The Master of Heathcrest Hall (19 page)

She shook her head, and the dappled light beneath the tree turned to stars as moisture welled forth in her eyes.

“You have never done me any wrong that must be forgiven, Ivoleyn. Rather, it is I who owe you a debt—you who have given to me so generously, and have asked for so very little in return.”

“But I would have given you more!” She at last managed to speak through her anguish. “I would have given you a son.”

“A son?” he said, and he could not help but appear astonished. Then he looked away, and she could see his throat move as he swallowed. Nor could his beard entirely disguise the trembling of his lip.

“Didn’t Dr. Lawrent tell you that as well? No, I see that he did not, and I suppose it is only right that he left it for me to give you that particular news.” She turned away from him, unable to endure the lines of sorrow written upon his face. “Now do you see why I must ask you to forgive me, Alasdare? I know you can only have hoped to have a son.”

For several moments the silence was broken solely by the whisper of the leaves above. Then she heard his footsteps behind her, and felt the warmth of his breath upon the nape of her neck.

“A son?” His voice was very low. “No, Ivoleyn, when I wed you, it was not out of any hope that we would ever have a son.”

Now it was Ivy who was astonished. Did not every man hope for a son to succeed him? Only then she thought of her conversation with Dr. Lawrent the day after the spark within her was extinguished.

I’ve heard it said in the county that there aren’t many sons in the Addysen line
, she had said.

I am given to understand there have only ever been a few male children born into that family
, the kindly doctor had replied.

A strange sort of calmness filled her, and a clarity of thought. “So you knew,” she said now, turning around and looking up at Mr. Quent. “You knew, given my nature, that I was unlikely to ever bear you a son. And that even if I did, he would be …”

“That he would be like Mr. Samonds, you mean?”

Ivy could only nod, a tightness in her throat. Mr. Samonds was the farrier in Cairnbridge, the village near Heathcrest Hall, and like Ivy he was a great-grandchild of Rowan Addysen—one of the scant number of sons ever born into that line. It was his sister, Halley Samonds, who had vanished into the stand of Wyrdwood east of Heathcrest.

Mr. Quent took her hands, enfolding them easily within his own. “Know that I would have given him all of my love and attention no matter what, for he would have been our own. If society might have sometimes made his existence more difficult, or caused him to think poorly of himself, then I would have done even more to forge an easier path for him, and make him know how highly he was regarded and wanted.”

An ache surrounded Ivy’s heart, for she could almost picture him now: a boy with Mr. Quent’s tousled brown hair and her own green eyes. It was only when she felt the warmth of tears flowing down her cheeks that she understood she was weeping. Mr. Quent was weeping as well, his usually stoic features arranged in grief. His thick arms went around her—not in an attempt to grant comfort this time, but rather seeking it. She clasped him tightly in return.

Though she might have expected otherwise, it was Ivy who first ceased to produce tears. Then, in time, he followed suit, and they moved apart.

“Not all men would think the same on the matter as you,” she said after they had been silent for a while. “Many men would not be so accepting of such a son as we might have.”

His thick shoulders heaved with a sigh. “Many men do not know what an inquirer knows. Society has not generally taken a kindly view of witches, either. But Lord Rafferdy long believed
that they would play some important purpose in the scheme of things. And have you not proven him right with your actions? Given that, I can only believe the same is true for the sons of witches as well—that they have some vital role in all of this. What that might be, I cannot say. Perhaps it is simply to bring more beauty into the world. If so, then that is no small thing.”

Ivy thought of the illusionists she had once seen working their craft at a party at Lady Crayford’s. Though some considered it scandalous to have any sort of contact with Siltheri, Ivy had detected nothing inherently unwholesome in the visions they had conjured. True, they might as easily concoct lurid or violent scenes as beautiful ones. Yet that was merely the same choice that all people had—man or woman, magician, illusionist, or witch—the choice to live their life for good or ill.

“Thank you,” she said at last.

Now it was a quizzical look that he gave her. “For what?”

“For always choosing to be good.”

This time it was she who threw her arms around him, leaning her cheek against his chest. He enclosed her in his arms, holding her tightly.

“No, it is I who must thank
you
—you, who have let me know happiness one last time, when I believed I never would again.”

Despite the warmth of his embrace, and the comfort she felt enclosed within the strong circle of his arms, a note of alarm entered into Ivy’s thoughts. The words he had chosen seemed odd to her for some reason.

She pulled away enough to look up at his face. “But I am sure we will have much more happiness in the future! Even if we are never blessed with a son, can we not at least hope for a daughter?”

“Of course we can,” he said, and brushed a lock of hair from her face.

She nodded, but she could not help a sigh. “A daughter would be a great joy, but she would not be able to inherit your title. There will be no one to carry it onward, I fear.”

For a moment he looked away, as if he saw something in the
distance. Then his gaze returned to her, and he smiled. “As the title has been so recently granted, that can hardly be of much concern. But come—if I am to be the lord of this manor for the present, then I must have my lady beside me as I enter.”

Gladly she acquiesced to the will of the master of the house, and together they went up the walk and passed within.

E
LDYN STEPPED through the door, its square glass panes fogged with steam, and into the warm interior of the coffeehouse.

The establishment was crowded despite the fact that it was pitch-black outside the windows; or rather, it was crowded
because
of it. The umbral had persisted for close to twenty hours now, and there was no sign of an end. The city was glazed over with frost, and there were more than a few people in want of a hot cup to warm the blood and open the eyes. It was time for everyone to make a day of it, whether the sun would show itself or not.

At last Eldyn found a corner at the end of a table where he could crowd in. He called for a pot of coffee, and when this was brought he pressed his fingers against it to thaw them. It had been foolish to walk so far in the cold and dark, but he had wanted to get a copy of
The Swift Arrow
as soon as it was off the presses, and that meant going all the way across the Old City to the broadsheet’s offices on Coronet Street.

He could have afforded a hack cab, given the regals he had just earned, but none could be found for hire, as carriages were always greatly in demand during long umbrals. So he had gone on foot through the streets of the Old City, keeping the shadows close about him any time he drew near a group of men who huddled
around an open fire, wrapped in rags and old blankets. If someone were to slit his throat to take his coat and boots, it wouldn’t be the first time it had happened of late.

The bales from the printer arrived at the offices of
The Swift Arrow
just after he did, and he paid a penny to get a copy off the top of the stack. By then he was shivering, and his fingers were too numb to turn the pages of the broadsheet. Seeing the sign advertising the coffeehouse across the street, he had hurried to it.

Now Eldyn tipped the pot to fill his cup. The coffee was too scalding to drink, so he poured some onto his saucer. He let it cool, looking around him as he did. The establishment reminded him a little of Mrs. Haddon’s, for the tables were well worn and the air was thick with steam and the burnt caramel smells of tobacco and roasted coffee.

There was no more to be made of the comparison, though. This place was far from Covenant Cross, and the men who filled it were by appearances an older and coarser lot than the young men who attended the various colleges at the university. Nor did they engage in animated conversations about politics. Instead they quietly hunched over their cups. The various copies of the Rules of Citizenship posted around the room were all crisp and unmolested.

At last Eldyn’s coffee had cooled and his fingers had warmed to a sufficient point that he was able to tip his saucer over his cup and take a long, satisfying drink. At once, a pleasant tingling coursed through him. He took another sip, then set down the cup and removed the broadsheet he had bought from his coat.

The story at the top of the front page discussed reports of a violent earthquake that had struck on the southern continent, on the edge of the Murgh Empire. According to the article, an entire city had been thrown down in rubble, and countless souls had perished in the devastation. As shocking as this news was, Eldyn’s attention barely lingered upon the story. Instead, it was the headline just below that caught his gaze.

S
EE AN
A
STOUNDING
I
MPRESSION OF
H
ER
M
AJESTY
, it read. And just
below it, in a slightly smaller typeface,
You Will Feel as if You Are Standing Before the Princess Yourself!

While sometimes broadsheets put impressions on the front page to attract attention, it was the custom to print the most exclusive images on the second page, so that no one might sneak a look atop the stack without paying a penny first. His fingers trembling—with excitement now rather than cold—Eldyn turned the page.

And there was Layle Arringhart, gazing up at him.

He had worried that ink and paper would not be able to reproduce all of the details he had attempted to capture in the impression, but he need not have worried, for the quality of the printing was superior. He could easily make out each of the tiny pearls on the bodice of her gown and the facets of the large emerald that dangled at her throat. Fine lines were visible around her eyes, a reminder that she was not really so young anymore, though she remained a pretty woman.

In the impression, the princess was just stepping through an arched opening in a stone wall, a pensive expression on her face, as a pair of soldiers followed behind her. Several grave markers could just be glimpsed through the opening, and the branches of a gnarled hawthorn tree drooped over the wall from above. It was an exquisite scene, and Eldyn had been more than a little lucky to see it.

He had gone to Duskfellow’s graveyard yesterday in hopes of catching a glimpse of Princess Layle. The moon was full, and as it was the third Brightday since the interment of King Rothard, Eldyn reasoned there was a chance the princess would be there. It was the general custom to visit the grave of a near relative three months after burial, and as far as Eldyn knew, the king’s remains had yet to be removed to the family crypt at Arringhart Castle, in the south of Altania.

There had been few public sightings of the princess ever since the king’s funeral, out of concerns for the safety of the royal person, and Eldyn reasoned there was enough speculation as to her
present state that an impression of her, if such could be produced, would be of interest to a broadsheet. Layle had always been more popular than her father; and even those who did not care to see the crown go to another Arringhart could only be curious to see how she was bearing up since Rothard’s death. Therefore, shortly after dawn, Eldyn proceeded through the Old City to Duskfellow’s.

And promptly discovered he was not the only one who had concluded that the princess would be there. A great crowd of people gathered around the iron gates of the graveyard. Among them, Eldyn saw at least three illusionists whom he knew to be makers of impressions. He made an attempt to work his way up through the crowd to get within view of the cemetery gate, but after receiving more than a few angry glares, and an equal number of sharp elbows to the ribs, he abandoned the idea.

Defeated, Eldyn turned and walked down the street, the graveyard’s high wall to his left. If only there was a way to peer through it! But it was without chink or crack, and there were enough redcrests about that he did not think it prudent to try to scale the stones. He would just have to find something else to make an impression of.

Though what that would be, he did not know; and if he did not sell an impression soon, he would not be able to even attempt making any more. His savings were gone, for he had used the entire sum to pay for Sashie’s entry into the nunnery, and his wages from the theater, given how modest they were of late, were only enough to buy clothes and whiskey and the necessities of life.

As for the money from the impression he had sold with Perren’s help, he had used it all to buy more impression rosin, mordant, and engraving plates. Unfortunately, he had gone through nearly all of it making impressions of scenes that had either not turned out or, if they did, had not been good enough to sell to a newspaper. He could only suppose Perren would be happy to hear that he had failed without the other young man’s guidance; though thankfully he had not encountered Perren since their argument.