be accomplished in the absence of Sir Quent. As you know, he has been nominated for a very important post in the government, and it is required that candidates for such high positions are scrupulously examined with regard to their abilities, their history—and of course their connections. So I am here at the command of Lord Valhaine.”
Ivy’s astonishment was redoubled. “But my husband has served the Crown for many years. I am sure Lord Valhaine knows him very well.”
The other woman made a languid gesture with a white hand, as if to gently set aside these words. “That may be so. All the same, long-established rules cannot be dismissed simply because Lord Valhaine is familiar with the man who is nominated to be lord inquirer. Propriety would not be served if he were to forego the usual practices. Indeed, it might even undermine your husband’s ability to perform in his post if it were perceived that he gained it, not because of his worth, but rather due to some form of partiality.”
Ivy could concede that it was logical to investigate the history and connections of s
omeone nominated to a government post, and to do so without exceptions. Not that she could imagine anyone would ever think Mr. Quent did not deserve to be lord inquirer. After all, it was public knowledge, reported in the broadsheets, that he had averted further Risings in Torland.
Then again, if the exact manner by which he had accomplished this was known, opinions of him might be altered. The wooden eye upon the newel post rolled in its socket, looking at Ivy, then back to Shayde.
Shayde’s lips curved upward ever so slightly, though it was difficult to call the expression a smile. Rather, it seemed a consequence of a tightening of her smooth, pale visage. Ivy found herself thinking of the merchant’s daughter in The Towers of Ardaunto, the White Thorn, and how she said she would be a stiletto in the prince’s hand. Whose hand was it that wielded Lady Shayde? Lord Valhaine’s, Ivy supposed.
“Besides,” the other woman continued, “even if Lord Valhaine does know your husband, is it not the case that we can never really learn all there is to another? There is always more to know. For instance, I do not know you, Lady Quent. Shall we sit?”
She gestured to a pair of nearby chairs. Before Ivy even thought to do so, she realized she was moving toward them, as if there had been some unspoken command in the other’s gaze or voice.
“Can I offer you tea?” Ivy said after she removed her coat and they were seated.
“Your housekeeper kindly offered, but I am quite well, thank you. Now, may I ask you a few questions?”
Ivy nodded, gripping the arms of the chair, and for the next quarter hour she answered queries posed by her unexpected guest. How long had she dwelled on Durrow Street? Where had she lived prior to that? What was her father’s vocation, and the names of her sisters? And how long had it been since Mrs. Lockwell had passed away?
Many of the questions had an odd particularity to them. What was the name of the street where she had lived in Gauldren’s Heights? How many floors had the house possessed? Did it have a garden?
These questions all seemed very innocuous to Ivy. Yet after a while, she began to discern a peculiar repetitiveness about them. She might never have noticed it, except that her father had taught her to always look for patterns and sequences in things, and she had just been looking for riddles in his journal. Yet once noticed, there was no mistaking it: Lady Shayde would pose the same question on several instances, but each time in a slightly different manner. Which church was nearest to their dwelling in Gauldren’s Heights? How many flights of steps were in the house? What sort of flowers grew in the garden?
Ivy concentrated, always making sure to give an answer that would not contradict or depart from what she had said previously. She could only believe this interview was a mere formality. Why else would Lady Shayde ask her such superfluous questions? Even so, she did not want to say anything that might jeopardize Mr. Quent’s confirmation as lord inquirer. It was far too vital to the nation that he take on those duties.
Yet surely Lady Shayde knew that. After all, it was her own master, Lord Valhaine, who had nominated Mr. Quent for the post. Ivy knew there was a long-standing tension between the Gray Conclave, which was headed by Lord Valhaine, and the Inquiry. Yet in the end, they all served the Crown and wished what was best for Altania. Lady Shayde was here because protocol required it, that was all.
Despite the nature of her guest, Ivy felt her dread recede. She answered more easily, and her hands no longer gripped the arms of the chair. Then, more quickly than she would have thought, it was done. Ivy had no idea if she had said anything at all useful, but Lady Shayde seemed pleased enough. Her lips curved upward again, and this time it seemed a true smile, for all that it put not a single crease in her white face.
“Thank you, Lady Quent,” she said as they stood. “This has been very useful. And if I have a few more questions at some point, may I return?”
“Of course,” Ivy said as they walked toward the door. Now that she was over her initial surprise, she found herself fascinated with her visitor. This was not only the famed White Lady, whose mere gaze was said to compel traitors to confess and reveal their secrets, and who had single-handedly sent dozens to the gallows. This was also Ashaydea, who years ago had been Mr. Quent’s childhood companion at Heathcrest Hall.
Ivy thought back to the story Mr. Quent had once told her—how Ashaydea had been born in the Empire to an Altanian lord and a Murghese woman, and how Earl Rylend had brought her back to Heathcrest after one of his voyages to the south and had raised her like a daughter. The elder Mr. Quent was the earl’s steward. Thus, the young Alasdare Quent had often been at Heathcrest, and he and Ashaydea had often been playmates.
Only then, as they grew toward adulthood, something had happened. Or more specifically, Mr. Bennick had happened. For some unknown purpose, Mr. Bennick had performed a magickal ceremony on Ashaydea, one that had transformed the almond-skinned young woman into a being with pale skin, black hair, and preternatural abilities—just like the merchant’s daughter in The Towers of Ardaunto.
A sad and pitiful creature, Mr. Quent had once called her, when they saw her in the Citadel.
Yet Ivy could not say she felt pity for the woman walking beside her now. Lady Shayde moved languidly and gracefully, yet with a power and confidence that could not be mistaken. She was hard, to be sure, and cool. But that had to be expected in one who held such a position as she. Whatever intentions he had for her, Mr. Bennick had not been able to place her under his command. Like the White Thorn in the novel, in the end she was her own being and served whom she chose.
Again, Ivy was struck by the similarities between the novel and Lady Shayde’s own story. Nor could this likeness be due to coincidence. Surely some of the other magicians in Mr. Bennick’s order were aware of what he had attempted with Ashaydea. What if Mr. Fintaur was one of them? And what if he was not just the proprietor of the bookshop where Ivy had bought the book? She recalled what he had said that day as she held the book.
I like this one very much myself.…
A sudden crack of thunder shook the windowpanes.
“Is something wrong, Lady Quent?” Lady Shayde said in her melodious voice. “Your color has gone very white of a sudden.”
Ivy was no longer so at ease as she had been a moment ago, but she managed what she hoped was a reassuring smile. “It’s only the thunder. It startled me.”
“It will be a violent storm,” the other said, gazing out the window. Then she turned and regarded Ivy with her dark eyes. “By the way, I meant to ask you how Lord Rafferdy is faring of late. Is he well?”
Ivy blinked. “But surely you know he has passed away!”
“I meant the present Lord Rafferdy.”
“Of course,” Ivy said, wincing at her mistake. But she always thought of her friend as Mister rather than Lord. “You know him, then?”
“Yes, we have met. I was of course well-acquainted with his father. But I haven’t had occasion to speak with Lord Rafferdy lately. I suppose he has been greatly occupied.” She touched a gloved finger to her chin. “Let’s see, how long is it that he has been pursuing the study of the arcane?”
Ivy opened her mouth to reply—then froze. How easily might she have stepped into the trap that had been cleverly laid for her. She had been put at ease and had been directed into a mode in which answering questions had become simple, even automatic.
He has been studying magick for more than a year.
The words had been on the tip of her tongue before she even realized it; she had almost uttered them. Only her shock at realizing the truth about Mr. Fintaur had jarred her from that malleable state.
She clenched her jaw until she was certain she could answer in a careful fashion. “I think very well of Lord Rafferdy, but I confess, I have never known him to apply himself to any course of study—except perhaps that of the latest fashions.”
Once more Lady Shayde’s blue-black lips curved upward. Like the first time, the expression was anything but a smile.
“Of course,” she
said. “Thank you for your time, Lady Quent. I will be sure to return if I have more questions.”
Yes, I am sure you will, Ivy thought. But she said only, “Good day, Lady Shayde. I trust you will not be caught in the storm.”
“I am certain I will not,” the other replied.
As soon as the front door closed, Ivy clasped her arms around herself, shivering. How foolish she had been to let herself think this interview was simply a formality. It had been anything but.
Another peal of thunder shook the windows. Still shivering, Ivy went back across the front hall to retrieve her coat, and put it on.
SHORTLY AFTER RISING, Rafferdy opened his black book and saw that a new message had manifested upon its pages. There was to be another meeting of the Fellowship of the Silver Circle that night.
The timing was excellent. He had just one arrangement to make. Still in his silk night robe, he sat at the writing table in his bedchamber and penned a note with a few brief instructions. He gave the note to his man, taking a cup of coffee in return, then proceeded to make himself ready for the day.
If it could be called such. For the lumenal that ensued was so gloomy that Rafferdy feared he would have no way to know when night was falling and the moon rising. For hours on end, raindrops pelted the windows, as if seeking to force their way inside. The sound made him think of angry voices shouting, so that he kept looking out the windows to see if there were crowds marching in the street.
It would not be the first time. Recently, in Covenant Cross, a riot had broken out among a large gathering of university students, and it had grown violent when the redcrests appeared. Whether it was the students who first threw stones or the soldiers who first fired their rifles depended upon which broadsheet one read. Either way, the result was the same: a number of young men, all of them students, had been shot dead.
Rafferdy had been astonished when he first heard the news from Mr. Baydon, while at Lady Marsdel’s for dinner. It was one thing to hear of soldiers shooting rebels in the country; it was quite another to have those shots fired upon university men here in the city. For a moment, a terrible thought had come to Rafferdy: what if Eldyn Garritt had been there in Covenant Cross when the soldiers opened fire?
The Master of Heathcrest Hall Page 25
