The Master of Heathcrest Hall (53 page)

Here the article was interrupted with a note indicating it continued within. Ivy started to reach for the newspaper, though whether to crumple it up or to turn the page, she was not certain. At that moment, the curtains billowed as a sudden wind blew into the library. The broadsheet fluttered in the gale, then was swept off the table to the floor.

Ivy gasped, as if freed from some coercive spell. She hurried to the window, where the curtains were now snapping like whips. Someone, one of the servants she supposed, had opened the window and forgot to shut it. Now, by the tendrils of cloud writhing across the sky, a storm was coming. Ivy gripped the window, pulling it shut.

The curtains went limp. She went back to the table, bent down, and picked up the paper. This time she did not read it, but rather took it to the fireplace and put it on the grate. She took a lamp that had been left burning on the mantel, removed the shield, and turned up the wick, then used it to light a splinter of wood, which she laid against the paper on the grate.

Flames licked the edge of the broadsheet, then leaped up hotly as the newspaper blackened and curled in on itself.

Ivy stood up, then gripped the mantelpiece, for she was trembling. To think, she had once believed Lord Valhaine had the nation’s best interests, and therefore her husband’s, in mind! Now his purposes were rendered as clearly as the words printed in ink upon the broadsheet, and they were every bit as black. He had nominated Mr. Quent to lead the Inquiry knowing well how his interview before Assembly would bring up the matter of his actions in Torland; indeed, he had likely been in league with Lord Davarry to assure that they would be, and that Mr. Quent would be discredited. But his true purpose had been to discredit the Inquiry itself—to deprive it of its leader, cast it under a cloud of suspicion, and ultimately bring about its ruin.

She could only rue that she had been entirely oblivious to these machinations. If she had been able to anticipate what would happen, she could have warned Mr. Quent not to accept the nomination for lord inquirer.

Yet if he had not done so, she had no doubt there would be another inquirer locked beneath Barrowgate at present, and either way the Inquiry would stand discredited. Now it had ceased to exist, and the Gray Conclave at last had the authority it had so long craved—to seek out witches and dispose of them as it would.

Ivy could not help wondering if there always had been those within the Gray Conclave, magicians in league with the Ashen, who knew all along of the threat the Wyrdwood posed to the Ashen, and so sought a way to destroy it. Or was it the case, in the beginning at least, that the Gray Conclave had simply viewed witches as being of possible use in a rebellion, and as such posing a threat to the government?

Well, whatever the purposes of the Gray Conclave had been previously, now that Lord Valhaine was under the sway of the magicians of the High Order of the Golden Door, there could be no doubt as to its purpose. It would do all in its power to bring about the end of the Wyrdwood.

As well as any who might call out to it.

A shiver so strong it was more like a convulsion passed through Ivy. She dreaded to consider what agents of the Gray Conclave would do to any woman who fell into their custody whom they suspected of being a witch. But what had the article in the broadsheet meant, regarding this method they had devised to discover women who had the capacity for being a witch? Perhaps she should not have lit the broadsheet on fire. Ivy supposed she could venture out to get another.…

No, she would not leave the house. Instead, she would ask Mr. Rafferdy about it when he came next. Given his warning to her, he must have some idea what the government intended. She shivered again and moved closer to the fireplace. On the grate, the newspaper gave a hiss like a dying breath as it burned.

T
HE LUMENAL was not long, but such was Ivy’s agitation that it seemed nearly a greatday. She could not concentrate upon any task, be it reading, or composing a letter to Mrs. Baydon, or aiding
Rose with her sewing. Instead, her eyes went continually to the old rosewood clock, whose faces hardly seemed to turn no matter how long she looked at them.

At last a sullen dusk began to gather, and it was then that a messenger came to the gate. Mrs. Seenly immediately brought the letter to Ivy in the parlor; it was from Mr. Rafferdy.

She opened it at once, and a thrill ran through her. His request to see Mr. Quent had been granted! He had been given permission to interview the prisoner at his leisure.

All the same, I believe it is best that we not delay
, Mr. Rafferdy wrote.
It is my hope the umbral will not be a long one, but whatever its length, look for me not very far into the morning. I will bring my carriage to retrieve you, and then we can go to Barrowgate together
.

Ivy’s heart soared. Ever since that awful day, she had only wanted to be able to see her husband, and now Mr. Rafferdy had managed it. Her only complaint was that they could not go to him at once. But they would see Mr. Quent soon enough.

How they would manage to effect his release from prison, Ivy still did not know. She had attempted to retain a lawyer, but so far all of her inquiries to various firms had gone unanswered. On her own, she had pored through books of law in her father’s library, but so far she had seen nothing that might help them. Of course, the law books were all old, and Lord Valhaine was rewriting the laws of Altania upon a daily basis. Yet she would not abandon hope. After all, she had previously despaired of being able to see her husband, and now she was to do so in the morning.

Such was her excitement, Ivy thought rest would be impossible. But that night she slept soundly, even dreamlessly. She had left the curtains open on purpose, and she woke as soon as a coral glow illuminated the window glass. By the time dawn came, she was already dressed, taking a cup of tea in the parlor downstairs.

She was only halfway finished with it when there came the clatter of the brass knocker on the front door. Mr. Rafferdy was early indeed! Ivy put down the teacup and, before any of the servants could do so, hurried to the front door herself and opened it.

“Oh,” she gasped.

She could not move; she felt made of stone, like the lions to either side of the door. Across the threshold, Lady Shayde’s dark lips curved up into that expression which was not a smile.

“You appear surprised, Lady Quent. Were you expecting another, perhaps?”

The question was posed pleasantly, but Ivy knew there was peril in answering it. She did so carefully.

“No, I was not expecting anyone to call today.” She willed herself to keep her eyes upon the white face of her unexpected guest, and not to look toward the street to see if Mr. Rafferdy had arrived. “As you can imagine, I have very few callers of late.”

“Yet you have some still, I presume?”

As the question was posed in a rhetorical fashion, Ivy chose prudence and did not answer.

“Well, if it is the case that you are not expecting any other society this morning, would it be agreeable if I were to enter and speak with you, Lady Quent? It will not take long. I only wish to add a little to our conversation from the other day, and to pose a few more questions.”

Ivy hesitated, trying to decide what to say. Above the plane trees, the sky was continuing to brighten. Mr. Rafferdy might arrive at any time.

“You seem uncertain, Lady Quent. There isn’t someone in the house whom you do not wish me to see, is there? Or perhaps you have some reason to try to avoid answering further questions?”

Now an element of anger entered into Ivy’s fear, transmuting it into something harder and stronger.

“No, not at all.” Ivy smiled herself, and the expression was every bit as warm as Lady Shayde’s was cold. “I would enjoy speaking with you. Please, come in.”

Now it was her guest who seemed surprised. She hesitated for a moment, and Ivy could not help feeling a note of satisfaction. She gestured for the other woman to enter. Lady Shayde crossed the threshold, her black gown making a crinkling sound, dry as paper.

As the other woman passed her, Ivy glanced at the sky, which
had turned a clear blue. She had to hope Mr. Rafferdy would not come too soon. Yet if he did, she supposed it would not be a catastrophe. After all, Lady Shayde knew they were acquainted. All the same, Ivy did not want Mr. Rafferdy to be discredited by any present association with the Quent household; it was best if it was thought he had broken off the acquaintance. Nor did she wish to subject him to any undue scrutiny by Lady Shayde—especially not when he belonged to an illegal order of magicians.

Ivy led the way into the parlor. Mrs. Seenly was just setting down a fresh pot of tea and an extra teacup, no doubt anticipating a guest after the knock at the door. But like Ivy, this was clearly not the guest she had expected. The housekeeper set the pot down with a clatter, then fled without a word.

Lady Shayde seemed unperturbed, as if this was all very usual. Ivy poured tea for both of them, and managed to spill only a little.

“Would you care to sit?” she said, holding out a cup and saucer.

Lady Shayde took them, then set them down. “Tell me, Lady Quent, how is Mr. Rafferdy of late?”

“I fear I do not know,” Ivy said. “I have not seen him in some time. I am not certain if he even remains in the city, or if he has gone to his home in the country.”

She was surprised how easily the lie came to her, and how natural it sounded. Ivy had never thought she would be so glib at formulating mistruths. But then, as she well knew, desperation had a way of awakening previously unknown talents.

Before her guest could speak, Ivy went on, hoping to direct the subject away from Mr. Rafferdy. “You used to live in the country yourself, didn’t you? At Heathcrest Hall, I believe. Do you ever miss it?”

The white oval of Lady Shayde’s face was motionless save for one of her eyebrows, and this arched upward a fraction. Ivy supposed the White Lady was accustomed to being the one posing the questions rather than having them posed to her.

“No, I do not miss it.”

“You mean to say that you never think of your time there?” Ivy said lightly, or so she hoped. “I was not there nearly so long as
you—only a matter of months—but I find that Heathcrest Hall, and the moorland around it, are often on my mind.”

“I said I did not miss Heathcrest, Lady Quent. I did not say that I never thought of it.”

The words were sharp, neatly snipping the thread of conversation, and ensuring it could not be further unwound. Ivy labored in her thoughts, trying to think of something else to ask.

She was too slow about it.

“Now, Lady Quent, as you are unfamiliar with Mr. Rafferdy’s present state, perhaps you can answer for yourself. How have you been faring these last days?”

Ivy’s face stung as if it had been struck. She hastily set down her cup, lest she drop it. Then, to her shock, she found herself speaking. The words seemed to fling themselves out of her, and Ivy felt as if she were a bystander who could only watch a scene rather than affect it.

“Is this why you have come?” Ivy observed herself saying. Her voice no longer contained any pretense of warmth or civility. “To mock me, and to gloat over my present situation? I have been deprived of my husband. He is in prison, and his future and my own are utterly unknown, and perhaps beyond hope. Tell me Lady Shayde, how would
you
fare if that which you adored above all else was suddenly seized from you and you were left only with dread?”

For a moment Lady Shayde was utterly still, and her face appeared not only hard, but brittle as well, like tempered steel cooled too quickly. Ivy could almost believe her words had somehow had an effect upon the other woman. Only the moment passed, and Lady Shayde’s face was smooth and flawless once again.

“You mistake me for one who can apprehend such things as adoration or dread, Lady Quent. It is a mistake people commonly make, for they want to assume, even given the peculiarities of my appearance, that I am more like them than not.” She moved to the pianoforte and laid a gloved hand upon it. “But as they always discover, they are wrong in this. I assure you that I am
no more capable of such sensibilities than is the wood encasing this instrument. It might vibrate with the music played upon the keys, but that does not mean it can perceive any feeling or passion that might be expressed in the music. That is why Lord Valhaine chose me for my position.” She ran a finger over the glossy wood of the pianoforte, tracing an unknown design. “He knew that no sensibilities or sympathies would ever keep me from fulfilling my purpose, and doing what must be done for Altania.”

Despite her fear, Ivy found this speech fascinating. She could only think of the merchant’s daughter in
The Towers of Ardaunto
. Nor could Ivy believe that the similarities between Lady Shayde and the character in the book were simply a coincidence. After all, Mr. Fintaur must have known Ashaydea from the times he had been to Heathcrest in the company of Mr. Lockwell. And he must have seen what Mr. Bennick made her into.…