“I don’t know why people would want to go to Assembly,” Lily said. “I’m sure listening to speeches is dreadful boring compared to walking along the Promenade or sitting in the gardens and being seen.”
“Some might think so. Yet I am sure you must agree that the governing of our nation is a worthwhile endeavor, especially with the state of things in the Outlands.”
Lily plucked another ribbon from her bonnet. “If you mean all the rebels running about the country, I’m sure a lot of old lords wouldn’t be able to do anything about them if they should decide to storm the city. It will be up to all the king’s dashing soldiers to win the day.” Her eyes flashed. “Unless it’s the rebels who prove to be the more dashing lot, in which case I hope it’s they who are victorious!”
Ivy knew that if supporters of Huntley Morden should indeed ever win through and enter the city, it would not be for the purpose of inviting young ladies to balls. Nor was such a mob likely to be a well-dressed or mannered lot. But there was no point in admonishing Lily or bringing up such a grim topic. An enemy army had not marched on Invarel in over three hundred years. Besides, it was well known that Lord Valhaine and the Gray Conclave labored ceaselessly to find those who were behind the seditious acts in the country—and here in the city as well, after the incident at the cenotaph. No doubt the news out of County Dorn would only increase these efforts.
The subject of rebels was dropped, and after that the three of them sat in the garden for a time. However, with her sisters there, Ivy had little chance to read her book on astrography, for Lily chattered on about her annoyance with Mr. Garritt for not presenting himself in Halworth Gardens. After all, he was not taking a seat in Assembly that day.
Before long, the day grew too hot for remaining outside to be pleasant, and they retreated into the house. Yet it was hardly any cooler in the sitting room, and the sounds of the refurbishment continued unabated from above. At the same time, Lily sat at the pianoforte and commenced a lengthy exploration of every minor key. Ivy almost found herself wishing the new almanac contained errors like the old one had, and that the lumenal would not last so many hours as the timetables predicted. For if it did, this was going to be a very long afternoon indeed.
Planning for Lily’s ball might have pleasantly occupied her mind and distracted her from the noise. However, she could not mention the idea of the ball to her sisters until she had discussed it with Mr. Quent.
That it would have to be Rose’s ball as well as Lily’s, Ivy had already concluded. Both would have to be presented to society, and Rose first. It would not be proper for a younger sister to be out while an elder was not. Then again, Ivy doubted that Lily would much mind sharing the occasion. After all, Lily could have little fear that Rose would be the center of attention.
Given the various sounds that assailed her, Ivy knew there was no hope of concentrating on a complicated subject like astrography. She returned the book to the shelf, and instead took out the box in which she kept the papers related to the repairs on the house, and worked on organizing and totaling them for Mr. Quent to review upon his return.
AS WAS ALWAYS the case on long lumenals, there came a point when they all grew weary of being awake.
The sun stood still outside the windows, drenching the city with white light, and the sounds of construction had ceased, for Mr. Barbridge and the workmen had departed for a midday respite. After so much noise, the silence seemed a heavy, stifling thing. Lily cracked enormous yawns at the pianoforte, and Rose drowsed on the sofa, her sewing forgotten on her lap.
Ivy could not claim to be any more alert than her sisters. She had totaled the last stack of receipts thrice and had gotten a different sum each time. At last she laid down her pen. Then, as the people of Altania had done for time out of mind, the three sisters went upstairs and attempted to fashion a small bit of night in the middle of day.
They retired to their rooms, closing shutters and drapes tightly so they might sleep. This also had the effect of making Ivy’s room stuffy, and despite her efforts a thin line of light slipped between the curtains, cutting the air like a silver knife. Her sleep was fitful and provided little in the way of restoration.
It was the sound of wind blowing that woke her.
Ivy sat up in bed, pushing damp gold tangles from her face. Had a storm come to cool the city? However, as she parted the curtains, light flooded the chamber. There was not a cloud to be seen.
By the angle of the sun, she had not slept for very long—an hour at the most. Yet she was awake now; there was no use in lying down again. With a sigh, she took up a hairbrush and made herself ready for the remainder of the lumenal.
The house was silent as she left her chamber. The doors to Lily’s and Rose’s rooms were both shut, and it would be some time before the workmen returned. Which meant she would have some time to read after all. With that purpose, she started down the stairs. When she reached the second floor, she paused.
There it was again, low but unmistakable: a rushing sound, like wind before a storm. Ivy crossed the gallery, picking her way among stacks of lumber and troughs for mixing plaster. She stopped before one of the tall windows, pushed back the sheet that draped it, and looked out.
There was not a cloud in view. The only dark shape to be seen against the sky was the imposing outline of the Citadel up on the Crag. Then she looked down into the garden in front of the house. The straggled chestnuts and hawthorns drooped listlessly, their branches still. Yet she was certain she had heard the sound of wind blowing.
Ivy tilted her head and held her breath. She could still detect it: a low soughing that made her think of bare, bleak stones and empty moorlands. Perhaps the storm was approaching from another direction. Ivy let the sheet fall, then turned to pick her way back across the gallery.
She halted. Her eyes fell upon the door at the end of the gallery, the one that Mr. Barbridge’s men had discovered. In the dim light seeping through the sheet-draped windows, it seemed the leaves carved upon the door stirred and rippled.
Ivy drew closer, and a giddiness came over her. No, they did not seem to move—they were moving. The leaves fluttered and danced, as if from a breeze. She reached a hand out to touch them.
Something rapped against the window behind her.
Ivy snatched her hand back and spun around. Again something small and hard struck the window. A pebble, she thought. She went back to the window and pushed aside the sheet. Something moved in the garden below, and it was not the branch of any tree.
The figure of a man stepped into view. His coat was black, as were his breeches and boots, his gloves and hat—and all of his attire was frilled and plumed, slashed and gored, and knotted with brocade. Like a costume from another era, she had thought the first time she saw him. He made a florid bow. Then he rose and looked up at the window. His face was covered with an onyx mask, curved into a frozen smile. It was a fierce expression.
Ivy could not help a gasp. All the same, she was not truly astonished to see the man in the black mask. I am watching, he had told her the last time she had encountered him. It was on the day she and Mr. Quent had first made an inspection of the house on Durrow Street.
Nor was it a troubling notion. Three times prior to that last instance, the man had appeared to her, and on each occasion he had helped her understand what to do. It was he who warned her that the Vigilant Order of the Silver Eye sought to enter the house on Durrow Street and use the artifact upstairs.
Who the man was, she did not know. He had never revealed his face. However, she knew from her father’s letter that he had seen the man in the mask. I trust him more than I trust myself, Mr. Lockwell had written. If he should ever speak to you, heed him.
She had heeded him, and the magicians had been prevented from using the artifact to open a portal for the beings called the Ashen. Yet if the danger had been averted, why was he here now? In the past, he had only ever showed himself when peril was near.
Except peril was near, wasn’t it? Accordi
ng to the article she had read in the broadsheet, it drew nearer every day. The magicians had wished to open a portal to the world she had glimpsed through the Eye of Ran-Yahgren, a world she was now certain was Cerephus. Which meant the creatures she had seen through the orb were the Ashen themselves.…
No, it was not the Ashen you saw, a voice seemed to whisper beside her. The words were soft and musical in cadence. Those were only their slaves, their servants and pets.
“But what are they?” she whispered, knowing he would hear her no matter how quietly she spoke. “What are the Ashen?”
Now the mouth of the mask was set in a grim line. They are the cold between the stars, the emptiness after the death of time, and the darkness that dwelled before all things. They are the first ones, ancient beyond all else. And their hunger knows no bounds.
She folded her arms, shivering. “I don’t understand. Why would God allow such things to enter into his Creation?”
Allow them? Below, he shook his head. God did not allow them to enter. Before the word of creation was spoken, they were already there. When the first suns sputtered into life, they were there to witness those feeble rays. And how they loathed that illumination, even as they craved it! They seek to consume all light, all life—to try to fill the void of their beings. But their hunger can never be sated. It is endless. They have laid waste to their own world, and so they seek a new one to feast upon.
Ivy felt a cold terror grip her, as it did sometimes when night fell and darkness took the world. “But the magicians of the Silver Eye are all gone now. We stopped them from opening the door.”
There are other magicians—men far more powerful than the ones you encountered. And there are other doors.
A despair filled her. She and Mr. Rafferdy had stopped the Vigilant Order of the Silver Eye from opening a portal—but barely, and only by renewing enchantments her father had already placed in the house. What were they to do about unknown magicians in unknown places? The man in the mask could not think she had any power to stop them.
She had done her part. With Mr. Rafferdy’s help, she had guarded the house on Durrow Street. Her only wish now was to make a home for herself, her husband, and her sisters, and to bring her father to it. A spark of indignation flared inside her. Who was this being, to come here in his bizarre attire and speak to her so? She opened her mouth to tell him to go away and to never return.
News comes, his voice sounded in her mind. Below her, his black mask was expressionless. Everything is changed now.
Even as she struggled to comprehend what this meant, there came the hard sound of knuckles rapping.
Ivy spun around, and again her eyes fell upon the door at the end of the gallery. For a wild moment she thought it was from that door the knocking had issued. The wooden leaves trembled, as if buffeted by a gale. Yet that was one of his tricks, wasn’t it, to make statues and carvings seem to move? She glanced again out the window.
The courtyard was empty of all but the trees.
Again came the knocking, more urgent than before. This time her mind was clear enough to grasp that the sound issued from below. Ivy cast one last glance at the wooden door; the carved leaves were motionless now. Then she turned and hurried down the stairs.
By the time she reached the front hall, Mrs. Seenly was already opening the door.
“Now, what’s all this banging for?” she exclaimed. “Don’t you know it’s a long lumenal and folks are abed?”
“I have a letter for the lady of the house,” spoke a man’s voice from beyond the door.
“Well, give it here, then,” said the housekeeper. “I’ll see that she gets it.”
“I cannot do so, ma’am. It was sent under the seal of the Crown. I can deliver it only to Lady Quent.”
“Mrs. Quent, I am sure you mean,” Mrs. Seenly said. “But if you must give it only to her, then you can wait here. I’ll go see if she is risen, but I will not wake her, mind you!”
“It’s all right, Mrs. Seenly,” Ivy said, hurrying forward before the housekeeper could shut the door on the messenger. “I am very much awake, as you can see.”
“Well, ’tis no wonder, with all the din,” Mrs. Seenly said.
She stepped away from the door, allowing a man to enter. His red-crested hat was tucked under his arm, and his coat was more gray than blue from road dust. The soldier gave a crisp bow as Ivy approached.
“I have a letter for you, my lady.”
Ivy could only smile. The soldier’s sense of duty was to be commended, but he was certainly overzealous in his politeness.
“You may call me Mrs. Quent.”
“Begging your pardon, but I was commanded to deliver this to Lady Quent on the west end of Durrow Street.”
Ivy saw no need to quibble regarding honorifics. She reached out a hand. “I assure you I am the only woman by the name of Quent who dwells here.”
Evidently this was good enough, for the soldier handed her a folded parchment sealed with a thick disk of blue wax. She asked if he needed anything to drink.
“Thank you, my lady, but as my duty has been discharged, I must return to my regiment.” Asking her leave, which was granted, he turned on a heel and departed.
“Well, that was all very curious,” Mrs. Seenly said as she closed the door, shutting out the hot light of the afternoon.
“Indeed,” Ivy said. She was curious as well, and concerned. That the letter was from Mr. Quent she knew the moment she saw the address, written in his cramped hand. Why should he send her another letter so soon after his last, and have it delivered by a soldier rather than the post? She touched the disk of blue wax; the shape of a stag was impressed into it. She could not help thinking of the fate of the mayor of the county seat in Dorn. Had he not been a loyal subject of the Crown—just like Mr. Quent?
Alarm grew within her, but she did her best to disguise it. She told Mrs. Seenly they would take an afternoon breakfast in the parlor. As soon as the housekeeper left, Ivy broke the seal with a trembling hand, then stood in the sun that fell through a window and read.
My Dearest Ivoleyn—
I must keep these lines brief. If I do not, this letter will have little chance of arriving before I do, and I do not wish you to be surprised when you see me walking up the steps. I am coming home. My work here is only just begun, but all the same I must quit the North Country and make all haste to Invarel, where I must present myself to the king. You can expect me the lumenal after this letter finds you.
How alarmed you must be at the preceding words! Do not be. I have news for you of a happy nature, though it is also weighty. This is not a thing I have ever craved or sought. Yet now that it is given me, how can I say I am not pleased? While I cannot be without trepidation at such a drastic change in circumstance, all the same I will not refuse it. Nor could I if I wished to, as Lord Rafferdy made quite clear in his missive that brought me the news.
And how should I impart this news to you? There is no way to deliver such a thing, except in the plainest of words. By royal writ I have been granted, in return for services rendered in Torland, the barony of Cairnbridge. I am thus in one stroke made a baronet. I am to be Sir Quent.
There! What do you think of such peculiar and unlooked-for news? And I warn you—do not be too glad or think it too wondrous. I am certain it will all be a burden in the end. Indeed, it is one already, for I must present myself to His Majesty at once and kiss his ring and swear an oath.
Yet it is you I will kiss first upon arriving in the city. To see you will be the greatest of rewards, and if the state of the roads allow, that happy moment will come after the passage of but one more umbral for you.
That must be enough for now. The soldier who brought me Lord Rafferdy’s letter waits. I must fold this sheet no matter how smudged it will get. I will hold you soon. Until then, know that while much has been changed by this unexpected act, one thing is ever constant. I am and always will be—
—Devotedly Yours, Alasdare
Ivy leaned a
gainst the windowsill, the letter fluttering in her hand as if it, too, felt the influence of a wind. Such was her astonishment that she could hardly fathom the words she had read. Again and again her eyes roved over the page, but it was no use. She could not put two words together in her head.
“What was all that banging?” Lily said, trudging down to the bottom of the staircase. “I thought the workmen were gone.”
It wasn’t the workmen, Ivy wanted to say, but she could not.
Lily frowned, then crossed the hall. “Blast and blunder, what’s wrong with you, Ivy? You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Have you? If so, don’t say I didn’t tell you there were spirits.”
“Who saw a spirit?” Rose said as she descended the stairs, Miss Mew padding behind her.
“No one,” Ivy managed at last to say. “It’s only—a letter has come.…”
“A letter? From whom?”
When her demand was not immediately met, Lily snatched the paper from Ivy’s hand, nor did Ivy have the power to resist the act. The sunlight seemed to fill her with its radiance and warmth. A joy rose in her, only it was not for herself, but rather for him. How perfect that he should receive such a grand reward—he who had never worked for any reward at all. However, if Mr. Quent was not a man who harbored pride, she would harbor it for him, and at that moment her heart was filled with such regard and affection for him that it was almost too much to bear. Would that he was home now, so that she could throw her arms around him!
“Well, blow me down!” Lily roared. She looked up from the letter, her brown eyes wide.
“What is it?” Rose said. “Is something wrong?”
“Wrong?” Lily threw back her head and let out several peals of laughter. “No, nothing is wrong. Nothing will ever be wrong now, Rose!”
“What do you mean?”
Lily thrust the letter back at Ivy and grabbed Rose’s hands, spinning her around in a circle. “Lady Quent, that is what I mean! Ivy is to be Lady Quent! And we shall be a lady’s sisters. How marvelous we will be! And what men we will meet! No mere gentleman will do for you or me, Rose, not now. We shall both marry sirs, and then we shall be ladies, too!”
The House on Durrow Street Page 11
