The Magicians and Mrs. Quent
Page 65
“You are not so unfamiliar with the manners of young women as you would have others believe,” Ivy told him. “If it was your intention to win their affections, you’ve certainly succeeded.”
“I trust if I gain their affection, it will be through deeds that are more deserving than merely spoiling them with their own rooms.”
Yet he had seemed pleased and could not hide his own smile.
Now, leaving the chamber she shared with Mr. Quent, Ivy went first to Lily’s room. Upon entering, she found her sister surrounded by candles, a book upon her knees. Lily hardly glanced up from the book when Ivy spoke—for, she said rather breathlessly, the footman had just been revealed as Baron Valandry’s long-lost son, which meant the contessa could marry him after all. Ivy told her good night and started to blow out one of the candles, only then she smiled and left it burning instead.
She went to Rose’s room next, knocking softly, and when there was no answer she took the liberty of entering. Rose lay on the bed, still in her frock, curled up with Miss Mew. Both of them were fast asleep. The excitement of these last few days must have finally taken its toll.
Quietly, Ivy moved to the bed. She scratched Miss Mew behind the ears, and the cat let out a great yawn. Then Ivy looked down at Rose; her sister’s face was soft and peaceful with sleep. Ivy wondered—how many times had she awakened to see Rose gazing down at her? Only this time it was Ivy who kept watch in the night.
“Do not fear, dearest,” she said softly. “He will take care of us all. I promise you that.”
Rose did not stir, but her lips curved slightly. Ivy laid a blanket over her, then left the room, shutting the door without a sound.
While the inn was a comfortable place—and certainly preferable to dwelling under one roof with Mr. Wyble—she would be glad when the four of them could leave it. They had gone to the old house on Durrow Street earlier that day to make a survey of it. Mr. Quent had said that it looked to be in solid condition, and while some work would be necessary to reopen the house, it would not be long before they were able to move. Ivy looked forward to that day, and the only thing that would make it more joyous was if it was not four of them who went to live on Durrow Street but five.
However, if that would be the case she did not know. It had been more difficult than she had thought for Lord Rafferdy to arrange her father’s release from the Madderly–Stoneworth Hostel. It seemed the hostel operated under a charter that gave it considerable autonomy. Only an order with the king’s own seal would free Mr. Lockwell.
While she had every confidence the order would come, it would take time. Until then, Lord Rafferdy had been able to assure that her father would be kept in a private room and made comfortable and that Ivy would be able to spend time with him on her weekly visits there.
As for the malady that afflicted him—she had once believed that the magicians who knew him years ago would be able to help him if she could only find them. She knew now that was not the case. Nor had entering the house helped her understand how to cure him. All the same, she had learned something in the house, for she knew now the cause of his affliction. Was not comprehending an illness the first step to curing it? That thought gave her a hope that, however slim, was hope nonetheless.
While she still held faith that Mr. Lockwell would one day be cured, she felt no such belief or concern for the other magicians of his order. Who had come to the house on Durrow Street to retrieve them all, she did not know—more from the order, she supposed. Or even Mr. Bennick. Whoever it was, the four of them who yet lived were up at Madstone’s now.
Nor did she feel remorse for what had happened to them. They had been given a glimpse of what they desired. Perhaps the result would discourage any other members of the Vigilant Order of the Silver Eye who thought to try to open the doorway.
Not that she feared any of them could do such a thing. Mr. Rafferdy had renewed the enchantment, binding it. He truly was a magician. How her heart soared for him each time she considered it!
Besides, the house was well guarded. She had seen the man in the black mask briefly earlier that day, as she walked among the hawthorn trees in the yard of the house.
I am watching, he had said to her.
My father, she had replied. Can you help him?
But by the time she spoke he was already gone. All the same, she knew she would see him again one day. It was not chance that he had appeared to her.
Just as it had not been chance that the frame that held the Eye of Ran-Yahgren was fashioned of branches from the Wyrdwood. There was a power in the wood—a property that had allowed it to resist the magick of the artifact. What it was, how it worked, she did not know, but it was there; she had seen it, had felt it. And there in the yard, as she touched the twisted hawthorn branches, a thought had occurred to her—if the Wyrdwood could resist the power of the doorway, might it help her father resist his affliction? She had plucked several twigs and put them in her pocket, not sure what she intended to do with them, but it felt good to have them close.
Ivy paused outside the door of the chamber she shared with Mr. Quent, wondering if he had finished his work yet. To her right was a small window that looked out over the street. A flash of red caught her eye, and she gazed out the window. Above the towers of the Citadel, the new planet shone in the sky: a dull crimson spark. As she studied the recently returned wanderer, a strange idea came to her. The light coming through the crystal sphere had been that same ruddy color, hadn’t it?
Shivering, she opened the door and entered the room.
He was no longer working. Instead, he sat in a chair, a book open on his lap. However, he was not reading but instead gazed into the shadows in the corner. She watched him for a minute. His face was grim, as on that very first day she had seen him.
Ivy could not deny that, in addition to joy, she had felt some trepidation prior to her new husband’s arrival in the city. The distance from the country, and the intervening time, had given her space to wonder just which man would step out of the carriage—her dear, gruff Mr. Quent, or the stern master of Heathcrest Hall?
But they were both one and the same, she knew now. If his work called him away at times, which it surely would, then it was not for herself she would worry. For her task, to await his return, could be nothing compared to what he must face. And if, by being cheerful when he was with her, she could raise his spirits, then it would give him all the more strength to do what he must when it came time.
Again affection welled up inside Ivy, but it was a deeper sensation than any she had felt before, at once more fierce and more determined. As she watched him there, sitting in the dimness, she knew that her only wish in all the world was to be a light by his side.
“You seem thoughtful tonight,” she said at last.
He turned his head, then smiled. “I didn’t hear you come in.” He rose from the chair. “Are your sisters well?”
“Very well,” she said, and went to him.
He had taken off his coat and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. She looped her arm around his and leaned her head on the slope of his shoulder. She heard him—felt him—sigh.
“Is something wrong?” She looked up at him. “I thought you said everything went well in Torland, that it had been more difficult than you thought but that in the end you had succeeded.”
“We did succeed,” he said. “We did.” But the grimness had returned to his expression.
“Will you tell me what happened there?”
“I will, but let us not speak of it in the dark of a long night. Tomorrow will be soon enough.” Suddenly he smiled, and he looked a bit like that wild faun again. “I would rather we pour some wine and speak of other things, for I’ve finished my work for the night.”
“On the contrary, Mr. Quent,” she said with a laugh, “I believe it’s only just begun.”
And taking his hands in hers, she proceeded to work a spell as ancient as humanity itself.
THE LONG NIGHT was nearly over.
; The inn was quiet as Ivy slipped from the bed and dressed. Mr. Quent slept deeply, and a quick look into the rooms of her sisters revealed they were asleep as well. Outside, the sky blushed with the first hint of dawn. It would be an hour or more before people rose for the day. However, Ivy could not sleep. Her heart was too light to lie down any longer. She wanted to rise, to move.
As mornings after a long night were always cool, she wrapped a shawl around her shoulders and went outside. For the next hour she walked past imposing edifices and dewy gardens. It reminded her of the walks she used to take around Heathcrest Hall, when the misty weather allowed, and she murmured a pleasant, wordless song as she went.
At last, in a blaze of fire, the sun lifted above the rooftops. The others would be rising soon and wonder where she was. She turned and made her way back to the inn.
She was just outside the inn’s door when a boy went running by, a stack of broadsheets in his arms.
“News!” he cried. “Get the news from Torland!”
“Excuse me,” Ivy said, stopping him. She didn’t usually read the broadsheets, but the word Torland had caught her ear. “What news is there from the west?”
“A penny, ma’am,” the boy said.
She found a coin in her pocket and took one of the papers.
“The old tales are true!” the boy shouted, running on. “Read about it in the news!”
As Ivy lifted the broadsheet, a morning wind sprang up, and it took her a moment to unfold it so she could read the words printed in large letters at the top of the front page.
A thrill passed through her, and whether it was dread or some other feeling, she could not say. RISINGS IN TORLAND, declared the headline in bold type. And below that, Stands of Wyrdwood Rise Up, First Time in Centuries, Dozens Slain.
Except the story was wrong. It wasn’t the first time in centuries, nor could she believe it would be the last. And this time it wasn’t a secret. This time, all of Altania would know.
Another gust of wind snatched the broadsheet from Ivy’s hand, and the pages scattered, flapping down the street like a flock of crows.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
What if there was a fantastical cause underlying the social constraints and limited choices confronting a heroine in a novel by Jane Austen or Charlotte Brontë? GALEN BECKETT began writing The Magicians and Mrs. Quent to answer that question. The author lives in Colorado and is currently at work on the next chapter in this fabulous tale of witches, magicians, and revolution, The House on Durrow Street.
THE MAGICIANS AND MRS. QUENT
A Bantam Spectra Book / August 2008
Published by Bantam Dell
A Division of Random House, Inc.
New York, New York
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved
Copyright © 2008 by Mark Anthony
Bantam Books, the rooster colophon, Spectra, and the portrayal of a boxed “s” are trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Beckett, Galen.
The magicians & Mrs. Quent / Galen Beckett.
p. cm.
1. Fantasy fiction. gsafd I. Title.
PS3602.E27M34 2008
813'.6—dc22
2007041394
www.bantamdell.com
eISBN: 978-0-553-90540-3
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