The Master of Heathcrest Hall (33 page)

Ivy took a paper from the Wyrdwood box. It was the one on which she had transcribed the previous entry that had appeared in the journal.
As for Fintaur, I believe you will find his whereabouts in the city of Ardaunto
, her father had written. She had assumed that meant Fintaur was in that city, in the Principalities on the northern edges of the Murgh Empire.

Only her father couldn’t possibly have expected her to board a ship and sail across the southern sea, not in such troubled times. Besides, as Ivy knew from past experience, it was important to read a riddle precisely. Her father had not said that Fintaur was
in
Ardaunto, only that she would discover his
whereabouts
there.

Propelled by a sudden excitement, Ivy rose and began looking through the shelves of books that lined the walls of the library. She ran her fingers over the spines, moving past volumes about the New Lands, the Northern Realms, the Murgh Empire.…

She halted, then pulled a book from the shelf. The title, written in florid gold script on the cover, read,
A History of the Principalities
. Not bothering with a chair, Ivy opened the book and began to read. The book was rather old, and was written in a style that was as florid as the script upon the cover. All the same, it was filled with many beautiful plates illustrating the fanciful costumes and ornate architecture of the various city-states that, centuries ago, had broken away from the Empire, and whose rulers had become fabulously wealthy through sea trade. She kept turning pages, looking over each one quickly—

“Oh!” Ivy said aloud, and took a step back from the shelf, the book still in her hands.

On the page before her was a beautifully wrought engraving of a shield.
The Royal Crest of the Princes of the City-State of Ardaunto
, read the caption below the illustration. But Ivy’s eyes lingered on these words only for a moment before returning to the engraving. Drawn on the shield was the figure of a lion, standing rampant upon its hind legs. From the back of the lion sprouted a pair of eagle’s wings, spreading out to either side.

Ivy shut the book and returned it to the shelf, though this action was difficult for the way her hands trembled.
As for Fintaur … you will find him residing under the aegis of the princes of the city of Ardaunto
.

Aegis. It was a word that meant auspices or protection.

Or shield.

Ivy knew now where she could find her father’s old compatriot Mr. Fintaur. Indeed, she already
had
found him.

Quickly, she returned to the writing table and used a shaker to sprinkle sand over the sheet on which she had transcribed her father’s words. She shook off the excess, made certain the ink was dry, and put the paper in the Wyrdwood box. She started to close the journal, to put it in the box as well, then gasped.

Even as they had appeared on the page, the spidery words were now vanishing one by one. Only it could not have been more than half an hour since they first appeared. Never had Ivy noticed one of her father’s entries vanish so soon after transcribing it. Usually the writing was visible for hours.

But not this time. Even while she had been transcribing them, the words in the journal had been unusually faint—more gray than black—as if they had not fully appeared. Now, as Ivy watched, the last of them faded away. A dread came upon her. What if she had not happened to look at the journal when she did? She would never have seen this entry!

Only she
had
seen it, she reassured herself. All the same, something was happening to the enchantment of the journal—something that had made this entry appear more faintly and briefly than those before it. What if, as a result of this effect, there were other entries she had missed?

If that was the case, there was nothing she could do about it now. She could only check the journal more frequently in the future. But at present, her first concern was to go to Greenly Circle. Ivy put away the journal and box, then hurried from the library. Rain lashed against the windows of the front hall. She passed through and found Mrs. Seenly in the dining room, making the table ready for breakfast.

“Mrs. Seenly,” Ivy said, a bit breathlessly, “please tell Lawden to ready the cabriolet.”

The housekeeper could not conceal her astonishment. “You’re going out, ma’am? But it’s raining in sheets out there!”

“I’m sure he will put the top up. Tell him to be ready in a quarter hour.” Without waiting for a reply, she left the room and swiftly ascended the stairs.

In her chamber she prepared herself to go out into the inclement weather, putting on a dress of brown velvet, a sturdy bonnet, and a woolen coat. All the while she thought of her last trip to Greenly Circle, and of the bookshop where she had purchased the complete copy of
The Towers of Ardaunto
. The shop had seemed peculiarly familiar to her, but she had been so intent upon the
book she had seen in the front window that she had not really paid attention to anything else in the shop.

Except there had been one thing besides the book she had noticed. It was the intricate piece of stained glass above the door: a beautiful work that depicted a lion standing rampant against a blue background.

A lion with wings.

It was the crest of Ardaunto. The aegis. Which meant the hunched, white-haired proprietor from whom she had purchased the book was …

“… Mr. Fintaur,” she said aloud as she hastily fastened the buttons of her coat.

Now she knew why the bookshop had seemed familiar to her. She had always had a memory, from when she was a girl, of her father taking her into a bookstore. She remembered how she had breathed in the dusty air, as if she could somehow inhale the knowledge the books exuded, until she became light-headed and her father had been forced to take her outside. That the bookshop of her memory was the very one where she had bought
The Towers of Ardaunto
, she was certain.

Ivy almost laughed at herself, though if she had, it would have been a rueful sound. Here she had been wishing for another clue from the man in the black mask, when he had already led her right where she needed to go. He had left the book on the steps of the house knowing she would find it, knowing she would be curious as to why the last pages had been cut from it, and that when she saw the book in the window she could only enter the shop. All of which meant that if he was not the peculiar customer who had put the book in the shop window, then it had to have been some accomplice of his.

That was an interesting idea, to think the stranger in black was perhaps not working alone, but that was something she could consider while Lawden drove her to Greenly Circle. She fastened the last button of the coat, then hurried from her chamber.

The quarter hour had barely passed by the time she descended to the front hall. Mrs. Seenly met her at the foot of the staircase.

“Is the cabriolet ready?” Ivy asked.

Mrs. Seenly clasped her hands tightly before her waist. “You have a visitor, ma’am.”

“A visitor?” Who would come to call so early in the lumenal, and when the weather outside was so foul?

She started to ask who it might be, but before she could do so movement caught her eye. Across the hall, a figure in a gown as black as a mourner’s rose from a chair by the window. Her visage was pale and smooth in the gloom beneath the sharp brim of her hat, like the face of a porcelain doll. Yet unlike a doll, her lips and cheeks were not touched with pink, but rather with blue-black shadows. The woman approached, the crackling of her dress audible in the silence of the room.

“I will leave you with your guest, ma’am,” Mrs. Seenly said, or rather gasped, and hurriedly departed from the hall as another roll of thunder rattled the windowpanes.

The noise seemed to rattle Ivy’s nerves as well. She tried to gather her thoughts, to comprehend how and why this most unexpected visitor was here, but the other closed the distance before she could do so.

“Good morning, your ladyship.”

The other woman did not make a curtsy, for she was a lady herself. Though what her precise rank was, or indeed if she had any title at all, Ivy had no idea. All she knew was what people called her guest.

“Lady Shayde.” She managed to speak the words, though they were rather faint.

“I hope you will forgive me for calling upon you unannounced.” Her voice was not harsh or piercing, but rather low, and with the slightest hint of an exotic accent. “I am sure it is impolite of me. Yet I come on an errand of some importance.”

Ivy shook her head. “But Sir Quent is not here. He has gone up to the Citadel this morning.”

“Yes, I know, Lady Quent. But it is not for your husband that I have come. Rather, I came to see you.”

Ivy stared stupidly. Inside her heavy dress and coat, moisture
trickled down her sides, yet she felt chilled. The wooden eye on the newel post regarded the visitor with curiosity, though it had sounded no alarm. All the same, something told Ivy that she was in peril.

“To see me?” Ivy said, and lifted a hand to the base of her throat, as if to press the words out. “You are of course very welcome. I know you are … that you have long been acquainted with my husband. But I hope you can understand my surprise, for I am sure any business you might need to conduct would be better accomplished if Sir Quent were present.”

“On the contrary, Lady Quent, my business is something that can only be accomplished in the absence of Sir Quent. As you know, he has been nominated for a very important post in the government, and it is required that candidates for such high positions are scrupulously examined with regard to their abilities, their history—and of course their connections. So I am here at the command of Lord Valhaine.”

Ivy’s astonishment was redoubled. “But my husband has served the Crown for many years. I am sure Lord Valhaine knows him very well.”

The other woman made a languid gesture with a white hand, as if to gently set aside these words. “That may be so. All the same, long-established rules cannot be dismissed simply because Lord Valhaine is familiar with the man who is nominated to be lord inquirer. Propriety would not be served if he were to forego the usual practices. Indeed, it might even undermine your husband’s ability to perform in his post if it were perceived that he gained it, not because of his worth, but rather due to some form of partiality.”

Ivy could concede that it was logical to investigate the history and connections of someone nominated to a government post, and to do so without exceptions. Not that she could imagine anyone would ever think Mr. Quent did not deserve to be lord inquirer. After all, it was public knowledge, reported in the broadsheets, that he had averted further Risings in Torland.

Then again, if the exact manner by which he had accomplished
this was known, opinions of him might be altered. The wooden eye upon the newel post rolled in its socket, looking at Ivy, then back to Shayde.

Shayde’s lips curved upward ever so slightly, though it was difficult to call the expression a smile. Rather, it seemed a consequence of a tightening of her smooth, pale visage. Ivy found herself thinking of the merchant’s daughter in
The Towers of Ardaunto
, the White Thorn, and how she said she would be a stiletto in the prince’s hand. Whose hand was it that wielded Lady Shayde? Lord Valhaine’s, Ivy supposed.

“Besides,” the other woman continued, “even if Lord Valhaine does know your husband, is it not the case that we can never really learn all there is to another? There is always more to know. For instance, I do not know
you
, Lady Quent. Shall we sit?”

She gestured to a pair of nearby chairs. Before Ivy even thought to do so, she realized she was moving toward them, as if there had been some unspoken command in the other’s gaze or voice.

“Can I offer you tea?” Ivy said after she removed her coat and they were seated.

“Your housekeeper kindly offered, but I am quite well, thank you. Now, may I ask you a few questions?”

Ivy nodded, gripping the arms of the chair, and for the next quarter hour she answered queries posed by her unexpected guest. How long had she dwelled on Durrow Street? Where had she lived prior to that? What was her father’s vocation, and the names of her sisters? And how long had it been since Mrs. Lockwell had passed away?

Many of the questions had an odd particularity to them. What was the name of the street where she had lived in Gauldren’s Heights? How many floors had the house possessed? Did it have a garden?

These questions all seemed very innocuous to Ivy. Yet after a while, she began to discern a peculiar repetitiveness about them. She might never have noticed it, except that her father had taught her to always look for patterns and sequences in things, and she had just been looking for riddles in his journal. Yet once noticed,
there was no mistaking it: Lady Shayde would pose the same question on several instances, but each time in a slightly different manner. Which church was nearest to their dwelling in Gauldren’s Heights? How many flights of steps were in the house? What sort of flowers grew in the garden?

Ivy concentrated, always making sure to give an answer that would not contradict or depart from what she had said previously. She could only believe this interview was a mere formality. Why else would Lady Shayde ask her such superfluous questions? Even so, she did not want to say anything that might jeopardize Mr. Quent’s confirmation as lord inquirer. It was far too vital to the nation that he take on those duties.

Yet surely Lady Shayde knew that. After all, it was her own master, Lord Valhaine, who had nominated Mr. Quent for the post. Ivy knew there was a long-standing tension between the Gray Conclave, which was headed by Lord Valhaine, and the Inquiry. Yet in the end, they all served the Crown and wished what was best for Altania. Lady Shayde was here because protocol required it, that was all.

Despite the nature of her guest, Ivy felt her dread recede. She answered more easily, and her hands no longer gripped the arms of the chair. Then, more quickly than she would have thought, it was done. Ivy had no idea if she had said anything at all useful, but Lady Shayde seemed pleased enough. Her lips curved upward again, and this time it seemed a true smile, for all that it put not a single crease in her white face.