A coldness came over Ivy. “Lady Crayford,” she whispered.
The other nodded. “Yes, he went to his wife. And while she should have had the sense to flee at the sight of him, yet some tenderness for him must have remained in her heart. Or perhaps it was simply that she had nothing and no one left to her. Whatever the reason, she summoned doctors, and he was brought from the brink of death, and recovered his health. Then, as her reward, Gambrel murdered her, and the doctors as well. Then he burned the servants in the house, for no one was to know of his return.”
Ivy was trembling now, and an ill feeling writhed within her. So the fire that had consumed the Crayford manor had not been an accident. Instead, Gambrel had set it deliberately. Lady Crayford had attached herself to Gambrel in order to rise higher in society. But in the end, she had been cast down to her death.
“Where is he?” Ivy said when she was at last able to speak. “Where is Mr. Gambrel now?”
“He is here in Invarel. He has been for some time, for he is the magus of the High Order of the Golden Door. He became magus after Lord Mertrand was murdered—an act which Gambrel no doubt played a role in.”
Ivy did not think she could be further astonished, yet she was. “The Golden Door! But they are Lord Valhaine’s own magicians.”
Again a smile twisted the mouth of the mask. “Yes, they are. Or perhaps I should say, he is their Lord Guardian now.”
“But how?” she said, struggling to understand. “Gambrel—that is, Lord Crayford—was implicated in that affair with the archdeacon. Had he not vanished, he would have been arrested.”
“Yes, and he was indeed arrested upon his return to Invarel. Using his connections within the High Order of the Golden Door, Gambrel gained an audience with Lord Valhaine. He turned himself in to the Gray Conclave, and let himself be put in shackles and taken to a cell beneath the Citadel. Had he been wise, Lord Valhaine would have thrown away the key, or better, walled up the door. But instead, thinking to learn more about the forces that threaten Altania, he went down to the cell on several occasions to speak to Gambrel, and to question him.
“That was a grave error, as it did not take long before Valhaine was seduced and corrupted by Gambrel’s words. First Gambrel revealed to him the full horror of the Ashen, and the destruction they would unleash upon all the world. Then he convinced Valhaine that, if Altania was to ally itself with the Ashen, this nation would be preserved in favor of all others.”
“But that is a lie!” Ivy cried. “The Ashen will destroy everything.”
“Yes, they will,” the masked man said, and then his voice grew low. “They cannot create, they cannot preserve. They can only devour. All the same, they need agents among mankind to help prepare the way for them to enter the world. Just as they will need men to serve them after they come to dominate all things—men who can lead and command the various governments of the world in a manner that suits the purposes of the Ashen. It is the potential of holding such positions of great power that entices men like Gambrel to ally themselves with the Ashen. And it is the knowledge of the destruction that the Ashen will bring, and the desperation to avoid it no matter the cost, that drives men such as Valhaine mad. It convinces them to do anything in order to avert the coming horror—and blinds them to the horrors they end up committing themselves in their efforts to do so.”
These words were fraught with an inevitable and terrible sort of logic, and Ivy could only believe what the masked man spoke was truth. “But why didn’t you tell me all of this sooner?” she said, her voice cracking with despair. “If we had known Mr. Gambrel had returned, my husband could have warned Lord Valhaine not to listen to him.”
“Could he have? That presumes Sir Quent’s ability to persuade would have exceeded Gambrel’s—a thing which I doubt. But even if that were the case, I could not have told you any sooner, for I did not know the truth myself, not until earlier this very day. Despite what you might think, I am not always able to move freely where I would or choose in what place I will be. It has ever been that I must wait, and seize what opportunities I can. But at last I was able to speak to Lord Davarry, and in questioning him I learned the truth.”
Now the onyx mask twisted into a sardonic expression. “Indeed, it was simple once I finally found myself alone with him, for as it turns out he is not much of a magician. All this while, he has been Gambrel’s puppet, acting as if he led the Magisters and the High Order of the Golden Door while in secret it was Gambrel who worked the strings. It was not easy to get close to Davarry in private, for Gambrel was keeping him close. But this form I am able to don from time to time is one the magicians of the Golden Door have little fear of. And today, Gambrel has been preoccupied by other matters. Thus I was at last able to get to Davarry alone and in secret. I bent his will to mine, and so learned all I have told you now.”
This fascinated Ivy. She had always assumed the man in the mask knew all—that he appeared precisely when he wished and revealed precisely what he wanted, deliberately withholding greater truths from her for some unknown reason. Yet it seemed that was not so, that there was in fact some limitation upon how he could move about and apprehend things. But what was it? What did he mean by the words, this form I am able to don from time to time? She wanted to ask more questions.…
Only what did it matter? Lord Valhaine was the most powerful man in Altania—and he was now under the command of Mr. Gambrel.
“There is nothing we can do,” she murmured, a heaviness descending upon her. “It is all hopeless.”
“No,” the other said, and now his mask was formed into a stern expression. “Until the planets all stand in a line in the Grand Conjunction, and a ceaseless night falls, there is yet hope. But if there is to be any hope at all, then you must leave the city at once.”
“Leave the city? But why?”
“Gambrel knows the truth of your nature, that you are in fact a sibyl, and thus Valhaine knows as well. They will seek to do away with you. They fear all women such as yourself—women with the power to command the Wyrdwood. Just as they feared your husband for his work with the Inquiry to preserve the Old Trees.”
Ivy took a staggering step backward, as if the ground had pitched violently beneath her feet. She felt a sharp pain and then a sudden emptiness, just as she had the night she woke to bloody sheets and the cold knowledge her body no longer harbored a life within it. How she wanted to believe she did not understand the masked man’s words! But instead, a most awful clarity came over her.
“You said they feared my husband,” she said, or rather gasped. “Yet what I think you mean is, they fear him no longer.”
He made no reply, but his silence was answer enough. Ivy pressed one hand to her head and another to her heart, as if to somehow dampen the searing lines of pain that passed back and forth rapidly between those two poles. But it was no use.
It is done, she thought. It is all at an end, and there is no purpose in anything. I shall fall to the ground and never rise again.
No, this is all far from done, the masked man said, and this time his voice sounded in her mind. If it were truly over, then they would not have taken your husband away, nor would they be coming for you now. Rather, it is precisely because all is so precarious, because everything yet hangs in the balance, that they seek a way to control things.
A gloved finger touched her chin, tilting it up. The onyx mask was stern, even hard, but she could see a glint through the mask’s eyeholes. The real eyes beyond were blue, she thought, and not without sympathy.
You can yet alter the balance, he said. But to do that, you must not allow yourself to be apprehended. You must go immediately. As must I.
And with a flourish of his tattered cape, he turned and started down the path in his limping gait.
“Wait!” she cried out. “Don’t leave!”
I have already stayed too long, came his reply. This form grows weak, and were it to perish, then I would perish with it.
“But I don’t understand,” sh
e called after him. “Where can I possibly go?”
Listen to your father. He will tell you what to do.
Then he passed through the iron gate and was gone.
How long Ivy stared after him, she did not know. She could not think, could not move. It was as though, with his departure, she had gone back to lifeless stone like the lions beside the front steps. At last came the sound of the door opening behind her, followed by a voice.
“Lady Quent, there you are! You should come in. You have a visitor waiting for you.”
Terror broke her paralysis. She turned to see Mrs. Seenly in the front doorway. A visitor? Had Valhaine already sent men from the Citadel to take her away and hang her as a witch?
No, given the lack of alarm in Mrs. Seenly’s expression, it could be no such thing. Ivy’s only want was to enter the house, to shut herself in her chamber, and weep. But first she must make this visitor depart. In the most detached manner, as if she were operating a puppet rather than her own body, she directed her limbs to move, to carry her up the steps, through the door, and into the front hall.
A handsome young man in a well-tailored gray coat rose from a bench by a window. He had long brown hair and soft brown eyes.
“Lady Quent, I am glad you are here,” he said, and bowed.
Ivy was too numb, and too astonished, to do anything save to utter the obvious. “Mr. Garritt!”
He took a step toward her, an earnest expression upon his handsome face. “Forgive me for coming unannounced, but there is something important I must tell you—though I think you will not like to hear it.”
Ivy could only stare, wondering what other terrible news was to be revealed to her this day. Between her father and her husband, had she not already been presented with enough?
“It involves your youngest sister,” Mr. Garritt went on rapidly. “Miss Lily, that is. She has gone to one of the theaters at Durrow Street.”
Previously, this revelation would have been serious news indeed, but it seemed of little consequence now. Yet it did serve to pierce the dull haze that shrouded Ivy’s mind. She ached to grieve, but just as when her mother passed, she had to maintain her composure for the sake of Lily and Rose. All that mattered now was to collect her sisters and leave the city.
“Thank you, Mr. Garritt,” she said. “You can be assured that I will admonish Lily for what she has done. It was thoughtless and foolish of her. But for the moment, I must speak with her and Rose about another matter, if you will forgive me.”
He shook his head. “But that’s just it, you can’t speak to her. That is, unless you go to the Theater of the Moon on Durrow Street. I tried to convince Lily to return here with me, but she refused. She says she will not leave the theater unless we throw her upon the street, and Madame Richelour—that is the lady who owns the theater—has said she will allow no such thing. It seems she has developed an immediate fondness for your sister.”
Ivy’s mind had suffered too many shocks today; she could scarcely comprehend what she was hearing. And why was it from him that she was hearing it at all?
“But, Mr. Garritt,” she said, “how can you know all this?”
He drew in a breath, as if gathering his resolve. “I know because … it is the fact that I am employed at the very theater I speak of, as an illusionist in their company of players. Lily had gone to the west end of Durrow Street and was showing people there a drawing of me. I came upon her just as she was approaching the Theater of the Moon, where they would certainly have recognized the drawing she had made. She insisted I take her within, and to remove her from the street I did so. It was my intention after that to accompany her home, but she was adamant that she would not leave.”
Ivy was beyond astonishment. Not that she should be entirely surprised, she decided after a moment. She thought of the drawings she had discovered in Lily’s folio—scenes of a handsome young man with dark hair and eyes, conjuring wonders upon a stage.
“Lily knew,” she said softly. “Didn’t she?”
A vivid blush colored his cheeks, and he hung his head. “Yes, I’m afraid she did. She saw us in … that is, she discovered it the night of the party for herself and the other Miss Lockwell.”
A moment ago Ivy had felt so weak as to collapse to the ground, but now a sudden and fierce energy coursed through her. Mr. Quent and Mr. Lockwell were beyond her help now. But her sisters required her, and she would not fail them. She would retrieve Lily, and then with Rose they would leave the city at once. But first—
“You must take me to her, Mr. Garritt,” she said, gripping his arm. “I will convince Lily to return home. She cannot refuse once I tell her that … once she knows what has happened. And then we must depart the city with all possible haste. Our very lives may depend upon it.”
Motionless, Mr. Garritt stared at her hand upon his arm. Perhaps he was shocked that she had made no comment upon his personal revelation. And at another time, perhaps Ivy would have done so—though it would not have been to rebuke him, but only to gain some assurance that he was well and taking proper care of himself. Yet it was clear from his dress and manner that he was indeed quite well, aside from somewhat shadowed eyes and pinched cheeks that bespoke recent exertion. Besides, it was for Lily that Ivy’s attention was required now.
“Please, Mr. Garritt,” she said. “Take me to this theater where you perform.”
He drew himself up, then met her gaze.
“Of course, Lady Quent, at once.”
Together they started toward the door—then abruptly halted as a loud knock sounded against it. Indeed, so great was the force being applied from the other side that Ivy feared it was a band of soldiers attempting to strike it down. Then, before Ivy could tell her not to, Mrs. Seenly hurried forward and opened the door.
Mr. Rafferdy stepped into the front hall, holding a cane and clad in an elegant brown suit. Ivy was too greatly relieved at his appearance to suffer any further surprise. She left Mr. Garritt and hurried to meet him.
“Mrs. Seenly, please leave us, if you would,” she said.
Mr. Rafferdy waited until the housekeeper had departed, then he spoke in a low voice, one that was for Ivy only.
“Mrs. Quent, I do not know how to impart to you what news I must.” His face was a grayish hue, and he gripped his gloved hands one in the other. “Somehow I must find a way. But before I say anything else, you must prepare yourself and your sisters to depart the city at once. Do not think to take anything but yourselves, and perhaps a cape if a chill umbral should fall. I fear, even at this moment, soldiers might be marching here.”
Despite his grim urgency, the sight of Mr. Rafferdy had the effect of steadying her further. Gladly she would direct her thoughts to the matter of Lily, or to the task of leaving the city, if it meant for a little while longer she could keep from considering that far greater cause for despair.
“I know,” she said. “The soldiers are coming on Lord Valhaine’s order to bear me away.”
“You already know this?” he said, then his gaze went past her. “Great Gods, Garritt,” he said, his voice rising even as his eyebrows did. “What are you doing here?”
Ivy laid a hand upon his arm. “He came here to tell me about my youngest sister. It seems that, propelled by her fascinations with plays, Lily has fled the house on a whim and has gone to—” Ivy hesitated, realizing she had been about to impart something that was not hers to reveal.
“She has come to the theater on Durrow Street where I am employed,” Mr. Garritt said, taking a step toward them.
Mr. Rafferdy’s gaze went from Ivy to Mr. Garritt, then returned to her again.
“Ah,” he said.
By that one utterance, Ivy understood that he had already been privy to this bit of news about Mr. Garritt. Ivy was glad for it; that there should be such secrets between friends was untenable. Nor would she have any secrets with either of them now.
“I came here because Miss Lily refused to leave the theater,” Mr. Garritt went on. “She claims sh
e wants to design scenes for plays, and that nothing will stop her from doing it. She cares nothing for propriety.”
“Or for good sense,” Ivy said, and shut her eyes. “Lily—dear, strong-willed, foolish Lily. I should have known you would attempt something like this, and at the very worst time.” She took in a breath and opened her eyes again. “Mr. Rafferdy, I have called upon you for your help so often, I hardly know how I can do so again. But I must, and Mr. Garritt’s help as well. I need you to help get my sisters out of the city.”
“And you yourself,” Mr. Rafferdy said, his gaze fixed upon her.
She turned her head away. “I cannot claim to care what happens to myself now, save as it has a bearing upon my sisters.”
Now it was he who put a hand on her arm. He bent his head toward hers. “Then you already know my other news as well, it seems.”
Ivy was frozen for a moment, then at last nodded. “I have lost him,” she said, almost in a kind of wonderment; only the words burned her throat as if she had drunk some caustic fluid. “My husband is gone. He is dead.”
She heard Mr. Garritt’s exclamation of dismay behind her. Slowly she looked up, and now a wonder did come over her. For while she had yet to shed a tear herself, one even now coursed its way down Mr. Rafferdy’s cheek. In his brown eyes was a look of such anguish, and of such tenderness, that she had a sudden compulsion not to seek comfort for herself, but rather to comfort him. She touched his cheek, wiping away the dampness there.
He opened his mouth to speak.
Before he could, the clatter of hooves against cobbles emanated through the front door, which stood ajar. Mr. Rafferdy gave her a startled look, then he turned and went to the door.
“We are too late!” he exclaimed as he peered through the opening. “The soldiers have come already.”
Ivy’s heartbeat became a peculiar kind of flutter, and she felt suddenly light-headed, as if she might faint. Only she could not. What happened to her did not matter now, but Lily and Rose must be protected.
The Master of Heathcrest Hall Page 49
