The Magicians and Mrs. Quent

by Galen Beckett

  Lily frowned; she appeared to struggle with the idea of refusing the offer. However, the lure of conveyance in a fashionable carriage was too great. “But you and Mr. Rafferdy will meet us afterward, Mr. Garritt,” she said finally. “You must say you will.”

  “Only if they should find it convenient,” Miss Lockwell said before Mr. Garritt was forced to respond. “And their coming should not in any way be counted upon. The gesture is already far too much.”

  They made a detour through Uphill Gardens and walked along flower-lined paths. As they went, Rafferdy took pleasure in his conversation with Miss Lockwell; her mind was keen and her wit sharp. While in some this might have resulted in a sort of hardness, in her the effect was softened by the delicacy of her speech and by her statements that evinced a completely disinterested mind—one concerned not at all with herself but only with the benefit of her mother, her sisters, and those around her. This fascinated Rafferdy; her lack of vanity was novel to him. And it did not hinder his enjoyment that she made an appealing sight on his arm.

  From her expressions, he concluded that Miss Lockwell enjoyed their conversations as well. Though it was also obvious that, with some regularity, her sister’s speech caused her discomfort—being often thoughtless and very nearly always silly.

  “I so wish to attend a play,” Lily exclaimed in one such instance. “My mother and sister say I can’t go, but they don’t understand, not as you and I do, Mr. Garritt. Besides, no one could complain about the suitability of my going to Durrow Street if you were there with me.”

  Rafferdy felt Miss Lockwell grow stiff upon his arm at this outburst. Garritt said only that he did not know when he might ever go to Durrow Street. Undeterred, Lily continued to propose schemes that involved Mr. Garritt accompanying them somewhere or another. Rafferdy felt some sympathy for his friend; he was certain many men would enjoy the fluttering attentions of a decently pretty, if silly, young girl. However, he was equally certain that Garritt was not one of them.

  He must have laughed again, for Miss Lockwell looked up at him.

  “Do not fear, Mr. Rafferdy,” she said with a smile. The others had fallen a bit behind as Lily made a fuss over some flower. “Unlike my sister, I suffer under no misconceptions that you will ever accompany me to masques or plays or to anyplace more extraordinary or notable than these gardens around us. Even if our natures allowed it, our situations never would.”

  “I must say, Miss Lockwell, that while I have long believed this was your understanding, I am relieved to hear you speak it aloud.” However, even as he said these words, he felt something less like relief and more like regret.

  “Your encounters with us have been dreadful, then,” she said with a laugh. “I imagine you must see it as ill fate rather than good fortune that chance has conspired to bring us into contact on these several occasions.”

  “On the contrary!” he said with an enthusiasm of which he had hardly known himself capable. “It has been a great while since I have found myself so entertained as I have been in your company. And since you comprehend, given our relative positions, that our meetings can progress only toward friendship, then it means there is no harm in letting them lead us in that direction, nor can there be any danger of impropriety.”

  “I see you have thought through it all quite logically,” she replied. Her words struck him; they were so cool.

  The sunlight felt suddenly oppressive. That wasn’t at all what he had meant to imply. Reflecting on his words, he found them distasteful, even calculating, as if his only concern in the world was respectability, which in all his five-and-twenty years had never been the case. A sudden recklessness overwhelmed him.

  “There is to be a party at the house of Lady Marsdel, who is an acquaintance of mine, three nights hence, at the start of the next long umbral,” he said. “I insist you attend as my guest.”

  This caught her off guard. Her cheeks grew bright, and her breath quickened. He could not help but be pleased at the effect upon her; she looked very pretty just then.

  When she recovered her capacity for speech, it was to say she was certain she could not—indeed must not—be included in such an affair. For his part, he was adamant that she would be welcome, that Lady Marsdel would be most interested to meet her, and that he would send his cabriolet, which would bear her to Lady Marsdel’s house in the New Quarter.

  “To her house in the New Quarter!” she exclaimed, though it seemed less an expression of wonder than dismay.

  “Do not be concerned with any difference you might perceive between Lady Marsdel’s house and your own.”

  “You mistake me. The grandness of Lady Marsdel’s house can hardly be a concern to me. I should instead be concerned that my sisters and I might one day have no house at all.”

  She looked away, and he perceived that, in her sudden passion, she had uttered more than she wished.

  “I understand your meaning,” he said in a low tone. “I have it from your cousin that your house is entailed to him. While I have not yet met your father, from our conversations I can only suppose his health is not good. You must fear your removal from Whitward Street.”

  “You know much, Mr. Rafferdy,” she said. “However, while your facts are correct, your understanding is imperfect. Our house is entailed, as you say, but it is on my mother’s side, not my father’s. She was the eldest of only sisters, you see, and there was no son, nor any male heir, when her father passed. Thus the house went to my mother for the duration of her life. But at the time of his death, the next eldest daughter was with child and not a few months later bore a son. That is our dear cousin Mr. Wyble, to whom the house will one day go.”

  Rafferdy could not help but wince at the name. “Ah, Mr. Wyble. I hadn’t realized your relation to him was by your mother. I had assumed it was through your father.”

  “It matters not,” she said with a laugh. “I think, as far as Mr. Wyble is concerned, we are no relation at all!”

  That the law should one day permit an insipid man like Mr. Wyble to deprive three young women of their home was abominable. However, the day this would transpire was many years off—Mrs. Lockwell was in no way old—and no doubt her daughters would be comfortably married by then. Still, it rankled.

  “It seems unfair you cannot keep your house as long as you wish to reside in it,” he said.

  “Indeed, it is unfair.” Her cheeks shone from exertion, and the wind had stolen several locks of gold hair from her bonnet. “That is, it is precisely unfair by design. For we are merely women, you see, and all laws conspire to keep us dependent. Though upon what or who we will depend, I cannot say. That we might have any sort of power over our own fortunes is a thing society forbids. Why this is so, I am at a loss. Perhaps over the ages men have found us to be incapable of making such choices. Or rather, perhaps they did not like or trust the choices we made. Either way, the result is the same. A man might make his own way in the world, Mr. Rafferdy, but a woman must transfer all her hopes to others, however ill she might thereafter be treated.”

  Rafferdy wished to make a response, but none came to him. Then the others had caught up, and a few more minutes saw them to the gate of the house on Whitward Street. Farewells were exchanged, the sisters retired indoors, and Rafferdy found himself walking along the street back to where his cabriolet waited.

  “I would ask you what you’re doing,” Garritt said, “but you always have your own reasons for things. Still, I’m hard-pressed to know what your intentions are this time around.”

  So lost had he been in his thoughts that Rafferdy had forgotten his friend was walking alongside him. “To know my intentions regarding what?”

  Garritt shook his head. “It is cruel to fortify her expectations and to give her cause to anticipate an event that can never come to pass. Hope is no good thing to have when all hopes must necessarily prove false.”

  “So you think I should inspire despair instead?”

  Garritt’s expression was serious. “You are many thing
s, Rafferdy, but not a fool. You know there can never be any real connection between you.”

  “No doubt that’s why I like her,” Rafferdy replied.

  “That might suit your fancies, but I can hardly believe it matches hers. This can only end in one fashion, when it becomes clear she depends upon your offering a thing you can never grant her. You shouldn’t have invited her to Lady Marsdel’s.”

  Rafferdy was suddenly vexed with his friend. “You are wrong. She expects nothing of me. And what is there to fear from inviting her to Lady Marsdel’s, save that a dull party might be made interesting?” They had reached the cabriolet. “I do not go in your direction. Here is a coin. Hire yourself a hack cab.” He climbed in.

  Garritt laid a hand on the edge of the door. “I was never certain if concern for another was something you were capable of, Rafferdy, but I do believe you have an affection for her. If that is the case, you will let her alone. Better to do so now than later, when she has developed a true attachment. This is no game. You can not simply open your purse to pay your debts when you are done and be on your way, not if you use her ill.”

  Now it was Rafferdy’s turn to be serious. “I have known you for many years now. You are my friend, Garritt—indeed, for all the various people with whom I am acquainted, you are perhaps in truth my only one. Yet if ever again you imply that I would willingly cause harm to Miss Lockwell, it will be the last thing you ever say to me. Walk on!”

  Those final words were directed to the driver. The cabriolet started along the street, and Rafferdy did not look back.

  The brief day was half over by the time he arrived at Warwent Square, and clouds had cast a pall over the city. He changed into a robe and told his man to bring him tea in the parlor, for he intended to spend the rest of the day there by the fire, answering letters.

  Upon sitting at his desk, he found that day’s post lying atop the heap of notes and invitations. At once his eye caught a rather bulky letter, addressed to him in a bold, even garish hand. There was no return address. He sipped his tea, then opened the envelope with a small knife.

  Something fell to the table with a clatter.

  Rafferdy stared for a moment, then reached down and picked up the ring. It was silver, set with a blue stone and etched with spidery runes. The ring felt cold to the touch, as if the letter had been waiting outside on a chill day rather than here in the warmth of his parlor.

  He hesitated, then slipped the ring onto his right hand. It nestled snugly around the base of his fourth finger. A shiver crept along his spine, and he wondered why Mr. Mundy would go to the trouble of sending him the ring. Rafferdy had made it perfectly clear that he had no intention of buying it. While his affectations were many, a pretension to magick was not among them. He would leave that for university men and puffed up young lords in Assembly.

  “If that little toad thinks I am paying for this ring, he is quite mistaken,” Rafferdy said. He took up the envelope, searching it for any sort of note or letter. There was none. He set the envelope back down. The gem winked at him like a blue eye. The ring was every bit as ugly as he recalled. A feeling of revulsion came over him, and he grasped the ring to take it off.

  It did not budge.

  Rafferdy tried again, gripping the ring and giving it a tug, but the thing would not go past his knuckle. It made no sense; the ring turned freely around his finger. Yet no matter how hard he pulled at the damnable object, the ring would not come off his finger. Soon he was sweating and his hand was raw, but for naught. At last he was forced to give up, panting for breath.

  He took a shaky sip of tea, then studied the loathsome ring. Had Mundy put some enchantment upon it? Was this some sort of ploy to extort Rafferdy into paying for the thing? Perhaps. Yet Mundy had not seemed like the sort of man who would part with something without being paid first. If that was the case, it meant that someone else had bought him the ring—someone who knew Rafferdy had looked at it.

  Again he stared at the ring.

  “Mr. Bennick,” he said.

  The magician knew that Rafferdy had followed him that day. Mundy must have told him everything. So Bennick had bought the ring, and had placed the spell upon it, and had sent it to Rafferdy. It was the only possibility. And it would explain why Bennick had inquired about Rafferdy when he encountered Lord Baydon.

  What game was Bennick playing? Why would the magician do such a thing? To punish him for daring to follow that day?

  Rafferdy had no idea. However, there was one thing he knew for certain. Mr. Bennick was going to be at Lady Marsdel’s upcoming party—and that meant Rafferdy could not be. Such an encounter could only cause the most extreme discomfort. Whatever game Mr. Bennick was playing, Rafferdy would have no part of it.

  His determination to avoid Lady Marsdel’s party wavered for a moment when he thought of Miss Lockwell. He had asked her to attend; the invitation could not be rescinded. Yet he could not just abandon her to Lady Marsdel and her guests.

  But there was no way around it. If he had to endure an evening in the presence of Mr. Bennick, Rafferdy would be so agitated that his company would be far harder to bear than his absence. Besides, he had no doubt Mrs. Baydon would take excellent care of Miss Lockwell.

  His mind settled, he called for his man and told him to take a message to Vallant Street, informing Mrs. Baydon that he would be unable to attend Lady Marsdel’s upcoming affair, that he was ill, that he did not expect to be recovered for many days, and that she must give his regards to her aunt.

  “Shall I call for the doctor, sir?” his man inquired.

  “No, but do call for the cabriolet.”

  “Very well, sir. And where shall I tell the driver to take you?”

  “To Greenly Circle, and with haste.”

  Rafferdy went to his room, stripped off his robe, and donned his clothes. Minutes later he was out the door and into the damp afternoon. It was time to pay Mr. Mundy another visit.

  And to have him remove this blasted ring.

  CHAPTER TEN

  OVER HALF A month had passed since she first conceived her plan, and still Ivy had not ventured to the old house on Durrow Street.

  It would not be a simple thing. First, it would have to be a long lumenal. Even days of middling length were out of the question, being already overfilled with all the usual requirements of living. By her calculations she would need at least four hours to make the trek to the Old City, discover the house (whose location she recalled only vaguely), perform her investigations, and return home with a bolt of lace from Albring’s.

  Purchasing the lace would be her reason for being away from Whitward Street for such a prolonged period. For one thing, Albring’s shop was on the edge of Gauldren’s Heights nearest the Old City. What was more, it had a reputation for excellent lace but inferior service, and so she might credibly make an excuse that she had been forced to wait for the order. In fact, the lace was already bought and paid for, and the order needed only to be picked up. Mrs. Lockwell had wanted for some lace from this shop for a long time, and it was Ivy’s hope that her mother, in her excitement, would not think to question why Ivy was away for so long.

  After thorough consideration she deemed the plan sound; however, putting it into action had proved difficult. There was a profusion of short lumenals, and each time the almanac promised a longer day, something conspired to distract her: either Cassity had misplaced something that had to be found at once, or Lily was in a desolate mood over the ending to one of her romances and required the consolation of her sisters, or Mr. Lockwell was having another one of his spells and shouted at people who were not there and pounded at the window glass, so that Mrs. Lockwell wrung her hands and begged Ivy to go to him. Ivy would sit with him for hours, murmuring such things as she thought might soothe him, until at last he grew still and his eyes emptied of fear.

  All the while she longed to ask him about the message he had left for her years ago in the book of Tharosian myths, to ask him who the twelve wanderers were and what
door was to open. Instead, she would draw the curtains against the dusk, kiss his brow, and call for Wilbern to put him to bed.

  Nor was it true that every event that conspired to keep her from Durrow Street was entirely unwelcome. More than once, while out on various errands, she chanced upon Mr. Rafferdy just strolling around a corner or driving past in his cabriolet. It was improbable that she should meet him in this way even a single time, let alone on several occasions. Indeed, she was beginning to wonder how she had gone so many years without meeting him, given that she now came upon him with such regularity.

  Not that she could claim she was sorry for the fact. Each of their meetings was as enjoyable as it was unexpected. Time always passed pleasantly as they walked or, when wanting a rest, sat on a bench in some favorite cloister or arched nook.

  Ivy did not know what she hoped to gain from her encounters with Mr. Rafferdy. She supposed she hoped to gain nothing at all, other than a moment’s diversion from worrying about the state of their finances, or her father, or Mr. Wyble’s next visit. When she was with Mr. Rafferdy, she had the feeling she laughed more than she spoke. The observations he made about others in his circle of acquaintance, the little stories he told, were wry yet never truly cruel, and if there was anyone he ever really deprecated, it was only himself. She could not say what it was she felt when she was with him, save that the shadows around her retreated and her heart lightened—until such time as she returned to Whitward Street, and dusk fell, and the dark seemed to press in once more.

  While Ivy expected nothing from her encounters with Mr. Rafferdy, the same could not be said for her mother. Mrs. Lockwell never failed to ask if she had seen Mr. Rafferdy if she was away even a minute longer than expected, and, thus confronted, Ivy could do nothing but confess the truth. Her mother’s opinions were only further reinforced by Ivy’s invitation to Lady Marsdel’s house. It was Lily who divulged the news upon their return from church.

  “He favors you, Ivy!” Mrs. Lockwell exclaimed after Ivy was forced to describe the particulars of the invitation. “Oh, don’t give me that look, for it’s true. A gentleman does not go out of his way to walk with a young lady if he does not particularly like her. When he saw you he might have said he had business and gone on his way with a tip of his hat. Politeness would require no more of him. But it is more than being polite that he intends. To be invited to a party in the New Quarter—that is high praise! I do hope there is dancing. If there is dancing, he will dance with you all night, I am sure of it.”