“That was very clever of you, Mrs. Quent,” he called out. “But you cannot think you are safe in there.”
Again the door shook.
No, I was not safe. However, there was a side door in the room that led to a sitting room. I went through, again latching the door behind me, crossed the sitting room, and passed through another side door, which I also latched. I found myself in a dim chamber filled with furniture draped in sheets, like a silent chorus of ghosts.
I went to the door that led back to the second-floor corridor and pressed my ear against it, listening. I had to wait for the right moment. I heard another blow strike the door of the room into which I had first fled, and another. With this last blow came the sound of wood cracking and hinges crying out.
I did not hesitate. Even as that other door burst inward, I opened my door and dashed out into the corridor. I risked a glance to my right and saw the broken door hanging ajar. He had gone through, but he would discover my trick in a moment. There was no time to head for the main staircase; that would lead me past the broken door. Instead, I made for the servants’ stairs and dashed up them.
At the top of the staircase I halted, waiting for his shout of anger and the sound of his boots coming up the stairs. A minute passed; two minutes, three. I heard only my own ragged breathing.
He must have thought I fled downstairs. Soon enough I must. I could not stay here; I had to go to the village, to find Mr. Quent before he returned. My best hope, I decided, was to take the servants’ stairs down to the kitchen and go out that way. Only, what would I do outside? It was raining, and night drew near. I would perish of the chill before I reached the village if I went out unprotected.
My room beneath the eaves, which I had continued to inhabit in Mr. Quent’s absence, was near the top of the stairs. I went there quickly, without sound. I took my cape from its hook and threw it around my shoulders, then retrieved my bonnet. Both were gray. The fog was thick outside the window; I would fade into the mist. I turned to make my escape.
He stood in the open doorway, a smile on his handsome face.
“She told me your room was up here.”
The bonnet dropped from my hands. I stumbled back against the bed and sat down. Mrs. Darendal had told him—she had told him everything about the house. Then she had gone, leaving him to his dark work. She had betrayed us. She had betrayed Mr. Quent.
Now that all chance of flight was gone, I felt a strange calm descend over me. “Does your mother know what you intend?”
His only answer was a sly look. He made an examination of the room, walking slowly around, even stopping at the table to read some of the pages I had written to you, Father. All the while I looked at the open door, but I knew there was no hope. The room was small. If I moved, he would have me in an instant.
“A modest chamber,” he said. “But charming. Like yourself, Mrs. Quent. I can see why you chose it over the grander rooms below. The view to the east must be excellent in fine weather. True, it’s a bit chilly up here, but you have your cape on. How fortunate! This strikes me as a good place for us to wait.” With that he sat in the bent-willow chair, leaned back, and put his boots up on the table.
I lifted my chin and looked at him directly. “What of the preparations you said we must make?”
“They are already under way.” He laughed at what must have been my look of astonishment. “What? Did you think I had come alone? There—look out the window. You can see them now.”
The calmness I had felt drained away, leaving a cold hollow inside me. With great effort I moved to the window and looked out.
“Do you see them?”
I saw nothing but shadows flitting below. I started to say this, then gasped. The shadows did not move with the swirls of fog but rather stalked and prowled around the house. The mist parted before them and closed behind. Never could I see them in full—it was too dim, the fog too thick—but here and there I saw crooked limbs, sinuous backs. At times they seemed to walk upright, and at others they bent low, as if going about on all fours.
“What are they?” I said, falling back from the window.
“They are Altania.”
I turned to look at him. “Altania? What do you mean?”
“The land is rising up.”
“The Wyrdwood, you mean. It is the Wyrdwood that rises.”
“No, not just the Wyrdwood. The entire land of Altania. The Wyrdwood is just one part—the oldest part. It will suffer those who wall it in, who rob and ravish it for their own profit, to tread upon it no longer. And they—” He nodded to the window. “They are its willing soldiers.”
“You mean they are rebels and traitors. They are men!”
He shrugged. “They went to the Wyrdwood, and they gave themselves to her there. They are the defenders of Altania now.”
The mist seemed to have crept into my mind. His words made no sense. All the same, I could only think of Deelie Moorbrook’s cow, torn apart by a beast. A greatwolf, Jance had said. Only there were no greatwolves anymore. There hadn’t been in two hundred years.
“You said they gave themselves to her. You mean Halley Samonds.” The witch, I wanted to say but could not. “What did she do to them?”
“She opened the way so they could pass, that was all.” His gaze went to the window. “And the Wyrdwood made them into what was needed.”
“But you…you are not like them.”
Again he gave me that sly smile. His hair seemed longer than I remembered, wilder, but it was only from the chase he had given me through the house. He leaned back in the chair, lacing his hands behind his head, even shutting his eyes. However, I did not think for a moment that I could get past him. His head was cocked; his nostrils flared with each breath.
I sat on the bed again and watched him. As I did, my fear gave way to a new sensation: anger. What right had he to do this? He said his compatriots were soldiers of Altania. I did not know what had happened to them in the Wyrdwood, but they were still criminals. He spoke of those who robbed for their own profit, but had he not done the same? What authority did he have to speak for Altania, to say what was best for it? What audacity, to think that he spoke for the land!
I felt my cheeks glowing. He said the witch had opened the way for them. And so? Had I not once made the ancient trees do my bidding? I had told myself it was a gust of wind that freed the children that night when the branches entangled them by the Wyrdwood. That was not true. I knew it then, and I knew it when Mr. Quent asked me how we escaped that night. Only I had not dared to admit it, not to him, not even to myself.
There was no use in such ruses now, not after what I had seen. Halley Samonds had been called to the Wyrdwood, and so had the first Mrs. Quent, but they were not the only ones. I thought of the painting in the cellar, and the tiny girl with green eyes. Eyes like those of the woman in the trees, like those of Mrs. Quent in her portrait.
Eyes like my own.
I looked at Westen and then at the willow chair he sat in, fashioned from fallen branches Mr. Samonds had gathered at the edge of the Wyrdwood. The branches had been woven together into the form of the chair. What if they were woven into another shape?
I did no more than envision it in my mind, yet such was the force of my fury that it was enough. Westen’s eyes flew open. He let out a cry and tried to leap up from the chair.
It was no use. Some of the branches that formed the legs had already coiled around his ankles. Twigs rose from the arms like brown snakes, encircling his wrists, binding them. Several stems looped around his chest, twining themselves together as they went, forming a strong band.
He let out a shout, followed by a slew of curses as he strained against the chair. Such was the force of his rage that I leaped up, afraid he would break free. His face grew red. His hands were fists, and the cords of his neck stood out in sharp relief.
The bonds held. Tendrils thrust down between the floorboards, rooting the chair in place. He slumped back, panting. I thought it would be good if the
cords pulled tighter. Even as I considered this, they did. He let out a hiss, and a grimace twisted his face. However, a moment later he laughed—though the sound was shallow for want of breath.
“Now that,” he said in a hoarse voice, “I had not expected.” His grin broadened, though pain still registered on his face. “But then, I don’t think you expected it either, did you, Mrs. Quent?”
The switches were still moving, wrapping around him. One slid around his throat.
He sucked in a tight breath. “Careful, Mrs. Quent. You don’t want to overdo it. I don’t know that Mr. Quent would be willing to remain married to a murderess and a witch.”
I hardly heard him. In books, I had read that people saw red when they were angry. To my eyes, everything was tinged green.
“I’m going,” I said, and picked up my bonnet.
He laughed, though it came out as a choking sound. “I wouldn’t go down there if I were you, Mrs. Quent. Do remember—the front door wasn’t locked.”
I went to the door, then turned to look at him. His breaths were quick and shallow. His face had gone from red to purple.
“This spell…” he said. “It will…not hold me for long once…you are gone.”
I did not need long. I had only to get outside, to get my horse, to ride to the village.
His grin had become a rictus, his lips curling back from this teeth. “You cannot stop it,” he said. “Even if you…warn him. No matter what…you do, the land…will rise.”
“You do not speak for Altania,” I said.
Before he could answer me, several tendrils wove across his mouth. His eyes bulged from their sockets. I turned and left the room.
I RETURNED TO THE servants’ stairs and went down to the second floor. As I was about to descend to the kitchen, I heard a sound below like men talking, except the speech was low and growling and I could make out no words. Then came a noise like knives being dragged across the slate floor. I turned and ran down the second-floor corridor, past Mr. Quent’s study, then slowed my pace, creeping toward the main staircase.
Whuffling breaths rose up from below, and shadows undulated on the walls.
They are men, I told myself. Rebels, to be sure, and dangerous, but they are only men. It is the queer light that makes them appear strange, and the fog that mutes their speech, that is all.
All the same, I turned and fled down the corridor, back toward the servants’ stairs, but even as I set foot on the top step, the sound of baying echoed up from the kitchen.
I could not think. There was nowhere in the house to go except up. But he was still there in the attic. Then I thought of Mr. Quent’s study and the ivy that obscured the window. A wild plan formed in my mind to open the window and climb down the vines.
I turned and ran back down the corridor. However, I had gone only halfway when I heard a scrabbling on the main staircase. Behind me echoed more howls, closer now. They were coming up from the kitchen as well. I turned around again, and again, but there was nowhere left to go.
Something hard caught my arm from behind, digging into my flesh, pulling me back. I opened my mouth to scream.
“Quiet, you foolish girl!” whispered a harsh voice.
I shut my mouth and the hand released me. Trembling, I staggered around. Mrs. Darendal stood in an opening in the side of the corridor, in a door I was certain I had never seen before.
“Mrs. Darendal,” I said stupidly.
The door was low, and I saw that its edges were cleverly aligned with the paneling. Once shut, it would look like any other part of the wall. So that was how she had always avoided me.
“You stand there and stare like a dolt! To think he believes you clever. Come!”
The housekeeper made a motion with her hand, and I stepped through the opening. She pressed it shut behind me; it closed with a click. We were in a narrow passage, lit by the candle she held.
We did not move. I hardly dared to breathe. As we listened, something moved outside the door. There was a snuffling just on the other side of the panel. I bit my lip for fear I would scream. Then the sound ceased, and the padding footsteps moved away.
“Follow me,” the housekeeper whispered, and she started down the passage. I hurried after, afraid of being left outside the circle of candlelight.
The passage twisted left and right and went up and down little half flights of steps. In some places it was so narrow we had to turn sideways to pass through. I tried to keep track of the twists and turns, but the dark deprived me of all sense of direction. Were Mrs. Darendal to abandon me, I should be lost, trapped in the walls of Heathcrest Hall like a spirit.
At last we came to a halt. The passage dead-ended, and a lump formed in my throat; I feared we were indeed lost. Then Mrs. Darendal did something to the blank panel before us, and a pinpoint of light appeared. The housekeeper put her eye to it, then hissed between her teeth. She retreated down the passage and around a bend, taking me with her.
“We must wait.”
I did not need more explanation. Whatever room it was she had looked out on, they were there.
At last I could stand the silence no longer. “What are they?” I dared to murmur. “Are they…are they men?”
“Lower your voice! You have already caused enough trouble.”
I could not have been more stunned if she had struck me. “I have caused trouble?”
“It is your fault it has come to this.”
A fraction of my dread was replaced by astonishment.
Her face was a hard mask in the candlelight, all edges and shadows. “Do not pretend such innocence, Miss Lockwell. It is wasted on me. I know what you are. I have known it since the moment you set foot in this house, and every fear I had, every concern I tried to relate to him, has come to pass. I told him not to bring you here, and when you came I encouraged him to dismiss you at once. Would that he had listened to me.”
Now I did feel as if I had been slapped. “I thought you merely disliked me. Yet you say you tried, with conscious effort, to drive me away!”
Her expression showed no shame. “It is not only my duty to care for this house but for its master as well. I did everything in my power to prevent him from bringing the children here. Their presence could not be tolerated. All the more because I knew that once they came, your presence would become all the more likely. Almost from the first moment his cousins prevailed upon him to take the children, he spoke of you as their governess.”
“But why me? Surely there were other choices, ones you would have not considered so poor.”
Her face seemed to soften a fraction. “Do not think I speak ill of him. His only fault is kindness. He wanted to see again a person whose fate had once been his concern. There can be no impugning his motives.” Now her expression hardened again. “The same cannot be said for others, Miss Lockwell. Forgive me, I mean Mrs. Quent.” She spoke these last words as if she had swallowed a mouthful of vinegar.
“You cannot think I came here with that intention!”
“I would not presume to know with what intention you came here. All the same, it is your coming that has brought us to this.”
It was too much. Tears stung my eyes. “How can that be?”
“You cannot see? Then you do not merely look a dolt. They know the work he does, and long have they wanted to put a stop to it.”
“The rebels,” I said. “Those who plot treason against the Crown. Mr. Quent said they have been using the Wyrdwood to meet and gather, to conceal their plottings. And his work is to seek—”
“I have served him for nearly twenty years,” she snapped. “I know what he does.”
The housekeeper looked away. Her gray dress melded with the gloom, and her face seemed to float: a pale cameo, shaped by years of worry that had long ago become regret. “I wanted only to protect him. That is why we endured a silent life here, in this forlorn place. If we were alone, then we were safe; never would they attack him openly, not in his demesne. Yet if they could find a way to draw him into
theirs…”
“But the children are gone,” I said. “They have failed to lure him to the Wyrdwood.”
She raised a sharp eyebrow. “Have they, Mrs. Quent?”
A weakness passed over me. I wished to sit, but there was no room in the passage. The children were gone. The witch had been stopped from drawing them into the wood; I had stopped her. Yet in their stead, I had given the plotters even better hope for compelling Mr. Quent to enter the Wyrdwood. For what man would not come to the aid of his new wife?
Yet something had happened they had not expected, just as it had that night at the Wyrdwood. Westen had thought to capture me, but it was he who had been captured instead. A curious feeling rose in me: a sensation of triumph. I even smiled, I think.
A howl echoed from somewhere above in the darkness, and any feeling I had was replaced by dread. I looked upward, into the dark. “What is happening to them?”
“The wood is changing them.”
“But how can that be?”
She gave me a look of disgust. “What do I know of the affairs of witches?”
The housekeeper turned away, and her gray hair and gray dress faded into the gloom, so that I could see her only as a woman-shaped void where the candlelight did not reach.
“I told him,” she whispered to the dark. “I told him not to go in there.”
“Westen,” I said. “Your son. Is he—”
“He is a fool. If only his father had…” The candlelight wavered. “He knew the peril of the wood, but they toy with it. They laugh and believe they can put it to their own uses. All they can think of are their schemes and plans. ‘You shall see, Mother,’ he tells me. ‘We will be free of this tyranny. We will have a king who protects the folk in the country.’ As if it matters who sits in the Citadel! What king has ever cared for folk like us? It is not worth giving up your…It is not worth dealing with such as her.”
Now she did turn to look at me. “I hate it. I hate the wood. I hate those women who go to it and work their craft there. I hate its trees. I hate that it took my husband. And I hate that it is taking my son!”
The Magicians and Mrs. Quent Page 43
