Despite the gravity of this statement, she again felt an absurd sort of levity rise up within her. “I do not know what shocks me more, Mr. Rafferdy—the idea that the magicians who seek to deliver Altania to the Ashen can move about openly while those who would guard the nation must go in secret, or the knowledge that attracting notice is now a thing you wish to avoid. Both are astonishing facts.”
A wry crease appeared beside his mouth, putting a crack in his solemn veneer. “Perhaps they are at that. Though I’m sure the one is of far more import than the other.”
“Is it? I’m not so certain, Mr. Rafferdy. The world is changing at an awful pace, and there are numerous things to dread at present. Armies that march across the land, or shadows that seek to slip through doors. Yet most of all, I dread that it is we ourselves who are changing, that no matter what happens—no matter if things are resolved in the way we hope for most—we will never be the same again.”
At some point as she spoke her mirth had vanished, as had his smile.
“Perhaps we won’t be the same,” he said quietly, “but that does not mean we will be left in ruins. Events are bound to alter us, Mrs. Quent. Indeed, I am sure they already have altered both of us. Nor do I think it has necessarily been for the worse.”
He took the glove from his right hand, and the gem of his House ring threw off blue sparks in the sunlight streaming through the windows.
“I was furious when Mr. Bennick sent me this ring, tricking me into putting it on. I loathed it for the fact that I would never be able to take it off so long as I lived. Yet now, even if it were possible to take off this ring, I would not do so. I have become … accustomed to its weight upon my finger.”
He put his glove back on and regarded her.
“What of you, Mrs. Quent? Would you undo all of the things that have altered you?”
Her gaze went past him to the windows, and to the straggly hawthorn and chestnut trees in the garden. She thought of the way they had once heard her commands and obeyed her, just as the trees of the Evengrove had listened to her. Would she go back to the way she had been before, if she could, to being ignorant of what she was able to do?
At last she returned her gaze to Mr. Rafferdy and shook her head.
“No, I did not think so,” he said slowly, then suddenly his smile returned. “Besides, Mrs. Quent, did it never occur to you that we are not changing at all—that rather, we are simply becoming more ourselves?”
Now Ivy was astonished anew by him. Mr. Rafferdy had ever possessed a clever mind and a cutting wit. But when had he become so entirely rational as well? Only perhaps it was like his talent for magick. The ring on his finger had changed him no more than the touch of Wyrdwood had her; these things had simply revealed what had always resided within them.
“Thank you, Mr. Rafferdy,” she said.
He made a bow, then gave a speculative look as he rose. “You know, if you really wish to thank me for anything I might have done, you could offer me a cup of coffee. It is horridly early.”
“Yes, it is!” She could not help touching her hair. “In fact, I wonder that you are out and about at such an hour.”
“Do not worry, Mrs. Quent. The desire to rise early is not another novel change that has come upon me. Rather, I have an appointment at the Citadel. But it is important that I speak to you before I go to it. May we talk?”
They went into the parlor off the front hall, and Ivy called to Mrs. Seenly for a pot of coffee. Once this was delivered, Ivy shut the door, then took a chair opposite his.
“Ah, this is excellent,” Rafferdy said, sipping his cup. “My man does not make coffee such as this.”
“We are lucky to have Mrs. Seenly,” Ivy said.
Indeed, they were very lucky. Mrs. Seenly was from Torland. She might have fled the city once news of Huntley Morden’s landing reached them, for fear of reprisals against those of West Country heritage. But she had not. Even Mr. Quent’s situation had not deterred her, and she remained steadfast in her service to the family.
Mr. Rafferdy balanced his cup on his knee. “And how are Miss Lockwell and Miss Lily faring?”
“They have both been brave, and are bearing up. Though as you might imagine, Rose has been the most agitated by it. She has been very distraught since they … ever since that day. Except her mood was improved this morning when—” She hesitated.
Mr. Rafferdy raised an eyebrow. “When what?”
Ivy drew in a breath, then she told Mr. Rafferdy about how Rose had claimed to have been speaking to their father. Without pausing, she explained what Mr. Mundy had revealed: how by means of the enchantment Mr. Lockwell had worked all those years ago, his spirit now resided in the house, at least in some form.
“So Mr. Lockwell really is here,” he said, his expression one of amazement. “But I wonder at this especial sensitivity that Rose possesses, and that allows her to hear him when others do not.”
“I do not know,” Ivy said. “Rose has always been … peculiar in some ways. It is often my feeling that she does not perceive the world around in quite the same manner that most of us do. For one thing, she often claims to see colors around people.”
He took another sip of coffee. “Colors?”
“Yes, like a light or a glow.”
“And does she see these colors around all people?”
“She has claimed to see a green light around me at times. And a blue light around you, similar to what she says she also used to see around our father.”
“So she does not see light around just anyone,” Mr. Rafferdy said, balancing his coffee cup on his knee again. “But rather, around witches and magicians.”
He spoke these last words quietly. The carved eye on the mantel blinked open with a soft click and turned around in its socket.
Slowly, Ivy nodded. “Yes,” she said. “I believe that is the case.”
“And what of your other sister? Does she see colors or hear your father’s voice?”
“No, I do not believe so. Lily is sensitive in her way, but her sensitivities lie in another direction.”
“Which is?”
Ivy hesitated. It did not seem quite right to air private facts about Lily—especially habits and interests which might be considered improper or even scandalous by some. But then, Ivy had no one to discuss such matters with now that she was deprived of Mr. Quent. Besides, there was no one closer to their little family than Mr. Rafferdy. If he could not be held in confidence about such matters, who could be?
Resolved, she described for Mr. Rafferdy Lily’s long-standing interest in illusion plays, as well as her recent artistic efforts in her folio. Ivy did not know if Lily was drawing scenes from plays again, or poses of men who looked very much like Mr. Garritt, though she strongly suspected it.
By the time she finished explaining all this, Mr. Rafferdy was staring at her. Slowly, he set down his empty cup. A worry came over Ivy that she had gone too far, that she had described something which should have remained exclusive to the family.
“You say she draws scenes of illusion plays, and that some of the men upon the stage look like Mr. Garritt?”
She nodded.
“How can that be?” he said musingly, though it seemed he spoke this more to himself than to Ivy.
“Please, Mr. Rafferdy,” she said. “I ask that you say nothing of it to anyone. I know there are many other things for people to worry about these days, but I think it would be best if Lily’s fascinations were not publicly known.”
“Of course,” he replied, now directing his words to her. “But I may have something more to say to you on this subject later. Right now, I do not think I am at liberty to do so. Nor do I have time in any case, for I must depart soon, and I have yet to tell you why I’ve come—other than seeking a cup of coffee, that is.”
Ivy could hardly imagine what he meant by all this. Then, as he continued to speak, she quickly forgot about Lily’s folio.
“I believe there is a way I can arrange for you to see yo
ur husband,” he said, leaning forward in his chair. “Fortunately, Sir Quent has not been charged with any sort of usual crime, but rather with an act of High Treason.”
“I can hardly see how that is fortunate!” she gasped, gripping the arms of her own chair.
He grimaced. “Forgive me. That was an exceedingly poor choice of words. What I mean is, we can use this fact to our advantage. Common misdeeds are tried by magistrates, while most crimes against Altania are brought before the special courts of the Gray Conclave. But High Treason is exceptional, for such cases must be tried before the Hall of Magnates.”
Her heart made a great leap in her chest. “Then you can vote to acquit him!”
“Remember, Mrs. Quent,” he said soberly, “mine is but one vote out of many. And these days, there are few in Assembly who are willing to cast a vote against the Gray Conclave or Lord Valhaine, for fear they will be the next taken to prison. But I have learned that, as a member of Assembly, I have the right to question the accused in preparation for the hearings.”
Her excitement was tempered by his words, but only a little. “Then you can go to Mr. Quent at Barrowgate, and for that I would be very grateful. He can only be in great need of the sight of a familiar and compassionate face. But … what of me?”
“I will bring you with me. If anyone questions why, I will say simply that your presence is required for my investigation, and then they cannot deny your passage. It is my right to question him as I see fit. But—”
“What is it?”
He met her gaze. “To see him, we must venture into the prisons beneath Barrowgate. I do not believe it will be … pleasant for you, Mrs. Quent. You must know that it will mean not only witnessing terrible sights, but also seeing your husband amid them. Are you willing to tread in such a place?”
She thought of the first time she had gone to visit her father at Madstone’s—how hands had reached for her through iron bars, and the cries of the demented had sounded all around. It had been an awful scene, but it had not deterred her. Nor would this.
“I would bear anything to see him,” she said.
He nodded and leaned back. “That is what I thought you would say. I only wanted to make sure of it before I arranged the meeting.”
“When will it be?”
“As soon as possible,” he said, standing. “I fear the Gray Conclave may seek to move quickly upon his case.”
Ivy was afflicted by many feelings at that moment. Horror, at the thought of her husband locked in the bowels of Barrowgate alongside thieves and murderers. Dread, at what might occur when he was brought once again before Assembly. But most of all, at that moment, she was overwhelmed with a profound gratitude. That Mr. Rafferdy should risk himself in such a dire manner in order to help her—it was hardly comprehensible.
“Oh, Mr. Rafferdy,” she said. She leaped to her feet and threw her arms around him.
Only a few days ago, she had told Mr. Quent that her one-time hope to marry Mr. Rafferdy had been based on fancy and nothing more. But if she had known then, upon first meeting Mr. Rafferdy, that he was capable of such courage, such selflessness—
But there was no point to this. No matter what she thought of him then, he could not have married one of her station. And no matter what she thought of him now, it could not alter their present positions, or the relationship between them. Yet her thoughts were suddenly confused. It should all be so clear, but somehow everything was muddled. Ivy did not know what to think as she held on to him; she only knew that she had no wish to release him.
Then, gradually, she was aware that his body had gone rigid. At last he gave her shoulder an awkward pat. Hastily, Ivy released him and stepped back. How awful of her, to have placed him in such an uncomfortable position! She worked to compose herself, so that she could express herself in a more appropriate manner.
“Thank you, Mr. Rafferdy,” she said, more calmly now. “For everything that you have done for us.”
“Of course,” he replied.
She would have said more, but he seemed suddenly to be in a hurry to go. They departed the parlor and proceeded to the door of the house.
“Good-bye, Mr. Rafferdy,” she said.
“I will let you know at once when the meeting is arranged.” He took his cane and hat from Mrs. Seenly and started through the door. Then he paused and looked back. “Until then, please be careful, Mrs. Quent. Do not go out of the house if you do not absolutely need to. And I would also say, do not venture near any trees when in public.”
Ivy stared at him. What did he mean by these statements? Before she could ask, he put on his hat, walked down the path, and departed through the gate.
IT WAS LATER in the afternoon when Ivy understood what Mr. Rafferdy had been speaking of as he left.
After Mr. Quent’s appearance before Assembly, she had banished all newspapers from the house, and this order had been reiterated after his arrest. Ivy had no desire to see what false and awful things were being written about her husband, nor did she want Lily or Rose to see them. Thus it was that she was surprised, upon going into the library, that she once again saw a broadsheet lying open upon her writing table.
It was her intention to snatch up the newspaper without looking at it, throw it at once into the fireplace, and tell one of the servants to burn it. Only as she drew close to the table her gaze roved to the top of the broadsheet, as if doing so against her will, and read the large words printed there. A horror came over her as she did.
INQUIRY DISSOLVED, read the headline. And, Gray Conclave to Direct Effort to Locate Witches.
She did not want to read the article beneath, but she could not stop herself from doing so. Quickly she learned that Lord Valhaine had declared that the Inquiry was without a leader and now dwelled under a cloud of suspicion due to the illegal actions of at least one, if not additional, inquirers. As a result, the Inquiry could no longer be effective in disposing of its charge—namely, to seek out those who would instigate Risings of the Wyrdwood and stop them before they might succeed—and so it had been disbanded. Effective at once, the Gray Conclave was assuming all responsibilities previously given to the Inquiry. Its agents were even now beginning a search for all purported witches throughout Altania.
Under the Inquiry, a sibyl was tolerated to go free if she had no record of inciting the Wyrdwood. But it seems to us that a person who nurtures private malice against Altania in his heart is no less a traitor than one who publicly speaks against the government in order to undermine its authority. They are both a pernicious weed that must be uprooted, even if only the one has so far gone to seed.
Similarly, a reasonable mind must conclude that any woman who has the capacity to commune with the Wyrdwood must be considered a threat to the nation, whether she has ever been near to an Old Tree or not. For if she ever does go near a grove of Wyrdwood, how can she be trusted not to fall under the corruptive influence of the trees and do their bidding?
What’s more, while in the past there might have been no simple way to determine if a woman had such proclivities, we are given to understand that this has now changed, and that the government is even now devising a method by which any woman who is a witch might be immediately revealed as such, and will no longer—
Here the article was interrupted with a note indicating it continued within. Ivy started to reach for the newspaper, though whether to crumple it up or to turn the page, she was not certain. At that moment, the curtains billowed as a sudden wind blew into the library. The broadsheet fluttered in the gale, then was swept off the table to the floor.
Ivy gasped, as if freed from some coercive spell. She hurried to the window, where the curtains were now snapping like whips. Someone, one of the servants she supposed, had opened the window and forgot to shut it. Now, by the tendrils of cloud writhing across the sky, a storm was coming. Ivy gripped the window, pulling it shut.
The curtains went limp. She went back to the table, bent down, and picked up the paper. This time she did not read it, b
ut rather took it to the fireplace and put it on the grate. She took a lamp that had been left burning on the mantel, removed the shield, and turned up the wick, then used it to light a splinter of wood, which she laid against the paper on the grate.
Flames licked the edge of the broadsheet, then leaped up hotly as the newspaper blackened and curled in on itself.
Ivy stood up, then gripped the mantelpiece, for she was trembling. To think, she had once believed Lord Valhaine had the nation’s best interests, and therefore her husband’s, in mind! Now his purposes were rendered as clearly as the words printed in ink upon the broadsheet, and they were every bit as black. He had nominated Mr. Quent to lead the Inquiry knowing well how his interview before Assembly would bring up the matter of his actions in Torland; indeed, he had likely been in league with Lord Davarry to assure that they would be, and that Mr. Quent would be discredited. But his true purpose had been to discredit the Inquiry itself—to deprive it of its leader, cast it under a cloud of suspicion, and ultimately bring about its ruin.
She could only rue that she had been entirely oblivious to these machinations. If she had been able to anticipate what would happen, she could have warned Mr. Quent not to accept the nomination for lord inquirer.
Yet if he had not done so, she had no doubt there would be another inquirer locked beneath Barrowgate at present, and either way the Inquiry would stand discredited. Now it had ceased to exist, and the Gray Conclave at last had the authority it had so long craved—to seek out witches and dispose of them as it would.
Ivy could not help wondering if there always had been those within the Gray Conclave, magicians in league with the Ashen, who knew all along of the threat the Wyrdwood posed to the Ashen, and so sought a way to destroy it. Or was it the case, in the beginning at least, that the Gray Conclave had simply viewed witches as being of possible use in a rebellion, and as such posing a threat to the government?
The Master of Heathcrest Hall Page 39
