The Master of Heathcrest Hall (32 page)

Ivy turned a page, the sound of it loud in the hush of the library. The only other noise was the faint whir that emanated from the rosewood clock on the mantel. She glanced up at it. On the right-hand face, a thick crescent of the gold disk was yet visible behind the black, indicating the umbral was far from at its midpoint. And though she watched for what must have been several minutes, neither of the disks appeared to move. She would have thought the clock was broken if it wasn’t for the sound of the
mechanisms turning within. It was evidently going to be another very long night.

As she had so many times before, Ivy wondered how the old clock was able to predict what the almanacs and the astrographers no longer could: the length of the lumenals and umbrals. Somehow it was able to account for the influence of the planet Cerephus, and to compensate for its effects, just like her father’s celestial globe. Not for the first time, she wished she could ask her father about both the globe and the clock—where they had come from, and how they were made.

That wasn’t possible, of course. But while she could not benefit from her father’s wisdom on this topic, they would all soon benefit from his presence. Upon returning from her last visit to Madstone’s, Ivy had spoken to Mr. Quent about her wish to bring Mr. Lockwell home, and he had emphatically agreed.

He had spoken to Mr. Barbridge later that same day, to discuss plans with the builder, and already a suite of rooms was being prepared in advance of Mr. Lockwell’s return. These were on the second floor, in a part of the south wing that was at once quiet and not too far removed from the busier parts of the house. They would comprise a bedchamber as well as a sunny parlor which could contain books and other such objects and instruments which might lend him comfort or occupy his hands when they became restless. As soon as the rooms were ready for him, they would bring Mr. Lockwell home from Madstone’s.

Ivy could hardly wait for that day. She knew Rose would be overjoyed to hear the news that their father was coming home. So would Lily, of course. But whether Mr. Lockwell’s homecoming would be enough to distract Lily’s mind from other pursuits, Ivy was less certain. Earlier that day, she had finally had an opportunity to speak to Mr. Quent about the matter of Lily. Only he had been somewhat distracted by his work, and had not seemed to fully grasp the import of the matter.

“Were the drawings good?” he had asked to Ivy’s surprise, after she finished describing what she had seen in Lily’s folio.

“Yes, very good,” she was forced to concede. “Though she has
had no instruction in drawing, her talent at it is at least equal to her ability at the pianoforte.”

Mr. Quent nodded. “Lily is possessed of an artistic and expressive nature. I am sure it cannot be a harm for her to indulge her fancies. Rather, I would think it is best for them to have an outlet so that … so that these urges do not manifest themselves in less constructive ways.”

He absently touched the gold ring on his right hand as he said this—the wedding band he had put on the day they married—and only then did Ivy recall that the previous Mrs. Quent had been an artist. She had painted scenes of the stand of Wyrdwood near Heathcrest Hall before that fateful evening when she was called to it, and then fell to her death while attempting to scale the stone wall that bounded it.

Perhaps he wondered, if he had encouraged her painting more, whether she might not have been compelled to venture to the Wyrdwood. Ivy was not so certain of that, or of the notion that if they indulged Lily’s drawings it would satisfy rather than inflame the impulses behind them. All the same, she let the matter pass for the moment. They could discuss it again at a time when he was less preoccupied by his work.

Feeling preoccupied herself, Ivy set down the book. There was no use in reading it if she was not of a mind to read it carefully; otherwise she could easily pass over a clue she had already overlooked the first time. Instead, she went to the desk, took out the Wyrdwood box, and undid the wooden braid that locked it shut.

She had already looked through the journal once that night, not long after sunset. Still, it could not do harm to check it again. It was a very long umbral, after all, and so it was conceivable that the stars and planets might have moved enough in the heavens to form a new alignment, and so cause an entry to appear.

Only, as she looked through it, she found that was not the case. When she reached the last page it was blank, like all the others. She picked up the journal to return it to its box, but just then a noise startled her: a distant clatter that ceased as abruptly as it began. Ivy set the journal down and left the library. She saw nothing
in the front hall, and so hurried to Mr. Quent’s study to see if he had heard it.

As she entered the study, she saw the source of the noise at once. No longer did she fear some intruder in the house, and instead she smiled as she knelt to pick up the stopper from an ink bottle that had rolled off the desk to the floor. Only the stillness of the house had made it seem so loud; and indeed it had not been so loud as to disturb Mr. Quent. He leaned forward upon the desk, his cheek upon his arm, snoring softly.

It was far from the most comfortable bed, but she was reluctant to wake him, for fear he would return to work. Instead she took her shawl from her shoulders and draped it over his. Then she lowered the wick on the lamp until it gave off only the faintest light and withdrew from the study, closing the door soundlessly behind her.

Ivy glided across the darkened hall and went back to the library. She had no wish to return upstairs to bed without Mr. Quent. Besides, being startled by the sudden noise had made her feel awake. She sat in the chair, picked up the small red book, and continued reading as the rosewood clock hummed to itself upon the mantel.

T
HIS TIME IT WAS a chiming noise that startled Ivy. She opened her eyes and sat up in the chair. As she did, the small red book tumbled from her lap to the floor.

The chime came again, then once more. It was the old rosewood clock, striking the end of the third span of the night. The candle next to the chair had burned down and extinguished itself in a lump of wax. All the same, she could see, for a faint gray light passed through the windows. Dawn had come, though it seemed more wan than it should have been. Even as she thought this, the low sound of thunder rattled the windowpanes.

Ivy bent and picked up the book. She had stayed up for hours, reading in the silence of the library, until once again she reached the end of the book. She had found it just as fascinating and awful
as before, but no more illuminating. If the man in the black mask had left it on the doorstep because there was a clue within it, then she had been too dull to find it. Nor did she think another reading would reveal anything, for she had gone through it word by word. She would just have to hope the nameless stranger would observe her puzzlement and leave another hint for her.

In the meantime, she was in great want of tea and a hairbrush. She set down the book, then departed the library, smoothing gold tangles from her face as she crossed the front hall. Upon entering her husband’s study, she saw that the papers had been cleared away from the desk and the chair was empty. The stopper was firmly set in the ink bottle.

Ivy went back out to the front hall and there found Mrs. Seenly, who informed her that Mr. Quent had departed for the Citadel before dawn. Though Ivy wished he had allowed himself to rest awhile longer, she was not surprised by this news. And she had her own tasks to see to that day—overseeing the preparations of her father’s rooms chief among them. She started upstairs, only then it occurred to her that she had never put away her father’s journal last night.

Not wanting to leave such an important thing lying about, especially when there were workmen in the house, Ivy returned to the library. The journal was where she had left it, lying open on the writing table. She picked it up, to return it to the Wyrdwood box—

—and gasped. Just as she was shutting the journal, a dark spot caught her eye. Hastily she opened the book again and saw that she was not mistaken. A word had appeared on the otherwise blank right-hand page. Then another word appeared beside it, and another.

My dearest Ivy
, they read.

Carefully, as if her motions might disturb the enchantment, Ivy set the open journal on the desk. More words manifested themselves upon the page. They did so gradually, stroke by stroke, and sometimes with pauses between them. They were appearing precisely at the speed he had written them, she realized, and the
pauses must represent when he had dipped his pen. For some reason the writing was somewhat fainter than usual, but still easily read.

Ivy could only wince as she read these words. Her father had discovered Mr. Gambrel’s betrayal, but the truth of Mr. Bennick’s
nature had been hidden from him. Yet at the last, Mr. Bennick must have revealed his true intentions when he attempted to seize the Eye of Ran-Yahgren, and her father had been forced to use all of his magickal ability—indeed, to give up his very sanity—in order to bind and protect the artifact.

As for why he had worked to convince Gambrel to show him his fragment of the keystone, Ivy could guess the reason easily enough. Bennick had wanted to gain the whole of it for some awful purpose, and the traitorous Gambrel had been duped into revealing his portion—perhaps with promises from Bennick that he would involve Gambrel in whatever it was he was scheming. But what was the nature of the keystone? Where had it come from, and why was it so perilous that her father had broken it apart?

Ivy kept reading as spidery handwriting crept across the page.

Ivy waited a minute, gazing at the page, but no more words appeared after these last; so she sat at the writing table, took out a pen and paper, and transcribed the entry. As she did, her mind hummed like the rosewood clock on the mantel.

At least she knew now for what reason her father wished her to find the others—to gain the pieces of this keystone. But what was this object and why was it important? And what did it have to do with the Grand Conjunction that he believed was coming? Ivy didn’t know. Just as she still didn’t know how to find Fintaur or Larken.

Or did she?

Her father had guarded the knowledge in the journal with Wyrdwood locks and magickal spells, and had obscured it with riddles, all to keep it safe from unwanted eyes. Yet at the same time he had also intended for her to discover and understand the wisdom imparted on its pages.

As a girl, Mr. Lockwell had often given her mysteries and enigmas to solve. Ivy supposed he had been training her for the very task before her now. While the puzzles he had posed to her back then had often been difficult, they had never been unfair or impossible to solve. She could not believe those in the journal were any different. Which meant he had to have given her enough information to decipher the riddles in the journal. She was just being too dull to understand them.