The House on Durrow Street

by Galen Beckett

  Alone, Rafferdy sat to finish his punch. However, he found the cup empty, and the pitcher, too. It was just as well. His head hurt, and his stomach had gone sour. So even his dearest and most trusted companion—that was, rum—could not be counted upon for amusement that night! He was entirely abandoned and friendless.

  No, that was not true. Mrs. Quent would yet be his friend, he was sure, if he would only let her. She would not look elsewhere as he spoke, or act as if she had somewhere else to be.

  Rafferdy lurched to his feet. A compulsion had come over him to return home and reply to Lady Marsdel, accepting her invitation. If there was a chance Mrs. Quent would be at her ladyship’s house, then he should be there as well, as a show of regard. He owed Mrs. Quent that; more, it was his duty.

  “So once again,” Rafferdy muttered, not so drunk he didn’t know what he was really doing, “you follow your whim and claim nobility for it.”

  Yet he was resolved. He would go to Lady Marsdel’s tomorrow. He took up his gloves and cane and made for the door. As was always the case after dark, a thick-necked man stood at the entrance of the tavern, leaning against a sideboard as he watched the door. He had black hair and narrow-set eyes. Rafferdy asked him to call a hack cab.

  “Couldn’t open the door, then, could you?” the man said with a yellow grin.

  Rafferdy frowned. The front door of the tavern stood open before them; the dank night air rolled in. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, fumbling in his coat pocket for a coin.

  “Oh, you don’t?” The man’s grin broadened. It was a rather leering expression, and missing more than a few teeth. “All right, my lord, be mysterious if you want. I know your sort favors that.”

  Rafferdy shook his head. Either he was drunker than he thought, or the man was having some amusement at his expense. “My sort?” He found a silver penny and set it on the sideboard.

  “You know what I mean.”

  The man’s gaze flicked down. At first Rafferdy thought he was looking at the coin, and that perhaps it was not sufficient to bribe him to summon a cab. Only then it struck him that it was not the coin the man looked at, but rather the ring on Rafferdy’s right hand. The blue gem was dark now.

  Rafferdy pulled his hand back. “Are you going to call for a driver, or should I pay someone else?”

  The other’s grin was gone now, and he scooped up the coin. “Whatever you want, my lord.”

  The doorman stepped out into the street and let out a sharp whistle. Moments later a scuffed carriage rattled up to the tavern. Rafferdy started through the tavern door, only then he paused. He took his gloves from his coat pocket and put them on, covering both his hands.

  Then he went out alone into the night.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  THE NEW TREATMENT has had a remarkable effect,” the warden said loudly as he took the ring of keys from his belt and unlocked a door. “There has been a discernible improvement in his behavior. I think you will be both surprised and pleased by his condition, Mrs. Quag.”

  “Mrs. Quent,” she said, forced to raise her own voice to be heard above the cacophony of wails and screams, grunts and moans, angry shouts and wordless pleadings that resounded off the hard walls. “But what new treatment do you mean? What have you been doing differently?”

  She followed the warden through the door, and he locked it shut behind them. At once the dreadful noises were dampened to a rhythmic murmur, like the surge of a doleful sea.

  The warden led the way down a corridor. He was not the same one who used to take Ivy to see her father at Madstone’s. The colorless man who had previously done so had recently vanished. Ivy did not know what had become of him, only that he had been replaced by the man she followed now. He was taller and younger, with a pulpy face, ruddy cheeks, and red lips that were always moist from the frequent application of his tongue.

  “You said the treatment you had given my father was new,” Ivy called from behind him.

  “Indeed, it’s the very latest technique,” the warden replied. “As I am sure you know, we always employ the most modern practices at the Madderly-Stoneworth Hostel for the Deranged. There is no method of treatment too novel or too unconventional for us not to adopt it here.”

  “After it has been studied and deemed safe, you mean.”

  The warden chuckled. “Of course—that goes without saying, Mrs. Quaff.”

  “Mrs. Quent,” she replied.

  He opened another door and again locked it behind them. The terrible sounds of the hostel could not be heard at all now, and the corridor they entered was both cleaner and lighter.

  “The new treatment involves the use of an electric condenser.”

  Ivy hurried to keep up with his long strides. “An electric condenser?”

  “Yes, it’s a marvelous invention. It just came over from the Principalities.”

  “But what is it?”

  “It’s a glass container, and there are various salts and chemicals within, separated in metallic chambers, and a copper rod is inserted—well, there’s no use in attempting to explain it further. It’s something you wouldn’t understand, as you’re not a doctor.”

  “It is true, I am not,” Ivy said, a bit breathless from the brisk pace she was forced to maintain to keep up with him. “However, I might comprehend better if you discussed it in more detail.”

  He laughed again—a high-pitched sound. “No, I am sure you would not. It is enough for you to know that an electrical charge is produced, similar to a bolt of lightning from the sky. Not so large, of course! You need not be alarmed.”

  His words had the opposite effect. “What do electrical charges have to do with my father’s treatment?”

  “Everything, of course. The technique involves placing a copper circle around the patient’s head. Wires are connected to the circle, and these in turn are attached to the rod in the condenser.”

  Ivy halted, a horror coming over her. “You mean you induce an electrical shock in him?”

  “Not one shock. That would hardly be useful. The treatment requires repeated application at precise intervals.” The warden smiled back at her. “There is no cause for concern. Strong muscular contractions are a natural result of the application of the electrical charge. However, he is restrained very securely before the treatments begin so he cannot cause harm to himself during the convulsions.”

  Ivy felt as if she had been shocked herself. “That is no treatment. It is a torture! I have heard that such things are done to prisoners in the Empire to make them confess to their crimes, and that men sometimes perish from it, for the shock stops the beating of their heart.”

  “Many of the most effective medicines are also poisons if given in the wrong dosage,” the warden said pleasantly. “Experiments have shown that application of an electrical charge can negate pathological function in an ill mind, and as a result induce more normal behavior.”

  “That may be so. All the same, it is surely not without risks! How could you do such a thing without informing me?”

  The warden leaned over her. “As you know, our authority here is categorical. Once he enters the hostel, a patient belongs to us solely. There is no need for us to seek any sort of outside consent. We do what we decide is best for the patient, Mrs. Quirk.”

  “My name is Quent,” Ivy said. A kind of electricity grew within her, and she drew herself up, though she only came to his shoulder. “And it is Lady Quent now.”

  “Is that so?” His moist red lips were still curved in a smile, but there was now a rigidity to his previously mushy face. “Well, I am sure you cannot think that will change how we proceed. The basic function of the brain of a lord is no different than that of the most wretched cretin on the street. We have no interest in the person; we care only what malady they possess. That is all that matters here—Lady Quent.”

  The charge within Ivy dissipated. Despite his cheerful demeanor, in the end this warden was no different than his predecessor. Ivy knew there was no further
use in argument. Besides, whatever her father was being forced to endure, it would not be for much longer. Now that Mr. Quent had spoken to the king’s steward, His Majesty was sure to approve the petition to free Mr. Lockwell soon.

  “Here we are, number Twenty-Nine-Thirty-Seven.” The warden took a key from his ring and unlocked the door. “I will return in exactly half an hour. You may pull the cord by the door if he should become violent or attempt to harm you in any way.”

  “That will not be necessary,” Ivy said, and entered the room. The door shut behind her, and she heard the key turn in the lock.

  She was satisfied to see the room was arranged the same way as when she had left it. A beam of sunlight fell through the window, and the effect was to render the chamber bright and cheerful. Indeed, were it not for the bars that had been fitted over the window, along with the iron-banded door, it would have seemed a very pleasant little room.

  Ivy perceived a cloud of gray hair floating above the back of the chair that faced toward the window. She hesitated, afraid of what she might see. But how could anything she might suffer by seeing him compare to the things he had borne? She placed a smile upon her lips and went to him.

  She was at once relieved and dismayed. They had dressed him in his gray suit, and his face was shaven. That his hair was a silver tangle was something for which they could not be blamed; Ivy herself had never been able to subdue it.

  So it was not as terrible as she had feared. Yet what had been done to him had clearly taken a toll. The flesh beneath his eyes was dark and sunken, the corners of his mouth drooped downward, and she could detect a series of red welts across his brow. His hands twitched on the arms of the chair, as if his nerves still resonated with the electric charge that had been applied to them.

  Ivy knelt beside the chair, took one of those hands, and held it gently, stilling its vibrations.

  His chest heaved in a sigh. “It is about time,” he said.

  Amazed, Ivy looked up at him. It was the first occasion in months she had heard him utter a word. However, she did not want him to see her astonishment; he must think there was nothing unusual or strange about his having spoken. Instead, she stood and affected a light tone.

  “I’m sorry I was away so long, Father. Mr. Quent and I have been preoccupied with the work on your house on Durrow Street. It has been many years since the house has seen such attention. Centuries, perhaps. I believe you will be very pleased when you see it.”

  She waited to see if Mr. Lockwell would speak again. He did not. But the tone of her voice appeared to have soothed him, for while his eyes remained fixed on the window, the tremors of his hands decreased, and his mouth relaxed into a calm line.

  “I brought you something, Father.” She removed an apple from the little bag that hung from her wrist. “I know how much you like them. Though they are getting rather precious of late, as is anything good these days.”

  She found a pewter plate on the table, and from her bag took out a little knife she had brought to cut the fruit. No doubt it was forbidden to bring such an instrument into the hostel—or to bring the fruit, for that matter. Apples can only remind the patient of the world outside these walls, and thus contribute to his delusions, the warden would no doubt admonish her. However, she was concerned they did not give him enough variety of foods to eat.

  Ivy cut the apple, picking out the seeds and pushing them to one side of the plate. Then she went to her father, took his hand, and with gentle coaxings encouraged him to rise and come to the table. His steps were too feeble for her liking, and his shoes scuffed across the floor, but with little trouble they were both seated at the table.

  The sunlight sparkled in his blue eyes, and he seemed to listen in an alert manner as she spoke. While she was reluctant to extend any credit to the wardens, she could only think, as brutal as it sounded and as painful as it must be, that the electrical treatment had indeed had some positive effect on Mr. Lockwell.

  Yet now that her initial alarm had receded, and she could consider things in a more rational fashion, it made a sort of sense. It was as a result of working magick that this affliction had come upon him. The strain of binding the enchantment on the Eye of Ran-Yahgren, so that the other magicians of his order could not use it, had been too great. The shock had fractured his mind and left him in this state.

  For years Ivy had read books in her father’s library, trying to learn everything she could about the workings of magick. She had reasoned that if it was magick that had caused his malady, then it was necessarily magick that could cure it. Yet what if another sort of elemental force—one different but equally strong—was applied? Could that not undo the harm that working the enchantment had done to him?

  She was not certain. There was so much more to learn. Yet given the change brought on by the electrical treatment, she had to consider that it was possible. Despite their callousness, she could only concede that the wardens at the hostel were indeed on to something.

  All the same, if the application of the electrical condenser was to continue, it would have to be done in the most prudent and systematic manner. Every effort must be made to ensure her father was comfortable and to ease his fear. Also, they should apply only the minimum force necessary, and no more frequently than required. To know how to proceed, she would have to read as much as possible about the production of electrical charges and their effects upon the nervous system.

  Unfortunately, as she had not been allowed to bring any of his books to the hostel, her research would have to wait. Instead, she fed him bits of apple and spoke about how the work on the house on Durrow Street was proceeding, thinking that if he could at all comprehend her, he would find the subject interesting.

  How she wished she could ask him questions about the house! She had no doubt there were secrets about its history her father had uncovered in the years he had dwelled there, if only he could tell her.

  Perhaps that was what he had intended to do in the journal he had left for her in the box of Wyrdwood. Perhaps he had meant to tell her everything he had learned about the house, about its enchantments and peculiarities, since it would one day be hers. However, fate had not granted him the time to follow through on that plan.

  Or had it?

  Ivy had thought it peculiar that he would bother to lock the journal in the Wyrdwood box if he had never had the chance to write any secrets on its pages. What if they were in fact all there, only she could not see them—just as she was sure all of his knowledge was still locked in his mind, but he could not speak it. Her father had been a magician, after all. It was certainly possible that he had cast some enchantment upon the journal. And if an application of electricity could help restore his faculties, then was it not possible there was something—a certain chemical, or a spell—that could reveal any words he might have written upon the pages of the journal?

  The sound of a cough returned Ivy to the little room in the Madderly-Stoneworth Hostel. Her father’s hands were in his lap, and he was gazing out the window again. The last of the apple was gone.

  Again her father made a sound in his throat, as if clearing it. Perhaps he was thirsty. There was a pitcher of water on the sideboard. Ivy rose and went to it to fill a glass.

  “Has the black stork come to you yet?”

  Ivy set down the pitcher with a clatter and turned around, clutching the cup in her hand. Mr. Lockwell had turned his head, and for a moment she could almost believe that his faded blue eyes, which always gazed past her, were instead directed at her.

  Water splashed over her wrist; Ivy’s hand was shaking. She hurriedly went to the table and set down the cup. His gaze had returned to the window. Outside, the brief day was beginning to fail.

  Ivy sat in the chair beside him. “How do you know about that, Father?” She made her voice cheerful. “I don’t remember telling you about the storks I found upstairs.”

  Mr. Lockwell’s shoulders heaved in a sigh. “It’s about time,” he said, as he had earlier. Only this time the words wer
e hardly more than a murmur, and there was a sorrow to them that induced a pang in her heart.

  Ivy reached a hand toward him—then halted. Her gaze fell upon the pewter plate where she had cut the apple. In the center of the plate, a number of seeds had been arranged in a row. Ivy counted them.

  There were twelve seeds on the plate, all in a perfect line.

  Ivy opened her mouth. Whatever it was she was going to say turned instead into a small cry as there came a metallic noise behind her. The door of the room opened, and Ivy leaped from her chair.

  “Visiting hours are over,” the day warden said. His lips formed a moist red smile as he jingled the key ring in his hand.

  Ivy looked at her father. Her throat ached with questions she wanted to ask him. However, she knew there was no use in requesting more time. Her questions would have to wait for another quarter month, until she could visit him again.

  She went to Mr. Lockwell and pressed her lips to his cheek. “I love you, Father.”

  The jingling of the key ring grew in volume. Ivy departed through the door, then turned to look back into the room. Mr. Lockwell sat in the chair, his faded gaze still fixed on the window, as if he saw something in the square of sky beyond.

  The door shut with a clang of metal against metal.

  “I’ll show you out, Lady Quash,” the warden said, turning the key in the lock.

  “Thank you,” was all Ivy said.

  MR. QUENT WAS to be away at the Citadel until late again. That morning, before she left for Madstone’s, he had told Ivy that he would be leaving Invarel for the country once more, just as soon as he could complete his business at the Citadel. Ivy could not say she was happy to hear this news, but nor could she be surprised.

  “I am glad I have gotten as much of you as I have, Sir Quent,” she had said with a smile. “However, I know you are on loan from the Crown, and so must be returned when needed.”

  “On the contrary, Lady Quent,” he had said, a grin parting his beard, “it is the king who has me on loan, for I am entirely under your ownership.”