“Tell him, Clarette!”
Her jaw was set, her mouth a thin line. Behind me I heard Chambley sniffling. A haze descended over my vision. I do not know what I might have done in that moment; I fear it might have been something terrible, something I would have regretted ever afterward. However, before I could act, something moved outside the window. It was pale in the gloaming below.
Like a flutter of white cloth.
I let go of Clarette’s wrist and was dimly aware that she rushed away from me, to her brother. The window drew me forward. I leaned on the sill and bent close to the glass.
I had not imagined it! Something moved in the gloaming, away from the house and toward the east. Was it a sheep strayed from its field? No, it went upright, threading over the ground, white tatters streaming behind it. Then, in the time it took to blink my eyes, it was gone. Full dark fell. I saw nothing in the window save my own startled expression.
I turned around. Clarette and Chambley sat on the bed, their arms circled around each other, their eyes wide as if they beheld some horrific sight. Only they were not staring at the window. They were staring at me.
I drew the curtain over the window with a trembling hand. “It is time for bed,” I managed to say. Unable to utter anything more, I left them alone in the room.
THE NEXT MORNING I carried a breakfast tray up to their chamber. It was early; the night had been short, and the sky bore just the faintest blush of dawn. However, I had not been able to sleep all night.
I knocked gently and entered. They lay without moving in their beds. Chambley was fast asleep, his small face at peace, his breathing deep and steady. Clarette, I felt, was not sleeping, though her eyes were shut. I set the tray down on the table in the corner, opened the curtain, and sat on the bed beside her. With a hand I smoothed her hair; it was soft and dark, as if spun from shadows.
“I know what it is like to be on one’s own,” I said in a quiet voice. “My father is very ill. He does not know who anyone around him is, not even me. And my mother passed away not long ago.”
There was a rustling across the room as Chambley sat up in bed, his face bleary. “But it’s not the same for you,” he said. “You’re very old.”
I could not help a smile. “I’m not so much older than you, really. Besides, it is hard to be left by one’s parent at any age.”
He rubbed his eyes with a fist. “I want Mother to come back.”
“You know she can’t, Chambley. But she’s watching over you and waiting for you. One day—a long time from now, but one day—you’ll see her again.”
“You mean in Eternum.”
“Yes, in Eternum.”
He shook his head. “But I don’t want to go there. It’s full of ghosts.”
Clarette sat up and looked at her brother. “You’ll be a ghost too, silly, so what will it matter? They can’t scare you if you’re one of them.”
While I could not argue with Clarette’s logic, I did not entirely appreciate her encouraging discourse on the topic of ghosts. However, Chambley laughed.
“Yes, I shall be a ghost too!” He wrapped the bedclothes around himself and made groaning noises while Clarette giggled.
I indulged them for a minute in this play, then held out a hand and urged Chambley to come to me. I put my arm around him as he sat on the bed.
“I owe you both an apology,” I said. “I am very sorry for being so cross with you last night. It was wrong of me. I know you were doing your best to tell me what had happened.”
Clarette looked up at me, frowning. “Do you believe me, then?”
Before I could answer, Chambley was on his knees, bouncing on the bed. “You saw her, didn’t you? You saw her out the window.”
I chose my words carefully. I did not want to excite their emotions unduly. “I confess, I did see something—though I could not tell exactly what it was or even if it was a person. Yet it was white and moving east away from the house.”
“I told you,” Clarette said. Her expression was, I thought, a trifle smug.
I did not correct her. “You did tell me you had seen something, and I should have taken your words seriously. I promise to do so in the future. But I need you to promise me you will always tell me exactly what you see, no more and no less. Do you promise?”
“I swear it,” Chambley said, crossing his heart.
I looked at Clarette. For a moment she did not move. Then she gave a mute nod. If that was all I was going to get, I would take it.
“You do not need to be afraid,” I said. “You are not alone. If you ever see something that frightens you, you have only to let me know. Do you see? We will keep one another safe.”
I drew them in close on either side of me, though I cannot say whether it was my intention to give comfort or to receive it. Chambley threw his arms around me, embracing me with fierce affection. However, while Clarette did not attempt to pull away from me, neither did she return my embrace. She was stiff beside me.
At last I let them go. I poured them their tea at the table in the corner and told them we would begin our lessons after breakfast.
“I will speak to Mr. Quent,” I said as I prepared to leave them. “I will let him know we’ve seen something outside the house.”
“No, you can’t!” Clarette said, setting down her cup and jumping up from her chair. “You can’t tell him!”
These words shocked me. “But don’t you want him to make sure all is safe around the house?”
She licked her lips and glanced at Chambley, then looked again at me. “It’s only…Mrs. Darendal said we’re not to bother him.”
“I am quite certain he would not find the matter of intruders on his property to be a bother,” I said.
However, the children appeared genuinely distressed at the thought of telling Mr. Quent. As I thought about it, I decided it would be better to know exactly what I had witnessed before concerning him with it. I still did not know what it was I had seen, and it would make the claim that there was a trespasser more credible if I could provide more specific details.
“Very well,” I said. “I will not tell Mr. Quent—yet. But I will be keeping watch, and I want you both to be vigilant. If you see anything unusual, tell me at once. And by no means respond to anything someone you do not know might say to you. If someone asks you to do something—someone other than Mr. Quent, or myself, or Mrs. Darendal—you must come to me at once.”
I smiled at them to dispel the solemn tone; I wanted to reassure them, not frighten them. “In the meantime, I cannot see that we have any cause for worry, or to alter our habits in any way. We will go for a walk this afternoon.” Chambley started to protest, but I quieted him with a look. “We must have exercise if we wish to remain in good health. Come downstairs when you finish your breakfast, and we will continue our work with Tharosian grammar.”
AFTER THAT DAY the behavior of the children was greatly improved; in truth, they were better mannered, more studious, more eager to do what was asked of them than at any time since my coming to Heathcrest. They recited their lessons dutifully, moved quietly through the house, and did not once disturb the master with their activities when he was in residence.
Mr. Quent again remarked at their improved demeanor. Even Mrs. Darendal, while not evincing any sort of kindness toward me, had at least ceased her frequent criticisms and seemed resigned to my presence. I had every cause to be happy, yet I could not claim that I was. For as the lumenals passed, long and short, an unease crept into my mind, just as the mist crept into the hollow places on the moor and pooled there.
I could not pass a window that looked eastward without either resisting or giving in to the urge to gaze at the tangled shapes atop the far downs. Nor could I walk along the corridor on the second floor without feeling a pressure close in around me, as if the shadows were pushing me along, trying to direct me toward that forbidden room.
The children, too, for all their good behavior, had begun to cause me unease. Not Chambley to any degree. He, I
thought, had truly warmed to me; he often held my hand as we walked, and he would kiss my cheek after supper and, in the most endearing manner, say to me, “Good night, Miss Lockwell.”
Clarette, though her manner was always obedient, never showed me such little affections. I often had the sense that she was watching me, and I would glance up from the book I had been reading aloud just in time to see her turn her gaze from the window. Often, as I approached our parlor, I caught the sound of whispering, and always I was certain it was Clarette who spoke in a sibilant voice. However, by the time I stepped through the door, they would be smiling, their hands clasped before them, attention directed at me.
At such times I wanted nothing more than to question them, to demand to know what they were speaking about; however, I refrained. I wanted them to trust in me. Only then could I be assured they would come to me if they saw something again. Thus I did not question them regarding anything outside our lessons, nor did I speak to Mr. Quent about the intruder I had glimpsed.
While I could not ask questions of Mr. Quent, or the children, or Mrs. Darendal, there was still one person I could speak to—though her ability to respond was limited.
“Did you know the mistress of the house?” I asked Lanna one afternoon as I sat in the kitchen, taking a quiet cup of tea. The children were in their room, and though I would have liked to go out for a ride, the short day had succumbed to a dreary rain.
Lanna looked up from the loaf she was kneading and gave me a puzzled look.
“I’m sorry,” I said, setting down the cup. “I mean Mrs. Quent. Did you know her when she was mistress here?”
Lanna hesitated, then nodded.
“You must have been young when you came to work here. I imagine it has been long since…that is, I wonder how long it has been.”
“It has been twelve years,” answered a voice behind me, “since Mrs. Quent dwelled in this house.”
I was thankful I had set down my cup, for otherwise I would surely have spilled it. Mrs. Darendal came into the kitchen and set down a bowl of potatoes. Lanna bent over her loaf, kneading the dough with renewed energy.
“So long ago,” I said. I looked at her directly, determined not to let her think she had caught me gossiping. “They must not have had long together.”
“No, they did not.” The housekeeper took up a knife and began peeling potatoes. “It was just four years to the day after they were married when she left us.”
I could not help a gasp of dismay. “To the day? How dreadful to happen on that day, and after so short a time.”
Mrs. Darendal’s face, usually so hard, seemed to soften a degree. “It was a sorrow, to be sure. Everyone had such high hopes for this house—that it would be occupied by a great family again, as in the old days, and that it would bring life to the county. For a time we still held hope the master would take another wife. But he is forty-three now, and his work engrosses him completely.”
I hardly knew what to make of this speech; it was more than Mrs. Darendal had said to me at one time since my arrival.
“You are very curious about business that does not concern you, Miss Lockwell.” Her eyes flicked toward me, gray as the knife in her hand.
“Forgive me,” I said, and leaving my cup I hurried from the kitchen.
I went upstairs to my room, shut the door, and sat on the bed. I was agitated, but I was not certain why. It was not because of Mrs. Darendal’s harsh words; I was used to those.
“You are sorry for Mr. Quent, that’s all,” I said aloud.
Yes, that was the case. How sad for him to have lost Mrs. Quent after only four years of marriage. I wished that he could find another to fill this house with light and life, rather than shadows and silence.
But he was so old! Who could be expected to marry him at forty-three?
True, he was vigorous from all his exercise; there was every reason to expect his life to be a long one. And in his favor he had good teeth, and his hair was untouched by gray. But take away the shaggy beard and the weathered lines of his brow, and his face would still not be handsome.
Besides, with whom could he form an acquaintance in this forlorn part of Altania? Who would dwell with him in a remote place such as this, without the benefit of any society? No, I feared Mr. Quent’s only companion would be his work; that, and the shadows that dwelled in this house.
These thoughts led my mind to my family in Invarel. I took out Lily’s most recent letters and read them again for comfort, though they afforded little enough, being brief as usual and curtly written. I was sure from her tone that Lily imagined me off on some grand adventure while she and Rose remained trapped in a tower by an awful master.
“If only I could show you what it is really like here!” I said aloud. “I cannot think you would envy me then, dearest. It is certainly no adventure, not like in one of your romances.”
I would have given much at that moment to be back at Whitward Street with her, and Rose, and with you, Father. Had I seen him at that moment, I think I might have embraced even Mr. Wyble with real warmth. And there was another I would have liked to see, if it was even possible now that he was married (as he surely must be).
But I was not there, and I could not tell Lily these things. I put the letters back in the stand by the bed. Another object inhabited the drawer. I picked up the small box of dark wood and set it on my palm. Again I was struck by how heavy it was for so small a thing. The silvery eye stared up at me.
I had been surprised when I found it in the pocket of my skirt several days ago. Until that moment I had forgotten taking it from the cabinet, for it had happened just before my collapse.
Returning the box was an impossibility—I dared not attempt to enter that room again. I could only hope its disappearance had gone unnoticed. So far no mention had been made of it. I began to wonder if Mr. Quent had even known the box was there; perhaps he had never opened the cabinet himself, not knowing the secret of how it was unlocked.
While it speaks ill of me, I must admit that on several occasions I tried to open the box. I justified these acts with the knowledge that the box belonged to you, Father, and that I might serve as your proxy in your absence—a weak premise, I concede.
However, circumstance ensured my character when conscience could not, for my efforts to open it were fruitless. There was no hinge, nor even a groove to slide a knife in and pry it open. All the same, I was certain there was something within. As I turned the box in my hands, I could feel the weight inside shifting, though what it might contain was beyond my ability to guess.
He would know, I thought.
The way must not be opened, the man in the dark mask had said, in that voice that seemed to me as my own thoughts. In their arrogance and their desire they will try to open it…. They call themselves the Vigilant Order of the Silver Eye….
I touched the silver eye and triangle etched into the surface of the box. It could not be chance. Not when I knew this box had belonged to you, Father. Not after what he had said.
You should listen to me because that is what your father did….
He would know how to open this, I was sure of it. I remembered the way he had moved his hand, how speech had fled me, how the stone lions had licked at his fingers. Only I had not seen him since that day. I could not know if I would ever encounter him again. Besides, perhaps it was as he had said: perhaps some things should not be opened.
TOWARD THE END of my third month at Heathcrest, there came a welcome series of longer days and excellent weather. I had never seen it so clear since coming to Heathcrest; the extended periods of sunlight warmed the air and dried the sodden ground, and the landscape around the house was brightened by the blooms of red campion and laurel.
On long lumenals, it was the custom in the country (even more than in the city, where diversions could be found at any hour of day or night) to take an extended rest in the middle of the day. However, it was to be outdoors that I needed, not to sleep; with all the mist and gloom, I felt I had not
been really awake for months.
So, while the children slept during the languorous afternoons, I had Jance saddle the gray mare and I took her out, ranging farther and longer in my rides than I ever had before.
Aware that Mrs. Darendal might find ample cause for criticism in these lengthy excursions, I made a habit of asking before I left what items might be needed for the kitchen. Jance did not go into Cairnbridge every day, and it was common for there to be some item or another wanting when it came time to fix supper. It was simple enough for me to stop at the village on my way back to the house and to return with whatever thing was required. Thus productively employed, and being always sure to don my bonnet, I was able to fend off overt disapproval on the part of Mrs. Darendal.
On my first few visits to Cairnbridge, I found the local people to be courteous if not quite friendly. That they evinced some surprise at seeing me could not be hidden. Still, they knew who I was and that I was employed up at Heathcrest Hall.
I soon began to see that Mr. Quent’s serious demeanor was not entirely out of character for this region of Altania. While I would not call the people I met grim, there was all the same a general want of cheer wherever I went. People spoke, but in lowered voices. They smiled, but fleetingly. The folk I saw looked prosperous enough, yet they went about in a furtive way.
Often, when I went into the inn to make a purchase, there were several country squires talking around one of the tables. While I made no effort to eavesdrop, it was generally impossible not to overhear their conversation. When men gathered over a cup, it was either to make merry or to complain, and these men seemed to have little cause for celebration. On several occasions I heard them talk about how the roads had grown thick with brigands. These days the mail had to go with a rifleman on the bench next to the driver, and each of them knew someone who had sent a wagonload of wool or grain to Abbendon (the nearest large town) only to learn it had never arrived.
Nor, given what I overheard one day, was the king doing enough about it.
The Magicians and Mrs. Quent Page 34
