The Master of Heathcrest Hall (41 page)

Eldyn knew they had gone once to march with Jaimsley in Covenant Cross. But that had been before the demonstrations had taken a violent turn. Back when they used to meet at Mrs. Haddon’s, Warrett’s phlegmatic demeanor had always countered and cooled Talinger’s West Country temper. Eldyn was sure they would have had the sense not to be there in the square when the soldiers opened fire.

But Eldyn had been there, hadn’t he? And he had made an impression of the scene, of the blood flowing on the cobblestones, not knowing that some of it belonged to two men who had been his friends.

Two men who were now dead.

Eldyn lowered the broadsheet, crumpling it in his hands as he did. He staggered to an alcove by a doorway, then slumped within it and wept. As he did, shadows crept from nearby corners and crevices, gathering about him, as if to comfort him like a soft, dark blanket.

A sound jarred Eldyn from his grief: the noise of marching boots. He shrank back against the doorway, pulling the shadows closer, as a small band of men wearing red-plumed hats marched along the street in close formation. The sun glinted off the brass
buttons on their blue coats, and off the barrels of the rifles on their backs.

He wondered if some of them had been there that day at Covenant Cross, if they had fired those rifles. Perhaps some of them had been the ones who had hauled Mrs. Haddon to Barrowgate. Or maybe a few had been there in the audience that night at the Theater of the Moon, threatening to tear the place down if they were not entertained, until Master Tallyroth joined in the play to appease them, and in the act expended himself until he was nearly dead.

The redcrests had sworn an oath to protect the people of Altania. But who would protect the people against
them
? Certainly not the government, for that was whom the soldiers served.

At least, not
this
government.

The soldiers passed by, and Eldyn staggered from the alcove onto the street. He looked down at his hands. Though stained black with ink from the broadsheet, they remained delicate and smooth. His father had always mocked him for the fine appearance of his hands.

A woman would be pleased to have such hands as yours
, Vandimeer Garritt would say with a laugh if he was in a good mood.
Be careful not to tear a fingernail, now
.

Despite his father’s words, Eldyn was not afraid to put up a struggle. He had shown that when he brought about the demise of the highwayman Westen Darendal, and when he confronted Archdeacon Lemarck beneath the chapel in High Holy. Eldyn was no soldier, he knew that.

But there were other ways to fight a war than with guns.

He was already walking past carriages and horses and people before he even realized where he was going. Moving at a quick march, he made his way along University Street, then turned down a narrow lane, coming to a set of stone stairs between two buildings. B
UTCHER’S
S
LIP
, read the metal plaque on the arch above the stairs.

The stairs ended in a small close. The buildings leaned inward as they rose up all around, so that only a dim light filtered down
into the little courtyard. On the far side was a door set into a wall lined with many small windows. Eldyn hesitated, but only for a moment. Then he went up to the door and knocked loudly.

The door opened. On the other side was a long corridor blocked by two men about his own age. Both of them were tall, with thick necks and meaty forearms.

“What do you want?” one of them growled.

“My name is Eldyn Garritt.”

“And?”

“I’m here to see Orris Jaimsley. I think he’s staying in the dormitories. He told me to come see him if …” He drew in a breath. “That is, he said you could always use another trustworthy man.”

The two gazed at him with narrowed eyes, as if taking his measure, then they looked at each other. Eldyn willed himself not to slink away and pull the shadows around him.

Finally the young man who had spoken nodded.

“If Jaimsley told you to come see him, then you should see him.”

The door opened wider, and Eldyn stepped through.

I
T WAS THE MIDDLE of a long lumenal, and Ivy and Mr. Quent sat together in the garden on the side of the house, on a blanket spread out in the dappled shade beneath the tall plane trees.

Surprisingly, it had been his idea to leave their dwelling and go outside for a while. She would have been quite content to spend the remainder of the day in bed, encircled in his arms, engaging in those same tender activities with which they had whiled away the morning. But then he had risen, and he had suggested they go out.
Nor could she disagree with the notion once she looked out the window.

It was a perfect day to be outdoors. There had been so much queer weather of late—days that were too stifling, or that were violent with storms. But today, at this moment, it was beautiful. The arching branches of the plane trees swayed languidly in a breeze that was perfectly warm, and their leaves imparted a green tincture to the gold light that filtered from above. Ivy breathed in, finding the light and air to be every bit as heady as the cool wine which Mrs. Seenly had brought out to them on a tray.

Ivy wondered if her sisters would spy them through a window and come out to join them, but so far they had not. Rose’s had never been a gregarious personality, and she had been particularly withdrawn of late. Recent events had affected her—had affected all of them. Ivy had banished all broadsheets from the house, but that did not mean her sisters were entirely ignorant of what had occurred when Mr. Quent appeared before Assembly. They had both asked questions, and some news did not need to be printed upon a page in order to travel. Ivy had overheard a few of the servants whispering—though after she informed Mrs. Seenly, this behavior quickly stopped.

As for Lily, she had been astonishingly well-behaved over the last quarter month. Ivy had not seen her once with her folio, and so could begin to hope Lily had given up her fascination with illusion plays. What was more, Ivy could not recall a single outburst or argument, or any kind of peevish behavior—even when such might have been justified.

While invitations to dinners and parties had become infrequent in recent months, due to the number of families who had departed the city, now such notes and letters ceased entirely. And even if people did return to Invarel at some point, invitations for the Miss Lockwells—or for Ivy—were unlikely to resume. Newspapers might have been banished from the house, but they were plentiful about the city. At this point there could be no one with any sort of connection who was not aware of the accusation that had been leveled against Mr. Quent.

The fact that this charge had not been proven was incidental. Ivy could not forget how the merest intimation of treason had required Mr. Rafferdy to break off his engagement with Miss Everaud. She had been forced to flee the country with her father, Lord Everaud, who according to whispers had been sending funds to the Principalities for the purpose of helping Huntley Morden to raise a fleet of ships.

Lord Davarry had made no such accusation of treason against Mr. Quent. But meeting with a witch, one who was known to have aided Torland rebels, was more than enough to cause people to abruptly and irrevocably break off all association. Not so very long ago, at the party for Lily and Rose, Lady Crayford had told Ivy that she was bound to rise higher yet in society. How things had been altered in the few months since then! Ivy knew that, if she were to arrange another party now, no one but themselves would come.

As for Lady Crayford, fortune had progressed in a far more awful manner. After Lord Crayford—or rather, Mr. Gambrel—was implicated in the affair of the archbishop’s madness, Lady Crayford had fled the city to their manor in the east. While being cast from society’s highest circles was no doubt a stinging punishment for her, this had been superseded by a more terrible and final judgment. Lady Marsdel had only lately learned that, some time ago, the country manor of the Crayfords had been consumed in a fire. So quick and violent had been the flames that the entire house had burned to the ground before any of its denizens could escape.

When Lady Marsdel had imparted this news in a recent letter, Ivy felt both shock and sorrow. Lady Crayford had betrayed her, and had used her in the most reprehensible manner, but still Ivy would not have wished such a dreadful fate upon her. Ivy shuddered when she thought of it—of the pain and fear Lady Crayford must have suffered in the end.

F
OR IVY’S PART, she could hardly claim what had happened was any sort of punishment for
her
. True, she was not invited to parties anymore, but nor was she in any way abandoned. In addition
to notes from Lady Marsdel, she had received a visit from Mrs. Baydon, assuring Ivy of her continued affection and regard. And while she had not heard from him, she was certain that Mr. Rafferdy would still condescend to associate with them. After all, he had had prior dealings with a witch himself—namely Ivy.

Still, there was no pretending that they were not in general cut off from society in the city. Yet despite this, Lily had seemed unperturbed these last days. Ivy would have thought her to be distraught at the sudden severing of their connections, and this was one occasion on which Ivy would not have begrudged her an outburst of tears.

Instead, Lily had seemed content to read books or help Rose sew shirts for the poor basket. When she played the pianoforte, she chose lighter and more melodious pieces than the ominous compositions she used to favor. Ivy was confounded by Lily’s unexpectedly good behavior, but she could hardly complain about it.

“Can I pour you some more wine, Ivoleyn?”

She turned her gaze from the branches above to her husband on the blanket beside her, and she smiled.

“Perhaps a little,” she said. “Though it feels indulgent to have more than one glass in the middle of the day.”

“As you are in general very poor at indulging yourself, I think we should seize upon this opportunity.”

He spoke this so seriously that she could only laugh, and she willingly held out her glass so he could fill it from the bottle. He filled his own, and they reclined upon the blanket as they sipped the pale yellow wine.

Now it was not the branches she watched, but her husband. Despite the events of these last days, he looked very well. It was too warm for a coat, and his cream-colored shirt was rolled up at the cuffs and opened at the throat. His beard was newly trimmed, and the muted, dappled light beneath the trees softened the rugged lines of his face.

It was curious. She had noted how Mr. Rafferdy had grown more handsome even as he had become more serious, but for Mr. Quent it was the opposite. He seemed calm and at ease now, and
this had a decidedly positive effect upon his appearance. Coils of brown hair tumbled over his brow, and a few similarly colored tufts peeked out from the open collar of his shirt. She could only smile at him, her Tharosian faun, out amid the green.

“What are you looking at?” he said. “You have a peculiar gleam in your eyes.”

“I was simply admiring the view,” she said teasingly.

Mr. Quent gave her a scowl, but it was an expression of humor rather than vexation, and he went back to drinking his wine.

Ivy smiled, for it was good to see him away from his study. He had continued to work diligently over these last days, reading and writing answers to numerous missives from other inquirers, and poring over maps and reports. But at no point since his testimony had he gone up to the Citadel.

That he would never succeed Lord Rafferdy and be confirmed as lord inquirer was so assured that they had hardly bothered to speak of it. Ivy could not claim she wasn’t saddened by this fact, though it was not for herself that she felt sorrow. Rather, it was for him. He had not craved the acclaim he had previously gotten, and neither did he deserve the scorn he was receiving now. She knew he wanted only to do his work to the best of his ability. So she was saddened for Altania as well, that it should be deprived of the benefit of his efforts.

And as for the witches he might have found and aided in his efforts to prevent Risings—Ivy felt not sorrow but dread. For who should discover them now? Lady Shayde and the Gray Conclave? Or would young women instead hear the call of the Wyrdwood, and scale its walls and venture into its depths, losing themselves amid its green tangles.…

No, she would not think that. There were yet other inquirers carrying on Lord Rafferdy’s work. And for her part, despite all these concerns, Ivy could not say that she missed the letters and invitations, or the comings and goings in the household. Rather, it was pleasant for things to be so quiet and peaceful, and to have Mr. Quent here at home with them. It was strange, but in a way she could not recall a time when she had been so content.

She noticed that he had set down his glass on the tray, and was rubbing two fingers against his temple.

“You have a headache again,” she said.

“It will pass.”