The Magicians and Mrs. Quent

by Galen Beckett

  Eldyn sucked in a breath. “What’s that you were holding, Sashie?”

  “Nothing important.” Her hand started to move to her pocket, but he was swifter. He reached out and snatched it from her. The almond sweet fell to the floor.

  The sunlight went thin. A putrid smell wafted in through the window. With a thumb he stroked the rich silk handkerchief in his hand.

  “Where did you get this, dearest?”

  She gave a little laugh, but the sound was tight and false. “Our father gave it to me years ago. I had forgotten I had it. I only just found it again.”

  “Don’t lie to me, Sashie.”

  “It’s no lie, sweet brother, I found—”

  “I said don’t lie to me!”

  He grabbed her wrist, pulling her up and out of the chair. A gasp escaped her, though whether from surprise or pain he did not know. He did not lessen his grip on her.

  “When did he give it to you?”

  Her face had gone white. She said nothing.

  “I know this thing. I’ve taken it from you once before. He was here, wasn’t he? Westen. How long ago? Tell me!”

  She shook her head, tears springing into her eyes.

  A heat rose in him; a rushing noise filled his head. His fingers dug into the flesh of her wrist. “By God, you will tell me, or—”

  She threw her head back and looked up at him. “Or what? You’ll strike me? You should see yourself. How like our father you look!”

  It was as if she was the one who had struck him. He reeled away, holding his hand to his head. The handkerchief fluttered to the floor. She darted forward and snatched it up.

  Eldyn had gone cold. His stomach churned. “Sashie—”

  “You’re wrong,” she said quietly, folding the handkerchief and tucking it in her sleeve. “He didn’t give it to me. I found it this morning when I looked out to see if I could see you coming. It was on the doorstep.” Now she glared at him. “Though I wish he would come.”

  “You don’t mean that.”

  “I do mean it! I hate being alone all day long. I hate staring out the window and seeing other people talking and laughing and going places. I hate this place. I want to leave!”

  “Then pack your things.”

  Her mouth opened, and she gaped at him.

  Eldyn could not be angry with Sashie. She didn’t understand, but he did. The handkerchief was a message. Or rather, a warning.

  “I said pack your things. Anything we can’t carry, we leave behind. We leave here at once.”

  Now it was she who was afraid. “But where are we going?”

  “Somewhere safe. Somewhere he can’t find us.” Except where that was, he did not know. He said only, “Now, get your things.”

  A quarter hour later, the door to the little apartment over the shoemaker’s shop swung back and forth on its hinges. The dim rooms inside were empty of life—until a rat crept from a corner and up onto the table to claim the feast of biscuits that had been forgotten there.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  IVY!” ROSE CALLED again.

  With a gasping breath, Ivy sat up in bed. Rose stood nearby, her face illuminated by a single candle. The eaves of the house shuddered as another gale struck them. A storm had blown in during the night.

  “Are you all right?” Rose said, her face worried. “You were crying out for Mr. Quent.”

  Ivy held a hand to her head. She had dreamed of the Wyrdwood again, just as she had several days ago. It was the same as before: the swaying trees, and Mr. Quent, and the flames.

  “I’m fine,” she said. She managed a smile for her sister’s sake. “It was just a dream. I can’t even recall it now.”

  Rose put down the candle and sat on the edge of the bed. “You must miss him very much.”

  “I do,” Ivy said, and now her smile was stronger. “I cannot wait for you to meet him, dearest. Lily will think him old and awfully serious, I have no doubt, but I think you will like him very much.”

  “Do you like him?”

  Ivy drew her knees up beneath the bedcovers and circled her arms around them. “I love him with all my heart.”

  “Then I will love him too,” Rose said, smiling. “I won’t be able to help it.”

  Ivy smiled too, all thoughts of the dream vanishing.

  An hour later they took breakfast in the dining room as rain lashed against the windowpanes. It was too wet to go out, so Ivy resigned herself to a long day shut upstairs with her sisters. It would have been more comfortable to sit in the parlor, but it was not their day to use it, and she would not ask Mr. Wyble to make an exception—even though she suspected her request would be granted. He seemed very pleased again this morning and even remarked that the Miss Lockwells should stay as long as they liked at Whitward Street. The sum Mr. Quent was paying her cousin must have been generous indeed.

  They had just finished breakfast when a pounding came at the front door. None of them could imagine who would come to call on such an awful day—or indeed, who would come at all. Moments later the housekeeper arrived in the dining room. While usually disinclined to any sort of hurry, it was clear from her huffing she had run up the stairs.

  “I have a message,” she said. “It is from a magnate!”

  Mr. Wyble leaped from his seat. “Excellent news! Lady Marsdel must require my services again. Give it here.”

  “But it is for the eldest miss.”

  Mr. Wyble frowned, but before he could speak, Ivy hurried forward and took the letter. “Thank you,” she said.

  The housekeeper regarded her through squinted eyes, then gave a shrug and departed. Mr. Wyble’s looks were all curiosity (colored with some degree of disappointment). However, before he could ask any questions, Ivy took her leave. She waited until she reached the attic to open the letter; she was not surprised by its contents. It was a brief message from one of his servants, requesting only that she meet the lord inquirer later that day at a respectable inn located near the Halls of Assembly. It did not mention the note she had received from Mr. Quent but did state: Please bring anything you might think of interest to his lordship.

  Ivy could not help feeling a small bit of pride and pleasure at that last part. How like a spy she felt! She could imagine she was a character in one of Lily’s books, carrying secret messages for the king. However, it was not to serve the king that she did this task but rather to serve Mr. Quent, and that thought gave her real pleasure.

  She arrived at the inn just before the appointed hour. The inn was called the Silver Branch, and given its proximity to Assembly, it was frequented by many members of the Hall of Citizens and not a few members of the Hall of Magnates. It was sometimes said that laws were voted on in Assembly but they were made at the Silver Branch. Spirited debates about the best way to govern could be heard there at all hours, and it was not unheard of that, when the beer flowed as freely as the rhetoric, words were traded for fisticuffs.

  Fortunately, Assembly was not in session at the moment, and the inn was quiet as Ivy entered. A man took her coat, and when she spoke her name she was shown to a private parlor. Entering, she saw not the elderly lord she expected but rather the back of a young man who stood by the window, gazing out through rain-speckled glass.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I must have been shown to the wrong room. I’ll go ask if—oh!”

  The young man turned around, and his brown eyes went wide. His expression was shocked, but it could not have been more so than her own. For several seconds each could do no more than stare at the other.

  “Miss Lockwell,” he said at last, at the same moment she blurted out, “Mr. Rafferdy!”

  He stepped away from the window. “What are you—that is, it has been so long, and I had heard you were gone from the city.”

  “I am gone,” she said, then shook her head. “Or rather, I was. But I’m back now.”

  “So I see,” he said, and suddenly his expression was not so much shocked as it was amused.

  She winced. What a
dolt she must seem! He must wonder why he had ever willingly spent time engaged in conversation with her. No doubt he had been relieved to escape his association with her.

  Except she did not believe that. The smile he wore now was not a polite mask but an expression of genuine warmth, and as she looked at him it was as if no time at all had passed since their last meeting. All her affections, all her hopes and disappointments, long ago set aside, now returned to her in a torrent. She had not confessed it to anyone, not even to herself, but she had wanted her mother to be right, had wanted more than anything to see his carriage appear before the house on Whitward Street, to see him walk up the front steps.

  No, this would not do! To hope for such a thing then had been foolish, and to regret it now even more so. To wish for Mr. Rafferdy in her past was to preclude Mr. Quent from both her present and future, and that was a thing she could not bear.

  Even if it were possible things could have transpired differently, still Ivy would not have wished it. Not that, confronted with them again, she could deny Mr. Rafferdy’s charms. No doubt, as his wife, he would have indulged her every whim and desire. With laughter, wit, and good looks he would have begged her affections. How willingly, just a matter of months ago, she would have given them!

  Yet not now. She was sure no one would ever accuse Mr. Quent of being charming or indulgent. However, it was not because of what he did for her that she loved him. It was not for hope of recognition or any attention that Mr. Quent labored. Rather, he did his work alone and in the shadows for the sole reason that he knew it must be done—not for himself or any other, but for the well-being of Altania. Given a choice between two such loves, two such men, Ivy knew she could only choose the latter.

  Besides, so much had happened since that time. It was foolish to recall feelings from over half a year ago: for however strong they were, they had been felt by another person. She was not who she was then.

  And neither was he, she was sure. He looked more serious than she remembered, though he looked well. His suit was well cut and fashionable, but it was a subdued gray, and there were fine lines around his eyes she had never seen before, though they were not displeasing.

  Ivy drew a breath to steady herself. While this meeting had come more quickly than she could have imagined, and quite unexpectedly, it had always been her wish she would see Mr. Rafferdy again. Now here he was, and she would be glad for it. She was glad.

  “But still, it is strange you are here,” she said, not intending to speak the thought aloud but doing so.

  He shook his head. “Strange? How so? I have only come to meet my father. He is in town on business, and I promised to meet him here before accompanying him to Lady Marsdel’s house.”

  She took a step toward him. “No, I mean only that it is curious you are here, at this same moment. I’ve come to meet someone as well, but they must have shown me to the wrong room.”

  “Who are you meeting?”

  She didn’t know how to answer. However, before she was forced to think of something to say, the door opened. She wondered if it would be her appointment or his.

  “There you are, Father,” Mr. Rafferdy said to the older gentleman who appeared in the doorway.

  His appointment, then. Which meant this could only be Lord Rafferdy. Ivy supposed he had been a tall man once, like his son, but age had eroded his stature and expanded his girth. He leaned heavily on a cane, limping into the room, his face red beneath a white wig. Mr. Rafferdy hurried forward and, with awkward but kind movements, helped his father to a chair.

  Ivy regarded Mr. Rafferdy fondly. She wanted to talk to him, to learn how he had been these last months and how Miss Everaud—that is, how Mrs. Rafferdy was faring. However, she would have to hope to see him another time. And now that they were both in the city, and their situations were so altered, why could she not hope for that? That she would introduce him to Mr. Quent was a thought that gave her a pleasant anticipation. For now, though, she must leave him with his father.

  However, as she started to retreat, Mr. Rafferdy said, “Father, this is an acquaintance of mine, Miss Lockwell.”

  Lord Rafferdy shook his head. “Miss Lockwell? By her presence here at this time, I was given to believe that this is Mrs. Quent.”

  Now it was the son’s turn to frown. “Mrs. Quent?”

  Ivy experienced shock anew. On those few occasions Mr. Quent had spoken of the man he served, he only ever called him the lord inquirer. She had not known his name. Yet that it should be his father—it was strange providence indeed.

  Mr. Rafferdy’s brow furrowed. “Who in the world is Mrs. Quent?”

  She cleared her throat. “I am.”

  He looked to her, blinking. “But then…you are married?”

  “I had always understood the title Mrs. implied such a fact,” Lord Rafferdy said. “However, I am an old-fashioned man and out of date with the latest modes. Regardless, do you mean to say you know Mrs. Quent?”

  “I do. Or, that is, I did.”

  Despite her astonishment at the situation, Ivy found herself smiling. “I assure you, I am quite the same person, Mr. Rafferdy. My name has changed, nothing else.”

  For a moment his look was blank. Then all at once he smiled and, despite the gray suit, he was the Mr. Rafferdy she remembered.

  “I doubt that very much, Miss—Mrs. Quent,” he said. “I am certain just from looking at you that much has changed.”

  For a moment it seemed his smile contained the slightest tincture of regret. However, she could not imagine that he was any less satisfied than she at how their fortunes in marriage had worked out, and his smile was renewed as he explained to his father how he had come to be acquainted to Ivy by means of her cousin and Lady Marsdel.

  “I see,” Lord Rafferdy said. He appeared thoughtful for a moment, then nodded. “Well, while my son might presume fate has conspired to deliver you here for the benefit of his amusement, I believe in fact you have brought me something, Mrs. Quent.”

  “Of course!” she said, having quite forgotten the note. She took it from her pocket and gave it to the lord inquirer. He tucked it into his coat without looking at it.

  “And what news have you from Mr. Quent?” he asked.

  “Only that his return is delayed for as long as a month.”

  He regarded her with gray eyes. “I know it must be a hardship for you, madam, to have him so far away. Nor am I at liberty to tell you precisely why it is important that he be where he is at present. Yet I will say this: the hardship will be worth his while, and yours. You have my promise on that.”

  Ivy did not know what to say. That Lord Rafferdy spent his words as judiciously as his son spent them freely, she had no doubt. She murmured only “Thank you, my lord,” and bowed her head.

  When she lifted her eyes, she saw that Mr. Rafferdy was gazing at her. Now his expression was one of neither shock nor amusement; rather, it was with curiosity that he regarded her.

  Leaning on his cane, Lord Rafferdy slowly gained his feet. “Must I be the one to invite her to tea, then?”

  In a flash, Mr. Rafferdy’s smile returned. “Of course—you must come with us back to Lady Marsdel’s.”

  For the third time in a quarter hour, Ivy was astonished. “You are very…It is kind of you, but I told my sisters I would not be long.”

  “Do not worry, Mrs. Quent,” Lord Rafferdy said. “We will force you to endure our hospitality for only a short while. I am sure, given what I now know, that my cousin would welcome your presence at her house.”

  “Lady Marsdel would be glad to know you have returned and that you are well,” Mr. Rafferdy said. “They all would be glad. You must come.”

  Presented with such an invitation, Ivy could not refuse, and she soon found herself in a four-in-hand riding through the rain-slicked streets of the Old City and up the grand arc of the Promenade. Lord Rafferdy directed the conversation as they went, prompting Ivy for her opinion on all manner of topics, from history to science to politics, for Mr
. Quent had told him she was the daughter of a doctor and had inherited a keen intellect.

  Ivy did not feel particularly keen at the moment. His manner was solicitous, but all the same there was an imposing air about Lord Rafferdy. She answered as best she could and was grateful when the carriage halted before Lady Marsdel’s house. The rain had ceased, and Lord Rafferdy told the two younger people that he would take the steps at his own pace and that they should go ahead.

  “You’ve impressed him, you know,” Mr. Rafferdy said in a low voice as they ascended to the house.

  “Yes,” she said, “I’m sure I’ve impressed upon him the notion that I’m as brainless as a stick of wood. I do not know what test I was being given, but I am very certain I failed it.”

  “No, I know what failing one of his tests is like, so you must trust me when I say you passed the exam in a most excellent fashion. You would be at the head of the class.” His smile became a grimace. “While I would be the one lurking in the corner with an odd-shaped hat on his head.”

  “You are making a poor joke. You know perfectly well you are an exceedingly clever man.”

  “A poor joke, you say? So now my sense of humor is to be disparaged along with my intellect?”

  “If so, then it is only by yourself. For I think very highly of your faculties. As does your father.”

  He laughed at this. “Now it is you who makes the ill joke.”

  “No, I do not. You are very like him, you know.”

  “Like him? Yes, I am quite like him, the same way a cloud is like a rock or a bird like a bulldog.”

  Now it was Ivy’s turn to laugh. “You are like him,” she said, “in that you are both rocks and bulldogs, neither of which is very willing to be budged.”

  Before he could answer, they had reached the front door.

  IF SHE HAD feared her reunion with the members of Lady Marsdel’s household would be awkward, then those fears were unfounded. She was welcomed immediately and with warmth. Mrs. Baydon embraced her, and Mr. Baydon set down his paper to shake her hand. Lord Baydon pronounced he was not at all surprised to see her, for it had stormed all morning, and some delightful thing must always follow rain.