While before it had been the scene of many fashionable parties, it was now the case that no one went to the house of the viscountess except for a small number of servants. Nowhere she went in the city would anyone speak to her, or even meet her gaze. She, whose invitations had once been desired by the highest beings in the city, was now shunned by even the lowest.
A few days ago, Ivy had glanced out an upstairs window, and she had seen a figure in a dark violet gown standing on the street outside the front gate, her face concealed by a veil that draped from her broad hat. Though the figure lingered beyond the gate for some time, Ivy did not instruct the servants to go address the other and invite her in.
At last, as evening fell, Ivy had glanced out the window again, and the street beyond the gate was empty.
Ever since the reports linking the archdeacon and the viscount had appeared in the broadsheets, Ivy had done her best to comfort Mrs. Baydon. Captain Branfort was a kind and honorable man, she had said. No doubt he had deemed it best to keep his distance from Ivy and Mrs. Baydon, so that his intimate association with Lady Crayford’s brother and the viscount’s household could not possibly taint them.
While Mrs. Baydon still missed the captain, these words tempered her sorrow. Of course the captain would do such an honorable thing, she had said. And lately, her spirits had been greatly improved.
Now a pink tinge colored the windows in the gallery. Whether it was to be a long lumenal or short, Ivy had no idea. There was no use consulting the almanac anymore; the timetables could not be relied upon. However, she would go look at the old rosewood clock in the library later, and listen to the whirring of its gears. While the almanac could no longer be trusted, the clock never failed to chime just when a lumenal or umbral began. Like her father’s celestial globe, its inner workings were somehow calibrated to understand the new, altered motions of the heavens. How that could be, she did not know, but perhaps an entry would appear in his journal, explaining it to her.
At this moment, however, a yawn escaped Ivy, and she went back upstairs to return to bed for a little while. She slipped quietly into her bedchamber and found that Mr. Quent still slept soundly, for which she was glad. She knew he was greatly tired from his work. Then again, he had not seemed in any way weary last night, and her cheeks grew warm as she recalled the most ardent and pleasant way he had embraced her.
Indeed, there had been a fierceness to it, just as there had been with all of their embraces ever since she had told him about the events concerning Gambrel and the doors. She had told him that very night, upon his return from the Citadel, even though she had been reluctant to do so. She could only recall his great distress to learn she had been at the Evengrove the day of the Rising. All the same, she had told him everything: her encounter with Gambrel, how the saplings in the garden had destroyed the gol-yagru, and how she had commanded the trees of the Evengrove to carry her to Mr. Rafferdy, and then to the tomb of the Broken God.
For a long time after she finished, Mr. Quent was silent. At last he had asked to look through Arantus, and she had taken him to the door, using the leaf key to open it, and he gazed through at the moonscape beyond. Then he had told her to shut the door, and to keep the key safe in her Wyrdwood box. Also, he had agreed with her idea to cover up the door Tyberion, so that Gambrel could never escape from the way station there.
And that was all. She had feared he would grow angry with her, or scold her for placing herself in such peril. Instead, he had only said he was grateful Mr. Rafferdy had been with her. Then he’d taken her in his arms, holding her so tightly her breath was forced out of her in a gasp—though she made no motion to free herself.
Since then, they had spoken little of it all. Though she noticed he had not been at the Citadel as much these last days, and instead had been spending a significant amount of his time with Ivy and her sisters, something for which they were all happy and grateful.
Now, upon the bed, Mr. Quent stirred as the first rays of sunlight touched his face. He made a low sound, speaking in his sleep as he sometimes did. Ivy leaned closer to catch his words.
“No, Ashaydea,” he murmured. “You must let her go.”
The warmth faded from Ivy, leaving her cold despite the sunlight coming through the window. She remembered what he had told her the day of her sisters’ party—how Lady Shayde very much wanted to question a witch, and how there were forces in the government that would not view it favorably if it was discovered Mr. Quent had let the witch who caused the Risings in Torland go free.
“No,” he sighed again, and Ivy wondered who was there in his dream with Lady Shayde. Was it the woman in Torland? Or was it some other witch …
There was a sharp sound as he drew in a sudden breath of air. Then he opened his eyes, and his expression became a smile as he gazed up at her.
“Well, good morning, Mrs. Quent,” he said gruffly. Only then the furrows deepened again on his craggy brow. “But why do you look at me so intently as that! Is there something you wish to tell me?”
Despite the chill that crept through her, Ivy made herself smile.
“Only that you look very handsome this morning,” she said, and she leaned down to kiss him.
OUTSIDE, THE SUN lurched into the sky in fits and starts. The people of Invarel rose and began to go about their daily work, hurrying just a little and casting glances at the sky now and then, for there was no way to know just how long the lumenal would be.
Some of those who happened to gaze upward noticed that the sun was not the only light above. Rather, a faint red speck could be perceived as well. No longer was it visible only in the dark of an umbral. It had grown so bright that even the light of the sun could not entirely banish it from the sky. Those who saw it shuddered a little despite the warmth of the morning, then lowered their heads and continued on about their business.
Then, all at once, a ringing noise echoed out over Invarel. High upon the Crag, the bells of the Citadel were rolling and clanging. Unlike the bells of the churches in the city, which tolled the farthings of the day, there were only two occasions when the bells of the Citadel were ever rung. One was to announce the birth of a new prince or princess.
The other was to announce the death of a king.
Everywhere in the city, people ceased their hurried labors, listening to the tolling of the bells, understanding what that somber clarion portended. However, unlike the small beings who inhabited the city below, the heavens did not cease their motions, nor even so much as pause.
Instead, the celestial spheres continued to wheel, turning like the gears of a great clock, counting toward some soon impending hour.
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 Master of Heathcrest Hall.
The House on Durrow Street Page 74
