The House on Durrow Street

by Galen Beckett

  Ivy could not help a wry smile. “So that explains what we heard.”

  “Begging your pardon, Mrs. Quent, I’m sure the din was awful, but it couldn’t be helped. I knew there had to be something deeper in the wall that was causing the cracks. So this time we took out every bit of the plaster and then the lath and timbers behind as well, all the way down to the stone. And when we did, we found … well, I think you should come take a look.”

  Her curiosity piqued, Ivy followed Mr. Barbridge to the end of the gallery where the laborers stood in a group, tools idle in their hands. She saw that a large section of the wall had indeed been stripped all the way to rough reddish stone.

  But this was all to be expected. She started to ask Mr. Barbridge what was so remarkable, but before she could speak the builder motioned his men aside. Then words were beyond her.

  A door stood in the stone wall. It was hewn of dark wood, with deep-set panels and thick scrollwork, and was framed by turned columns and crowned with a triangular lintel. The door looked very solid and heavy. Ivy drew closer, marveling at the unexpected sight.

  “It was covered over at some point,” Mr. Barbridge said. “However, the lath wasn’t nailed into it and had pulled away, causing the wall to sag. That’s why the plaster kept cracking. But you’ve no cause to worry, Mrs. Quent. The stone couldn’t be more sound, and we’ll rebuild the facing. The wall will be as good as new by the time we’re done.”

  Ivy told him she had no doubt that it would be. “Yet how odd that there was ever a door here,” she said. She pictured the room on the other side of this wall, which she knew to be a bedchamber. “I’m certain there’s no door in the room on the opposite side.”

  Mr. Barbridge agreed. They had already completed the repairs in that room and had found no trace that there had ever been a door.

  “But then why would there be a door on this side?”

  Mr. Barbridge shook his head. “I’ve seen some curious things in the course of my work, Mrs. Quent—cellars no one knew about until a floor fell in, or whole rooms that had been walled in and lost, with tables and chairs and plates all set out as if for supper. Old houses have peculiar histories, and this house is older than many, I would guess.”

  These words sparked Ivy’s curiosity. “How old do you think it is?”

  “I can’t say for certain. I’m baffled as to what quarry provided the blocks for this house. It’s not like any other stone I’ve ever seen. But from the style of the masonry, I’d say the house was built at least three hundred years ago.” The builder laid a hand on the ruddy stone. “By the looks of it, this was once the outer wall of the house. The north wing must have been built at a later time, abutting the other side.”

  The builder’s logic was sound. Yet even if this had been an outer wall at one time, that hardly explained the presence of a door on the second floor, unless perhaps there had once been some sort of balcony on the other side. But given its solid look, it hardly appeared like the sort of portal one might expect to open onto an airy veranda. Rather, it looked like a door meant to shut out the harshest of elements.

  As Ivy stepped nearer, she saw that what she had taken for a kind of scrollwork in the panels was in fact a pattern of interlocking leaves and vines. She brushed the dust from one of the leaves. It was carved with exquisite care, so that she could even make out the tracery of veins in its surface. The wood was still rich beneath a thick coat of varnish.

  “What an extraordinary thing,” she said.

  “As I mentioned, you needn’t have a worry, Mrs. Quent,” Mr. Barbridge said, perhaps mistaking her wonder for alarm. “Once we’ve rebuilt the wall, you won’t see any trace of the door.”

  “No,” she said, turning toward the builder. “I can’t imagine why such a beautiful thing was ever covered up in the first place, nor do I think it should be hidden again.”

  The builder scratched his dusty beard. “Are you certain, missus? It is very pretty, I grant you, but it has no use anymore. You can see for yourself if you open it. There’s nothing but blank stone behind.”

  She smiled at him. “If it is pretty to look upon, then that is use enough. The door will make a fine piece for conversation. As this room is meant to be a place for gatherings and social affairs, it could serve no better purpose than to induce curiosity and comment.”

  The builder nodded and assured her all would be done exactly as she wished. Ivy thanked him, then left the men to their work.

  As she descended the stairs, she ran a hand along the banister. Three hundred years! That was how old Mr. Barbridge thought the stonework was. It was another clue to the age of the house. As the refurbishment continued, what other pieces of evidence might come to light?

  There was no telling. However, Ivy had no doubt that there were more marvelous things waiting to be discovered. Nor could she wait to share that day’s finding with Mr. Quent when he returned at the end of the month.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ELDYN DIPPED HIS pen, then scribed another row of evenly spaced figures in the ledger before him.

  “Never have I seen such worldly matters recorded in so heavenly a fashion!” Father Gadby, the rector of Graychurch, declaimed as he peered over Eldyn’s shoulder. “I have seen hymnals illuminated by monks, with all manner of flourish and ornament, that hardly looked more beautiful than your accounts of daily receipts and demands, Mr. Garritt.”

  Eldyn smiled, though he did not look up from his work. “I simply try to do the best that I can, Father.”

  “So you do, Mr. Garritt, and there are many that could benefit from your example.” He ran a hand over his pate to smooth his gray hair, of which there was little left, for as a result of being frequently fussed with for want of growing in the right direction, most of it had given up growing altogether. “It is a tribute to God to use all of the talents that He in His benevolence has granted you. But you hardly need me to tell you that! I can see by every stroke of your pen that you know it in your heart.”

  The rector returned to his desk on the other side of the long room, moving delicately, despite his considerable circumference, on a pair of small feet. There he busied himself with rearranging books and papers that had already been gathered into tidy stacks.

  Eldyn took the last slips of paper from the wooden box to his left, then shifted the ledger on the table, the better to catch the light that fell from the windows high above. He glanced up, and through the rippled glass he could just make out the shadows of boots and shoes and the hems of dresses passing by. Eldyn didn’t mind working below the church. It was quiet, and even on the afternoons of a long lumenal it stayed cool. While the lofty vaults of the church above inspired, the thick walls offered a quiet comfort.

  True, if he went lower down, he would find those whose bodies would never leave their silent sanctuaries of stone, for below these rooms were the crypts. These were said to extend for level after level, as the church had been built upon the ruins of holy edifices even more ancient than itself. However, that thought did not trouble Eldyn. He had never had a fear of the dead.

  As a boy, he had liked the tranquillity of graveyards. There had been an old burial yard not far from the house at Bramberly, where they had dwelled in the days before his father had squandered the last of their money. Sometimes Eldyn would venture across the field to the burial yard and lie down before one of the headstones. There he would shut his eyes and fold his arms over his chest, pretending to be at eternal repose.

  Until such time as his father would find him and threaten to send him to the grave for real if he did not get up.

  Eldyn began another page. Scribing figures was in no way so wondrous as working illusions, yet the acts were not entirely dissimilar. He was still conjuring a thing that had never existed before, though he used ink and paper to do so rather than light and air. As he worked, the sunbeam falling from above turned a deeper shade of gold. Perhaps the rector was right; perhaps God was indeed happy when one used one’s talents.

  Or was that r
eally so? Eldyn had no great ability for illusion. But if he had, would God have been happy if he had used that talent?

  Eldyn couldn’t think so. Recently, he had spent some time looking at a copy of the Testament that he had purchased new despite the expense. If Eldyn applied to become a priest, he imagined the first question he would be asked was if he had ever read the whole of the Testament, and he wanted to be able to answer in the affirmative. Thus he had gone through several chapters while Sashie was asleep.

  He was not entirely sure what he thought of the Testament yet. Some of it read like the most beautiful story, while other parts of it made little sense, being about the dealings of cherubim and seraphim and other strange celestial beings. He did not mind those sections, though there were a few passages he had found unsettling. These described the fate that awaited those who defied God’s will and, after death, were thrown into the pits of the Abyss to suffer torment for all of eternity.

  It seemed to him an exceedingly severe punishment for misdeeds that were, in this imperfect world, exceedingly easy to commit. While nothing Eldyn had read so far had included specific proscriptions against the practice of illusion, he had heard enough over the years to know they were in there, only waiting for him to turn to the right page.

  Yet it made no sense. If God did not want a man to use a talent such as illusion, then why give it to him? Eldyn twirled the quill in his hand, thinking. Perhaps God had given people the ability to commit sins because a man could only truly be good if he freely chose to be so. Not that it mattered; he wasn’t going to be an illusionist anyway.

  But Dercy was one.

  The gold light faded, and Eldyn looked up. The high window had gone gray; the middle lumenal was nearly finished. However, he was far from finished with his work, so he returned his attention to the ledger. He had told Dercy he would attend the performance at the Theater of the Moon that night, and Eldyn didn’t want to disappoint him. Perhaps it was because he knew he was soon bound to disappoint Dercy in other matters.

  He had not yet told Dercy about his plan to enter the priesthood. Fortunately, over the last few days, Dercy had not mentioned anything about Eldyn’s failure to work real illusions. Nor had Dercy pressed him to try again, which was just as well, as he had work enough to occupy him.

  Eldyn opened another wooden box of receipts and dipped his pen, then continued entering figures in the ledger, recording the purchases of surplices, altar covers, and hymnals. The actions of angels and seraphs might be a mystery, but the behavior of numbers was well known to him, and they aligned themselves in orderly rows as he worked.

  THE MOON WAS rising above the spires of St. Galmuth’s by the time Eldyn left Graychurch. The curtain of the Theater of the Moon would be rising as well by now. Yet if he was quick about it, he would still be able to catch the last half of that night’s performance.

  His plan was thwarted upon entering the apartment, for Sashie was in high spirits and wished to tell him about everything she had done for the verger that day. Nor could he help but indulge her, given how cheerful she was, and how many kisses she lavished upon him when he entered. So he listened to his sister chatter as they ate a cold pork pie.

  At last all her excitement wearied her, for she began to yawn, and at his gentle yet persistent encouragement she retired to her room. As soon as her door shut, Eldyn made himself ready for the night.

  He put on his coat of gray velvet—he had two coats now, one for daily wear and one for evenings out—then paused before a small mirror to arrange his hair. It still fell to his shoulders in a dark tumble, even though he could afford to have it cut more often. Dercy had told him to leave it long, that it would look more dramatic onstage.

  Well, there was no point in that anymore. Tomorrow he would get it cut. For the moment he tied it back with a black ribbon. He shut the door quietly behind him, then locked it. In the past he would have made sure there was no key inside so that Sashie could not escape. These days he was not worried about such things. For where would she go besides Graychurch, and what harm could come to her there?

  The moon was well into the sky by now, and Eldyn moved quickly, walking in the direction of High Holy. Usually he took care to avoid that area, for if the Old City was home to Invarel’s thieves and beggars and whores, then High Holy was home to its most ruthless thieves, its most wretched beggars, and its most vulgar whores. However, it was the shortest route to Durrow Street.

  High Holy took its name from the rise on which it was situated, and which was crowned by an abandoned chapel. It was said the Church of Altania still owned the land beneath High Holy. If that was so, Eldyn wondered why such profligate behavior was allowed to flourish there. Yet as he now knew, the Church owned lands all over Altania; it could not possibly maintain order on them all.

  Howls of laughter rang out just ahead. Or were they moans? Eldyn thickened the shadows around himself and hurried down dank lanes. Cloaked by darkness, he passed unmolested—though from some of the sounds he heard, that was not the case for everyone.

  He reached the Theater of the Moon just as people were spilling out of the entrance. Some of them affected a blissful expression, while others frowned or wore a puzzled look.

  The Theater of the Moon was not the most popular theater on Durrow Street. Unlike in the other theaters, the illusionists here did not work glamours out on the street to draw people inside. Nor did the audience always seem to understand the play, in which a silvery youth, an avatar of the Moon, was eternally pursued by the fiery Sun King. Some nights the audience cheered the youth and booed the king at every turn, while other nights they sat in silence or became surly and shouted insults at the stage.

  No doubt the theater would have pulled in larger crowds and greater receipts if it changed its play to a salacious caper involving leering satyrs and buxom nymphs. However, Madame Richelour had no interest in such productions.

  “It is our work to conjure beauty,” the owner of the theater had said on the first occasion Eldyn met her. “Let the Theater of Emeralds or the Theater of Fans fill their stage with tawdry tricks and their house with imbeciles.”

  “Let them fill their coffers with gold regals as well,” Dercy had said to Eldyn quietly, grinning.

  He was only making a jest. With his talents, Dercy could have found a place in the troupe at any theater. Instead he had chosen the Theater of the Moon, and Eldyn understood why. It was small and rather dilapidated, and the visions of light wrought upon its stage were not so grand or lurid as those crafted at other houses on Durrow Street. However, while not everyone cared for the illusion play about the Sun and Moon, those who did loved it with all their being. Just as Eldyn did.

  He moved past the patrons into the dimness of the theater and approached the curtain of frayed crimson velvet. All theaters on Durrow Street had red drapes before their stages, Eldyn had noticed. When he mentioned this, Dercy had told him it was because red was the only color that could fully block out illusory light. Thus, by using curtains of that hue, the theaters could make certain that audiences did not inadvertently get a glimpse of any illusions until the players were ready and the curtains parted.

  While the curtains might have kept illusions from passing outward, they could not prevent Eldyn from passing in, and he slipped through a part in the drape, onto the stage.

  “Did you see me?” Dercy said, catching Eldyn’s arm at once. He had changed out of his costume, but there were still flecks of silver around his nose and eyes. “I was marvelous tonight.”

  “If you do say so yourself,” Eldyn replied. “But I fear I was delayed and only just arrived, so you’ll have to grant me a repeat performance.”

  “That can be arranged,” Dercy exclaimed. “ ‘Though I might be charred / to a cinder dark and dead / to shine forth anew / I need only turn my head.’ ”

  “I believe your head has indeed turned,” Eldyn said with a grin.

  Dercy was not the only one still filled with the energy of that night’s production. All of t
he young men onstage shared in his liveliness as they talked and laughed, some still dressed to evoke stars or comets.

  Eldyn could not help laughing along with the actors. He could feel the power that still lingered in the air of the theater. It brushed his skin like flakes of snow, at once causing a shiver and provoking a flush of warmth.

  “Come on,” Dercy said. “I’m thirstier than should be allowed by law, and I imagine you are, too. I can see the ink on your fingers. Hard at work this evening, were you?”

  Eldyn confessed he had been.

  “Then let us get to tavern quickly. These others can catch up to us—or try to, that is!”

  Dercy led the way back through the theater and out onto the street. As they went he spoke of that night’s performance: how he had been able to perfect the silver shimmer of his aura, and how the illusions had come easily to all of them that night, as they always seemed to when the moon was near its full.

  All the theaters had let out their audiences, and Durrow Street was crowded. Some men slunk away, hats pulled low, while others walked boldly, clad in their richest attire. There were even women to be seen, most of them as painted as any illusionist. All of them were accompanied by gentlemen who had brought—and perhaps had bought—them here. But just because a lady held the arm of one fellow did not mean her gaze might not embrace another, and many of the women cast lingering looks at the two young men as they went. For their part, Eldyn and Dercy ignored all such glances and instead walked merrily down the street, linked arm in arm.

  As they passed before the entrance to the Theater of the Doves, someone called out Dercy’s name. They looked up to see an illusionist fluttering toward them, still clad in his feathery costume. The thick layer of powder on his face had cracked, accentuating rather than concealing the deep lines by his mouth and eyes. He was certainly past fifty, which made him one of the oldest Siltheri that Eldyn had ever seen.