The House on Durrow Street

by Galen Beckett

  She smiled at Rose as she poured a cup of tea. “You see, dearest? I am quite well.”

  “You were very late,” Rose said, her brown eyes wide with worry. “I waited up until the clock struck the third span, but you still weren’t back. And Lily told me how she read in her book that pirates sometimes—”

  “Of course she was late!” Lily exclaimed as she stole a biscuit from the tray that had been brought for Ivy. “I’m sure if I had been at the viscountess’s party, I should have stayed even later. Now, tell us everything that happened, Ivy. And don’t leave anything out—for I’ll know if you do!”

  Ivy obliged her sisters and described the party as she sipped her tea. She did her best to faithfully relate everything she saw, yet at the same time tried not to make it seem too marvelous or delightful. However, it was clear that either her feelings of wonder came through despite her intentions, or Lily’s own imagination painted in the color that Ivy purposefully left out.

  “Gold and plunder, I want tableaux of paintings at my own party!” Lily glanced at their sister. “I mean at Rose’s and my party. But I’m sure she wants tableaux as well. Don’t you, Rose? Though that means we’ll have to have illusionists, of course.”

  Ivy set down her cup. “You know that’s not possible, Lily.”

  “But the viscountess had illusionists, and you were there.”

  “Yes, but I am not a viscountess, and neither are you. Lady Crayford moves in different circles than we and is judged by different rules.”

  Lily shook her head. “The rules of fashion apply to everyone. For if they didn’t, how would we tell who was in mode and who wasn’t? And if she is doing it, then it must be fashionable.”

  “No,” Ivy said, “we will do what is right, not what is in mode. That is what Mr. Quent expects of us.”

  Lily knew that tone of voice, and thus knew there was no use arguing against it. Still, she affected a melancholy look and slumped in her chair, as if she had suddenly lost interest in all worldly things.

  “Don’t worry, Lily,” Rose said, taking Lily’s hand. “Just because we can’t have illusionists doesn’t mean we can’t have a tableau at our party.”

  Lily frowned at Rose, though her expression was curious as well. “What do you mean? Of course we would need illusionists.”

  Rose shook her head. “No, we don’t. I’m sure I can sew any sort of costume an illusionist can conjure. Not as quickly as they might weave it out of air, of course, but I think it would be better, for it would be real and couldn’t fade away. And no one is more clever at inventing things than you, Lily. I don’t think there’s any sort of thing you couldn’t make with cloth and paints and ribbons. Unless …” Rose shook her head, “… unless you think an entire tableau would be too much for us to make?”

  “Blow me down, of course it wouldn’t be too much!” Lily roared, sitting up in her chair. “Not for me. I can do anything. Well, except for sew very well, but that’s what you’re for, Rose. Now, come with me at once. We have to pick what scene we’re going to copy for our tableau. It has to be very beautiful and very famous.”

  She leaped to her feet and pulled Rose up with her.

  “Sorry, Ivy,” Lily said. “We don’t have time to listen to any more stories about what you did last night. We have to go to a bookshop to look through pages of scenes.”

  Ivy was in no way regretful to hear this news. After the affair last night, she craved nothing but to be quiet for a while. Besides, she very much approved of Rose’s idea. It was good for Lily to remember that the best sort of entertainments were not the ones conjured for you by others, but rather the ones you invented yourself.

  After her sisters departed, Ivy savored another cup of tea while Miss Mew curled up on her lap. Soon, however, all the things she needed to do compelled her to set aside her cup. The first order of business was to pen a note to Mrs. Baydon, as she had not had the chance to bid her friend a proper good-bye last night, and she wanted to know if the party had been all that Mrs. Baydon had hoped it would be.

  Ivy went back into her bedchamber, Miss Mew padding behind, and sat at the writing desk. As she did, her gaze fell upon the Wyrdwood box. Once again she felt a pang at the way her father’s words had disappeared from the journal. Yet she felt a curiosity as well. She wondered by what means the entry she had read could have suddenly appeared on a blank page and then, the very next lumenal, vanish again. Certainly it was an enchantment more advanced than writing secret messages in vinegar!

  Yet why would her father use magick to conceal words in a journal that, by his inscription, he had intended for Ivy to read? A woman could not do any magick—a fact of which he could only have been well aware. So how could he have expected her to read the journal?

  There was only one explanation. Magick had been performed to conceal the words in the journal, but it need not be worked to reveal them. Rather, they would appear on their own, just as she had seen the other night.

  Which meant more might have appeared in the meantime.

  An excitement caused Ivy’s heart to quicken. It was the most unlikely possibility, she admonished herself. It had surely been the rarest and most fortunate of circumstances that had caused her to happen upon the words in the journal, to turn the page to them at just the precise moment they were visible. She could not hope to be so lucky again.

  All the same, she reached for the Wyrdwood box, pulling it toward her. With a light touch, Ivy bid the tendrils of wood to release their hold on the lid, and she took out the journal. She opened it just past the inscription, and then began turning through the blank white pages one by one.

  And there, not a quarter way through the journal, was a page filled with lines of spidery writing.

  While logic had suggested this was possible, still a gasp of wonder escaped Ivy. She was certain that this page had been blank when she last examined the journal. Yet now it was covered with words penned in her father’s thin, wandering hand.

  LOERUS IN MURGON, DALAVAR RISING

  My Dear Ivy,

  I have made a dreadful mistake. You are yet small as I write this, and I know in your eyes your father is all-powerful and can do no wrong. But know that is not the case, that I can err like any person. So I have done, for I have trusted someone I should not have, and now it is gone.

  But who is the one who could have betrayed my confidence? Mundy, Gambrel, Fintaur, Larken—I am sure it was not any of them who did this. You must understand that Mr. Bennick and I chose them with the greatest care, that we revealed the knowledge only to those whom we were convinced we could utterly trust.

  All the same, it is indeed missing. I have looked everywhere, but I knew at once I would not find it. One does not simply leave such a thing lying about! The enchantments upon it were strong and enduring. No, this thing was not carelessly misplaced. Rather, it was willfully taken in the most calculating fashion. But again I come to the question—by whom? Who would take the key to Tyberion?

  I do not know. The only thing I am sure of is that the other key is safe with the Black Stork, for I went to him some time ago and gave it to him, and he agreed to keep it. That he could possibly betray us is a thing I know to be impossible. A truer friend there cannot be. As for the others—I know not who in the order Bennick and I can trust now. That someone in our circle did this thing, I am sure. Yet it still might not have been any of those I trusted. There are magicks and arcane devices another might have used to observe our conversations or to seek out its hiding place.

  Well, even if I do not know who took the key, there is one thing I do know for certain: I must hide Tyberion. I must conceal it in a place where they would never think to look for it. But where? I will have to consult with Mr. Bennick on this. He will have some good idea, I am sure. He is an exceedingly clever man, Ivy, and a stalwart ally in all I do. I cannot wait for you to grow a little older so you might get to know him. I would introduce you now, but he is something of an imposing man, and not entirely comfortable with—or comforting t
o—children. Yet one day you will meet him, and I am sure you will hold him in as high a regard as I do.

  For now, I must finish this page, for I have work to do. By the time I get to Whitward Street, you will be fast asleep. But if you feel a light touch on your cheek as you dream, have no fear. It is only a kiss from your loving father.

  G.O.L.

  Again Ivy read the entry, her amazement only somewhat muted by the dire tone of her father’s words. So her hypothesis had been proven correct! Whatever enchantment had concealed the entry in the journal also, of its own volition, caused it to appear. And this time, knowing the words would certainly be ephemeral, Ivy would not lose them again. She took out a pen, ink, and a blank sheet of paper, and transcribed the entry that had appeared in the journal. She worked swiftly, half fearing the words would evaporate from the page before she had gotten them down.

  Once finished, she compared her copy to the journal. As before, her father had begun the entry not with a usual date, but rather with a description of the arrangement of the stars at the time of writing. He had ever been the amateur astrographer!

  Yet it was strange that in this entry he had discussed his intention to hide Tyberion, while in the last entry the concealment had already been done. And this one appeared nearer to the front of the journal than the other. That meant he had written this entry before that one. Only this struck her as odd; she would have thought the magick of the journal would reveal the entries in the order they were written.

  She finished checking her copy and ruefully noted how her father had placed so much trust in Mr. Bennick. Mr. Lockwell had wondered who had betrayed him and Mr. Bennick, never realizing that it was Mr. Bennick himself who would play him false. Ivy supposed it was he who had taken the key to Tyberion.

  What was Tyberion? It was clearly very important. Ivy scanned the lines on the page, but they offered no clue. However, there was something else in the journal that intrigued her even more.

  The other key is safe with the Black Stork.…

  After reading this, the words her father had spoken to her the last time she visited him at Madstone’s took on a different meaning.

  Has the black stork come to you yet?

  She had thought that somehow he knew about the birds that had built a nest at the house on Durrow Street. Only that was impossible, of course, and his words had had nothing to do with the birds upstairs. The Black Stork must have been some friend of his. But who was this person?

  Her first thought was that it was the man in the black mask who had appeared to her on several occasions, and who she knew had shown himself to her father as well. Only there was something about that conclusion that did not seem quite right. The man in the mask always appeared at his own whim, but in the entry, her father had described going to see the Black Stork himself. Ivy bent back over the journal, to see if there was a subtle clue she had missed.

  The sound of a knock carried into her bedchamber. Someone was at the outer door of the sitting room. Hastily she bookmarked the journal and locked it again in the Wyrdwood box. Then she went out into the sitting room and opened the door. On the other side was a young woman whose white ruffled cap was pulled nearly down to her eyes.

  “Pardon for the intrusion, my lady,” the young woman said. “The innkeeper bid me to tell you that your people are here.”

  Ivy shook her head. “My people?”

  “Aye, my lady. They arrived in their carriage and are waiting for you to join them.”

  “But I am not expecting any company,” Ivy said. “I’m sure there must be some mistake.”

  The servant shook her head. “No, my lady, begging your pardon. They asked for you very clearly. I heard them myself.”

  Ivy wondered if it was perhaps Mr. Rafferdy and Mr. Garritt. However, it was tomorrow that Mr. Rafferdy had promised to pay a visit, and she could not imagine who else it might be. It was not like Mr. and Mrs. Baydon to call without sending a note first.

  There was nothing to do but go down, but she was in no state to go out of her rooms. As these visitors had arrived unexpectedly, whoever it was would have to wait for her.

  “Please tell them I will be down shortly,” Ivy said.

  As quickly as she could, Ivy put on a simple yellow dress, made sure her face and teeth were clean, and put her hair up with a few pins. A glance in a mirror confirmed that, while hardly fit for any formal affair, she would at least not inspire horror in anyone who beheld her.

  Ivy left her chamber and went downstairs. The innkeeper told her that her callers were awaiting her in the back salon, where they were taking some coffee. Ivy thanked him, then went into the salon.

  “Oh!” she exclaimed.

  “Good morning, Lady Quent,” Lady Crayford said, smiling. The viscountess wore a cobalt gown and a smart hat atop her chestnut hair. “Are you ready for our excursion?”

  “But you do not have your hat or parasol,” one of her companions said. He was a tall and exceedingly handsome young man with hair the same chestnut color as Lady Crayford’s. Ivy had met him last night. This was Colonel Daubrent, the brother of the viscountess. “Would you like me to have a servant go up to your rooms and fetch them for you, Lady Quent?”

  “My hat and parasol?” she said, too dumb to think of anything else to say. “Why should I need them?”

  “For our drive into the country, of course,” replied the other young man who was with them. His name was Lord Eubrey, Ivy had learned last night. He looked very well in a coat of fawn-colored velvet, and an ornate ring, set with a blue stone, sparkled on his right hand.

  Again Ivy could only repeat what she had heard. “The country?”

  “We have very fine weather for it today,” Colonel Daubrent said. He looked at the viscountess. “I am sure even you must find some scene to inspire your eye, Lisenne.”

  Lady Crayford laughed. “You know perfectly well I can find as much to admire in a foggy scene as a sunny one. Indeed, it is my hope to find something more natural, even wild, to paint today. I am quite weary of depicting tranquil gardens. I wish I could see some of the windswept scenes you described last night, Lady Quent, when you spoke of your time in the West Country.”

  Ivy was still astonished, but at last she was able to grasp what the others were discussing. There had to be some mistake. And in the gentlest terms, so there was no possibility her words might be construed as an admonishment, she stated that she was unaware there had been any plan to take a drive in the country today.

  “But we discussed it in great detail last night,” Lady Crayford said. “We were of a mind to go to the country, and we were all in agreement that you must come with us, Lady Quent. We spoke of it a great deal. Yet were we all truly so awful as to never think to ask you? It must be so! In which case we are the most wretched sort of beings. You must accept our deepest apologies.”

  Ivy was aghast. Surely the viscountess did not owe her an apology for thinking of her in such a generous manner. She assured them they were very kind to have thought of her.

  “On the contrary, we are horridly selfish,” Lord Eubrey said. “We did not get our fill of you last night, Lady Quent, having to share you with so many others at the party, and so we wish to have more of you for ourselves.”

  These words shocked Ivy anew. “I can hardly believe that is the case.”

  “It is very much the case,” Lady Crayford said with a bright laugh. “There was no one at the party last night people wished to be near more than you, Lady Quent. I hardly got any chance to speak to you. Thus I concocted a scheme for an excursion in the country to rectify the situation.”

  The viscountess’s mirth was catching, and Ivy smiled. “Well, then, I hope we will soon have an occasion for such a drive.”

  Colonel Daubrent shook his head. “Are you not going to come with us now, Lady Quent? The carriage stands ready, and we have sent ahead for a dinner at the inn at Corwent Crossing.”

  The idea of an excursion with such interesting companions was very tempting; Ivy h
ad been in the city so long. To go out into the country, to look at beautiful scenes and discuss how they might be painted, was a marvelous thought.

  “I was just sitting down to write a letter to Mrs. Baydon,” she said. “And my sisters are out for the morning. They would wonder after me if they returned and found me gone.”

  Lady Crayford waved a hand. “Think what a more interesting letter you could write to your friend after a day in the country. You would have such lively things to relate, and so delight and entertain her all the more. As for your sisters, simply leave word with the innkeeper where you have gone, and they will not have any cause to worry.”

  Ivy could only concede that was true. However, in addition to writing Mrs. Baydon, she had intended to work on the ledger for the house on Durrow Street, for there were many expenses from the refurbishment to record.

  “I am not properly dressed,” she said. “And I cannot believe I am in any way needed for your amusement.”

  “I must respectfully disagree on both accounts,” Lord Eubrey said. “For I am certain we will have a glum time without you. Lady Crayford will have interest only in scenery, and Daubrent is a dour soul if not properly provoked toward animation—something I’m sure only you can accomplish. Besides, you look perfectly dressed for a drive on a warm day. You want only your bonnet and parasol. I will send for them now.”

  Ivy could find no further arguments to utter. Within moments her hat and parasol were sent for, and the innkeeper was instructed to tell her sisters where she had gone. Then the viscountess took her arm as they strolled toward the door of the inn.

  Now that it had been decided, Ivy felt an excitement growing in her. To see the sun on fields, to feel the wind against her face, and to converse with clever people was suddenly all she wanted.

  “You are so good to indulge us, Lady Quent. I am sure you will help me choose the best scene to paint.”

  “I don’t know,” Ivy said. “I’m not sure I will know what to look for, or what would make an appropriate subject.”