The Magicians and Mrs. Quent

by Galen Beckett

  Rose was looking up at her, her expression troubled.

  Ivy shook her head. “Who do you mean, dearest?”

  “Father. Is he angry at me? I wanted to stop them. I knew I should, but my arms wouldn’t work, and they took him away!”

  Ivy knelt by the chair and put her own arms around Rose. “No, dearest, he is not angry at you. He knows this was not your doing. He loves you very much, as we all do. Even Miss Mew.”

  Hearing her name, the little cat gave a mew in answer. This won a small smile from Rose. Then she turned her gaze back out the window.

  Ivy quietly departed the room. Deciding it was best to leave both of her sisters alone for the time being, she went up to the attic, which since her return to Whitward Street had been her room. Over the last five days, she had put the attic back in order. On her arrival she had found it in great disarray. Books had been strewn everywhere, and nothing appeared as if it had been cleaned in the months since she had left.

  She did not know if the chaos of the attic had contributed to the incident, but it could not have helped his frame of mind. He had been growing more agitated, Lily had told her. He had taken to throwing books, and striking the windowpanes, and shouting out unintelligible words. Mr. Wyble had complained about the noise, saying it could not be tolerated. Lily and Rose had tried to quiet Mr. Lockwell, but with less and less success. Then, one day when the two had thought him calm and had taken the chance to sit out in the front garden to get some sun, another episode had come upon him.

  Even so, no harm would have come to Mr. Wyble. Their father never hurt anything besides books when in such a state. However, their cousin, disturbed from his reading, had taken it upon himself to venture upstairs and enter the attic unannounced.

  Ivy still had not learned all the details of what happened next. He claimed Mr. Lockwell was hysterical and had attacked him in the most violent and terrifying manner. More likely it was Mr. Lockwell who was terrified by the intrusion of a stranger into his sanctum. Lily said she was sure Mr. Lockwell had done nothing more than fling a book at Mr. Wyble. However, it had had the poor luck to strike him in the nose, causing a great amount of blood to burst out and their cousin to scream that he was being murdered.

  By then Lily and Rose had become aware of the commotion and had rushed inside. Rose had managed to calm their father, and Lily had assured their cousin that Mr. Lockwell would never leave the attic, so Mr. Wyble could never come to any harm if he did not go up there.

  However, Mr. Wyble had proclaimed that he would not dwell in fear of entering any part of his house and that their father was a danger to all of them. The next day men from Madstone’s came and took Mr. Lockwell away. Whether Mr. Wyble had the legal authority to have him so consigned no longer mattered. Once placed in the hostel, their father could not be removed unless he was deemed well enough by the doctors there.

  Or unless an officer of the government commanded it.

  Within hours of her arrival, Ivy had written a letter to Mr. Quent. She had not yet received his reply—the post to and from Torland would take over a quarter month—but she knew he would not allow this. Mr. Lockwell was not only his father-in-law but his friend. As an agent of the lord inquirer, who in turn served the king, he would surely be able to effect Mr. Lockwell’s release—if not with a letter then at least in person upon his return. This present situation was awful; that could not be denied. However, they would not have to endure it for much longer.

  She spent the rest of the afternoon in the attic, then accompanied her sisters to the dining room as a swift dusk fell. The supper the housekeeper brought them was as burned and flavorless as ever, though Mr. Wyble praised everything that was put before him as if it were a feast.

  “I am so looking forward to meeting your husband, cousin,” Mr. Wyble said, attempting with little success to cut his cake with his fork. “What a fortuitous match it is for you. He inherited an earl’s house, did you say? It is not the same as an earl’s title, of course—but still, an earl’s house! Think of how your sisters will benefit from such a connection! And I was wondering—that is, given his position—it cannot be unthinkable that with such means as he has that he must have need of a skilled lawyer. You will promise to introduce me to him as soon as he is in town, won’t you, cousin?”

  “Of course I will introduce you to him,” Ivy said. And he will detest you the moment he meets you! she added to herself.

  That evening she had thought to spend some time with her sisters, but Lily had fallen into a sullen mood, and Rose wanted only to sit at the window in her room, so Ivy returned to the attic.

  She spent a while looking through books, but the candlelight was too dim and her eyes ached, so instead she went to the celestial globe. For several minutes she worked its knobs and handles, watching the various orbs spin and revolve, but she could not see the patterns in their movements; to her, it was all chaos. She readied herself for bed.

  The night was long, so it was still dark when they went downstairs to take breakfast with Mr. Wyble. He greeted them cheerfully, even warmly, though it seemed to Ivy there was something peculiar about the smile he gave her. That he was pleased about something was clear.

  Not caring to look at him, she kept her eyes on her plate as she ate cold toast and drank cold tea. The dismal meal was soon over, and Ivy rose to follow her sisters from the dining room, to spend the rest of the long umbral in their rooms.

  “Wait a moment, Cousin Ivoleyn,” Mr. Wyble said as she reached the door. “I almost forgot—a letter came for you in the post.”

  “Thank you,” she said, and tried not to appear too eager as she took it from him. However, by the time she reached the landing on the stairs she was shaking with excitement. There was a lamp there, and she opened the letter to read it in that light. It was from him, as she had known the moment she saw the familiar writing. To her dismay the letter was not long, and it was clear he had not yet received her own missive. As she read the scant words, the darkness pressed in around her, collapsing the sphere of gold light into a point.

  His return to the city was delayed. The situation in Torland was worse than had been feared. He could offer no details, in the event this letter was intercepted, but she knew his work, and she knew him; thus she must understand that only the most dire situation would keep him away. He expected he would be gone at least a month. It could not be helped.

  His letter went on:

  I know law requires Mr. Wyble to allow you to remain at Whitward Street only through month’s end. However, I have offered to pay your cousin to allow you and your sisters to remain longer. My offer was generous, and I have no doubt it will be accepted. I know you would prefer to be elsewhere, but it is best if you remain under the roof of a relative. Remember that it is only for a little while longer and that I will return as swiftly to you as I can.

  Until then, there is one thing I must ask of you. The lord whom I serve will soon be in the city. Would you take the enclosed note to him? That it must remain sealed, I am certain you know! I know not where in the city he will be staying when he arrives and so could not send this directly, but I instructed him in my last missive to contact you upon his arrival. If the post makes its timetables, he should arrive the lumenal after you receive this.

  The sky is brightening. I must go. Night is their time, but now it is nearly day. Time will not allow me to describe the full extent of what is in my heart, my dearest, but know that I am now and ever will be—

  Yours,

  A. Quent

  Again she read the letter, then examined the small, folded note that had been contained within. It was sealed with red wax. At last, slowly, she folded the note inside the letter.

  “Is something wrong, cousin?”

  She turned on the landing. Mr. Wyble stood a half flight below, looking up at her.

  “I trust everything is well,” he said with a smile. Again, the expression struck her as smug.

  “Yes,” she said, willing her voice to hold steady. “
Yes, everything is very well, thank you.”

  Before he could say anything more, she turned and ran up the stairs. She waited until she had reached the attic before she let the tears come, and then she wept bitterly.

  THAT NIGHT IVY dreamed she was in the Wyrdwood.

  She slipped through a gap in the mossy wall, then made her way deep into the stand of ancient forest. The air was moist, fragrant with yarrow and hazel, and the leaf mold made a carpet beneath her bare feet as she wove among the crooked trees. Her white gown fluttered behind her as she went, like tatters of mist.

  A wind sprang up. The trees tossed, and their branches bent down toward her, but she was not afraid. She caught them as they tangled around her, setting her feet into crooks, and when the wind subsided and they bent upward again, the branches bore her to the crowns of the trees.

  As the trees swayed back and forth, she swayed with them, rising and falling in a languorous dance. Leaves murmured with a kind of speech, and the more she listened the more she understood it. Look, the voices told her. Look out at our land.

  She did, and from this new vantage it seemed she could see all of the island of Altania. Gray-green downs rolled away in every direction, all the way to the silver line of the sea. She saw roads as well, and towns like dull blotches, and a great city with many spires straddling a river, choking it. Then, on the farthest horizon, beyond the edges of the land, she saw a darkness. It was like the shadow of night approaching. Only it came not just from the west but crept from all directions, surrounding Altania. In the midst of the shadow glowed a red spark like a hungry eye.

  The wind rose again, and the branches tossed—not gently this time but violently, creaking and groaning, so that she was forced to hold on with all her might. The air had gone the color of ashes.

  “Ivy!” called a stern voice.

  She looked down. Mr. Quent stood below, and he held a torch in his maimed hand. It blazed with hot light.

  She tried to call out to him, but the wind snatched her voice away. His face was drawn in a glower of anger and disappointment. Again she tried to shout, but it was no use; he could not hear her voice over that of the wind and leaves. He thrust the torch into the tinder-dry mold beneath the trees. Flames sprang up, blackening the trees as they writhed.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  DESPITE THE POOR quality of the company he had provided on his visit to Lady Marsdel’s house, Rafferdy received another invitation from Fairhall Street before the passage of two shortish lumenals. After an afternoon in the parlor that was hardly more lively than on the prior occasion, he was commanded by Lady Marsdel to stay for supper, because, “at least with one more being in the room, the sound of our forks and knives shall not echo so loudly.”

  He bowed and said he was glad to be of service, though he pointed out a sack of flour propped in a chair would have as beneficial an effect on the acoustics, and would cost less in wine. When the bell rang, he lent his arm to Mrs. Baydon and escorted her to the dining room.

  “I see you still wear that awful ring,” she said as they walked. “Is it part of your new affectation of being somber? I will say, to look upon it certainly inspires grimness!”

  He glanced at the ring, almost startled to notice it, for he had grown rather used to it. Its leering blue gem did not seem to bother him so much anymore, and even if it did, it would not matter; the ring still would not budge from his finger. Nor, despite his earlier resolve to do so, had he made any attempt to contact Mr. Bennick regarding its removal. No doubt that was the very reaction Bennick had hoped to elicit, and Rafferdy had no intention of granting him any sort of satisfaction. If it meant wearing the dreadful thing for the rest of his life, so be it.

  Just as they were sitting at the table, there came the echo of the front door opening. Someone else had arrived, and when the guest was shown into the dining room, Rafferdy could only surmise that the old saying Think of an evil, and there it stands was correct. Either that, or the other yet retained some unholy powers despite his lack of a ring and had plucked Rafferdy’s thoughts from the air—for the newcomer was none other than Mr. Bennick.

  The tall man handed his black hat to the servant, then gave a bow to her ladyship.

  “I’m awfully glad you’ve come, Mr. Bennick,” she said. “Perhaps now we’ll hear some real conversation. Once again, we’ve had the most dull day! I have not heard one interesting thing since breakfast.”

  “Is that so, your ladyship?” he said, straightening his lean form. “And here I was thinking that I had heard a thousand.”

  “Do tell!” she exclaimed. “I so crave to hear something fascinating. Who have you spoken to today?”

  “No one at all,” he replied. “I have been silent all day until speaking to you this very moment.”

  Mrs. Baydon laughed. “That makes no sense at all! How can you have heard a thousand interesting things if you haven’t talked to anybody?”

  He turned his gaze toward her. “By listening, that is how.”

  “By listening to what?”

  “To any number of things. For example, on the way here, I listened to the sound of storks snapping their bills among the rooftops in the Old City, to a candlemaker scolding his apprentice for spilling tallow, and to the rattling of a loose cobble on the street.”

  Lord Baydon shook his head, jowls waggling. “But none of those can tell you anything of interest. I have heard all those things myself and have gained no particular enlightenment.”

  “On the contrary, your lordship,” Mr. Bennick said, “they were all very enlightening. By the sound of the storks I knew that many of the birds nested along the street down which I passed—a street where I had been considering buying a property as an investment. However, storks prefer to nest atop abandoned buildings, and the seller had told me that his property was the only one available on the street. Thus I know him to be untrustworthy and not one to do business with. At the same time, the candlemaker’s lecture to his careless apprentice told me that tallow is particularly short right now, and so instead of investing in the property I had considered, I shall instead send a note to my banker telling him to purchase shares in a rendering firm. As for the cobble, by the sound it made when I trod upon it, I could discern something was wedged beneath. I pried it up, and this is what I found.”

  He took a small object from his pocket and flipped it toward Rafferdy. On instinct Rafferdy reached out and caught the thing. It was a coin, corroded and dull, but here and there he saw the glint of gold.

  “I haven’t had time to examine it properly, but I believe it’s quite old,” Mr. Bennick said. “The writing on it appears to be in Tharosian, and while I do not think it that ancient, it was fashionable during the reigns of some of the middle Mabingorian kings to mint coins in a Tharosian style. I’d say it’s five hundred years old, at the least.”

  Rafferdy ran a thumb over the coin, fascinated despite himself. “To think it’s been there all this time, a secret mere inches from where everyone walks.”

  “There are many secrets just out of our view,” Mr. Bennick said. “You should clean it and keep it for a souvenir.”

  A sudden distaste filled Rafferdy. The coin felt cold in his hand. “No, I could not possibly accept such a gift.” He flipped it back toward its finder. As he did, the ring on his finger glinted blue.

  Mr. Bennick snatched the coin out of the air. He made no reply but regarded Rafferdy with his dark eyes as he fingered the coin and tucked it back in his pocket.

  “There, that is what I meant when I said we’d have some real conversation,” Lady Marsdel declaimed as Mr. Bennick took a place at the table across from Rafferdy. “I’m so glad you’ve returned to the city, Mr. Bennick. You have been sorely missed all these years. I wish only that you’d come in time to see Lord Marsdel again. It would have given him great pleasure to see you. Why you exiled yourself for so long in Torland, I can’t imagine, though I’m sure you had your reasons.”

  “I imagine Mr. Bennick was seeing to the busi
ness of the Vordigan estate,” Rafferdy said. “It is in Torland, I believe.”

  At this Mr. Bennick raised an eyebrow. “I did not realize you knew so much about me, Mr. Rafferdy.”

  “As you said, Mr. Bennick, one can learn very interesting things by listening.” Rafferdy smiled and ate his soup.

  “Tell me, Mr. Bennick,” Lady Marsdel said, “what do you think of the loathsome atmosphere in the city at present? Do you not find it unspeakably foul of late?”

  “I confess, it has not troubled me,” he replied.

  “Of course it doesn’t trouble you,” Lord Baydon said. He waggled a capon leg in Mr. Bennick’s direction. “You magicians are always meddling about with vile potions and chemicals. Awful stuff. I’m sure your nose is ruined from all the beastly smells. What have you been brewing of late, Mr. Bennick? Things with arsenic and hemlock and whatnot?”

  “Nothing stronger than tea, your lordship. As you know, I have not practiced magick in many years.” He picked up his wineglass, which the steward had just filled. Holding it beneath his prominent nose, he inhaled deeply of it. “This comes from the northern Principalities, doesn’t it?” he said. “From Abanizzo, I believe. It is the vintage of four years ago, when the weather was wetter than usual.”

  When the steward’s nod confirmed this information, Mrs. Baydon clapped her hands. “Well done, Mr. Bennick. Well done indeed.”

  “How do you know it was his nose that gave him the answer rather than some spell?” Rafferdy said, giving her a look of mischief. “For can a magician who claims he no longer practices magick ever really be trusted to tell the truth? Would it not, in fact, aid him in keeping his studies secret—a desire, you know, of all magicians—if everyone thought he had lost his interest in the arcane?”

  This won laughter from around the table.

  As the sound of mirth faded, Mr. Bennick turned toward Rafferdy. “Magick cannot be used for such a trivial purpose as detecting the vintage of a wine. And I never said I had lost my interest in the arcane, Mr. Rafferdy—only that I no longer practiced it.”