The Magicians and Mrs. Quent (36 page)

Well, if Mr. Quent could not concern himself to see what the children were doing, then I could look after them as I saw fit. This parlor, I had been told, was to be used for our studies as well as for taking meals. I moved about the room and lit several more candles.

“We aren’t supposed to do that,” Chambley said. “Mrs. Darendal says if there’s one candle, then there’s enough.”

I knew from yesterday’s experiences that I could not, as a matter of course, believe what the children told me about the housekeeper—though this particular statement did seem credible.

“One candle might be enough to eat by,” I said, “but it is not enough to learn by. Sometimes it takes more than one light to show the way.”

Clarette scowled. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” I said as I examined the bookcase near the windows, “that real illumination comes not from one source but from many.”

Chambley heaved his small shoulders in a sigh. “I know what she’s saying. She means we’re going to read lots of books.” He put his hands to his forehead. “Books make my head feel like it’s filled with jelly.”

“Perhaps you’ve not been reading the right ones,” I said, and pulled a volume from the shelf. “This should provide a good start. Have you read any of the histories of Telarus?”

Clarette crossed her arms and slouched in her chair. “I’ve never heard of him. Is he someone you know from Invarel?”

I could not help a smile. “No, he does not live in Invarel. And while I cannot say I have ever met him, I do feel that I know him from his writings. That is the mystery of books. When I read one of his histories, I imagine I am having a conversation with Telarus himself, yet he lived over twelve hundred years ago.”

“You mean he’s dead?” Clarette said eagerly, sitting up in her chair.

“Yes,” I said, a bit reluctantly given her reaction, but I could hardly deny the fact. “He died many centuries ago, but his wisdom and learning are still with us today.”

“So reading is like talking to a ghost,” Clarette said, her dark eyes agleam in the candlelight.

“Primitive peoples believed in ghosts, Clarette. We live in a scientific age. We have no use for ghosts anymore.” I sat at the table and opened the book. “Now, which of you would like to begin reading?”

W
E STAYED IN the parlor for several hours, reading. I drew the curtains shut so we might more easily believe it was morning rather than the middle of a long night, and we went through one of the early volumes of the
Lex Tharosia,
which concerned the time before the founding of the republic.

At first the children eyed the door often and seemed on the verge of bolting. Determined to engage them, I chose a chapter that described a siege when barbarians from the western steppes attacked the city of Tharos, and I read it with vigor. The legions of Tharos fought bravely, but they were outnumbered. Then, just when the barbarians were battering the gate, I set down the book.

“What are you doing?” Chambley said. His eyes were large in his face. “We have to find out how the legions drive off the Murgonoths.”

Clarette leaned across the table toward him. “But they don’t drive them off. After all, it’s not Tharos anymore. It’s the Murgh Empire. The Murgonoths march in and kill the soldiers and burn all of Tharos to the ground.”

“No, they don’t!”

“Well, I bet you they do.”

“We do not make wagers, Clarette,” I said. “And you might be surprised what happens. If you wish to find out, you have only to read on. I’ve read quite enough myself, I think.”

The idea that reading might grant them something they actually wanted seemed to astonish them, but after a moment Clarette took up the book, and then Chambley took a turn. Both demonstrated some degree of halting and stumbling; all the same, I was given sufficient cause to hope that, with a good deal more practice, both would become accomplished readers.

At last the Murgonoths broke down the gates. They flooded into the city, but the Tharosians were nowhere to be found. Then, to their surprise, arrows flew over the city walls. They looked out to see that the legions of Tharos now surrounded the city. They had escaped through secret tunnels, which they had collapsed behind them, and had taken all the food with them. The Murgonoths were trapped within the very city they had attempted to conquer. The barbarians soon succumbed to starvation, and the Tharosians were able to reenter their own city without unsheathing their swords.

“You mean that the Murgonoths were all dead,” Clarette said with a bit too much glee.

Chambley stared at the table. “I don’t want to think about them all there in the city. I wouldn’t go in. The city would be full of gho—” He looked up at me and shut his mouth.

I decided it was time for another subject, and after that we spent an hour on ciphering. Chambley surprised and pleased me with his ability; he could total large sums quickly. Clarette, however, could hardly be made to look at her paper; her gaze kept flickering to the curtained window. At last I could no longer tolerate this behavior.

“What is it you hope to see outside, Clarette?”

Both of the children looked up at me.

“I’ve noticed how you keep looking at the window. However, I don’t know what you can possibly hope to see. The almanac says it will be night for over twelve more hours. Tell me, what were you looking for?”

She gazed at me with her dark eyes but said nothing. Chambley gripped his pencil and looked at his paper.

“Well, then, if you will not tell me, perhaps I will open the curtain and see for myself what is outside.”

I rose and moved to the window, but as my hand touched the curtain, Chambley leaped up from his chair.

“No, don’t open it!”

I turned to regard him. “Why not?”

He was looking at Clarette. “What if
she’s
out there?”

“What if who is out there, Chambley?” I said. “Direct your attention to me, not to your sister. Do you mean Mrs. Darendal? I’m quite sure she is inside the house.”

The two of them exchanged a long glance. I almost thought Clarette moved her lips slightly. Chambley’s face was pale.

At last Clarette looked at me, and in the candlelight her face seemed older than its ten years. “He doesn’t mean Mrs. Darendal.”

“Then who, Clarette? Who does he mean?”

They did not answer me, and I could not suppress a shiver. But it was only a draft of air slipping between the curtains, and now I was growing cross at their behavior. I gripped the curtains and threw them to either side. Chambley clamped his hands over his eyes.

“There,” I said. “There’s nothing.”

It was pitch-black outside the window. There were no stars. The window looked eastward, away from the village, and not a light was to be seen out on the heathland. I suffered again that feeling I sometimes do in the midst of a long night, the sensation of the darkness pressing inward, like the Murgonoths pressing inward on the city of Tharos, wanting to vanquish it. Only there were no secret passages by which we might escape. We were trapped inside, with only our feeble candles to push back the darkness.

“Miss Lockwell?”

I realized I had been staring at the dark. I turned around. Clarette was smiling. It was, I thought, a smug expression. I did not care for it.

“We have studied enough for now,” I said. “Go play quietly in your room. I will call you down when it is time for your dinner.”

I
WILL NOT DENY it: as I went to bed for the second time during that long night, my spirits were low.

Other than the children, I had not seen a living soul since breakfast, and I could easily understand how Chambley’s imagination tended toward thoughts of ghosts, for as devoid as it was of living beings, this house was well populated with shadows, whispering drafts, and far-off groans. Even our supper appeared as if by the work of specters, laid out for us in the parlor while we walked up and down the front hall for some exercise.

I laid in my sleigh bed for a long time before sleep came; I longed to see you, Father, and my sisters; I missed my mother. I felt very alone. However, the voice of the wind outside was not sinister, merely mournful, so it seemed to me I was not alone after all, and at last I slept.

The next day, and for many days after that, my spirits were greatly improved. There were several longer lumenals in a row and one very short umbral that was over almost before we shut our eyes. While I cannot say the increase in light transformed Heathcrest Hall into a cheerful place, it did serve to soften the somber atmosphere, so that it did not seem such a startling thing to laugh or to suddenly speak in a raised voice.

As much as possible, and whenever the weather allowed, I took the children outdoors. That air and exercise would benefit them both, I had no doubt. A fair complexion might be fashionable, but their skin was so pale as to be nearly translucent. The first time I took them out, they blinked and rubbed their eyes, though the sun was half lost in a misty haze.

“Mother says—she said the damp air is bad for me,” Chambley said. He took shallow breaths through his teeth.

“His lungs aren’t strong, that’s what Mother told us,” Clarette said.

He shook his head. “Not strong.”

“Well, there’s only one way to improve them,” I said, “and that’s by putting them to use.” Clasping their hands lest they attempt to retreat inside, I led them down the front lane.

Our walk was not long that day. We made it only to an old stone that stood along the lane not far from the house. It was black and pitted, unlike the gray outcrops on the distant fells, and nearly as tall as me. Clarette discovered that, when viewed from a certain angle, the stone bore what looked like the profile of a grotesque face looking toward the house. Someone had carved the word
Heathcrest
into its dark surface long ago.

I wanted to press on, but the mist began to descend quickly, and we hurried back to the house. However, over those next days our ramblings took us farther down the lane and along footpaths that crossed the summit of the ridge.

“We’re awfully far from the house,” Chambley said as we started down one of the side paths. He was breathing rapidly, as he often did on our walks; however, I had come to the conclusion that it was not exertion that caused this effect but rather apprehension.

“On the contrary,” I said in a cheerful tone, “I am sure we’re not two furlongs away. If Mrs. Darendal were to stand on the front step and call to us, we should hear her clearly. Now, come.”

He did, though as we walked I noticed that he glanced often over his shoulder.

The day was clearer than any since I had come to Heathcrest, the air clean with the scent of juniper. So encouraged, I led the children on until we came to a prospect surmounted by a scatter of stones. The stones were long and flat. Some were worn by wind and spotted with lichen, but others were paler and sharper-edged.

The view was excellent. I could make out the roofs of the village to the west and, closer to Heathcrest, the gray bones of the ruined chapel. Then I noticed the roof of a building standing alone to the south. I could not see what it was, as it was settled into a low place in the land, so I went to one of the stones, which leaned at an angle upon another, and climbed up it.

“What are you doing, Miss Lockwell?” Clarette called out.

“Getting a better view,” I replied.

This time it was Chambley’s voice that rang out. “But you’ll fall and dash your head!”

“Only if I am very careless or very foolish,” I replied. “In which case I will have deserved my fate.”

I reached the top of the stone. My view was much improved, and I saw that the building was a house. It was a fine country cottage or lodge by the look of it, and I wondered who lived there. I let my gaze rove into the distance, and a serene feeling came over me. It was strange that a landscape so forlorn could be so appealing to me—indeed, even
familiar.

The children were calling out. Their voices were high and sharp, though I could not make out what they said. I cast one more look at the scenery, then climbed back down the stones to them.

“There, I am perfectly well,” I said. “Do you see?”