The Magicians and Mrs. Quent (77 page)

A heap draped in heavy black cloth stood in the center of the room. Here were his precious objects, she supposed—at least those Mrs. Lockwell had not disposed of. However, marvelous as the things beneath the cloth might be, it was to the walls that Ivy’s attention went.

“Repeating oneself is the sign of a dull wit,” Mr. Rafferdy said. “Yet I must confess again that I don’t see a door.”

Neither did she. All the walls in the chamber were blank wood. “It has to be here,” she said. “Mr. Rafferdy, may I have your cane again?”

Ivy took the cane and went around the room, tapping against the walls, searching for another door. However, each time the cane struck, it made a solid noise. After going around the room twice without finding anything, she handed the cane back to Mr. Rafferdy.

A thudding sound echoed up from below. They exchanged a startled look, then went back into the study. Mr. Rafferdy looked out the window.

“It appears our guests have arrived for the party,” he said.

Ivy joined him at the window. The study was in one of the wings of the house, and from this vantage she could look down into the yard. A chill gripped her. A pair of figures in black cloaks and black hoods stood in front of the house. As she watched, another figure, also clad in black, descended the front step, then two more moved up the path to join the others.

The five black forms arranged themselves in a half circle before the front steps of the house. It was faint, but Ivy could just hear a low chanting. As one, the figures raised their left arms, pointing.

Again a thudding sound echoed up from below, louder this time.

“They’re trying to open the door,” Mr. Rafferdy said.

Ivy could not take her eyes from the figures below. Blue light flickered around their outstretched hands.

She looked at Mr. Rafferdy. “How long do you think it will hold?”

“I have absolutely no idea.”

She wrested herself from the window. “Come on, then.”

“Where are we going?”

“To find the door. It has to be somewhere else in the house. Maybe it was moved after he wrote the letter, like the magick cabinet.”

“How can you move a door? Take it out of the wall and put it in another? Or do you move the entire wall along with it?”

The idea did seem absurd, but Ivy didn’t know what else to think. “It is a thing of magick,” she said.

“I suppose it’s possible,” Mr. Rafferdy said, though a bit dubiously. “But if so, perhaps it’s not in the house at all.”

She nodded toward the window. “If that was the case, then
they
wouldn’t be here.”

“Good point.” He gripped his cane. “Lead on, then.”

They began their search on the uppermost floor, moving from room to room, opening every door great or small. Some led to side chambers, others to closets or cabinets. They rapped on the walls and peered behind pictures and faded tapestries, making sure they missed nothing. As they went, the air in the house dimmed. Outside the windows, clouds gathered in the sky. At last their search brought them back into the upstairs corridor.

“There’s nothing up here,” Mr. Rafferdy said. “I’m sure we tried every door, and none of them opened onto anything remotely unusual or magickal, unless you count the stork’s nest in the one bedroom.”

Again a blow struck the front door of the house, rattling the air.

“Down,” Ivy said. “We must go down.”

They searched the second floor, going from room to room, past empty shelves and furniture draped in shrouds, making sure no door, no matter how small or inconsequential, escaped their attention. Then they went to the first floor, and even down to the basement, but to no avail. There was nothing about any door that might have suggested it was
the one,
the place where they should work the enchantment.

Mr. Rafferdy brushed cobwebs from his coat as they returned to the first floor, to the foot of the staircase. “I’m beginning to think it would be easier to just speak the spell at every door in the house.”

“No, there are dozens of them—you would be exhausted before you could finish. Besides, there isn’t time.”

As if to punctuate this, another
thud
came from behind them. They turned, gazing down the entry hall in time to see the front door of the house shudder in its frame. Lines of blue light, sharp as knives, stabbed through the cracks all around the door. Then the light faded. As it did, the muffled sound of chanting seeped through the door.

“It has to be here,” Ivy said. “We must have missed it somehow.”

She started up the stairs, running up the steps back to the third floor, Mr. Rafferdy following. Again she moved through all the rooms, running her hands over every wall.

It was no use; they discovered nothing they had not already seen. They came to the top of the stairs again and Ivy started to descend, only then she halted. The will to keep searching drained from her. What hope was there? They had already looked at everything down there.

Sighing, Ivy sat down on the top step. From below came another crash, along with the whine of metal.

“The hinges are breaking,” Mr. Rafferdy said. “It won’t be long now.”

Ivy could only nod. She was beyond words. Her father had been wrong to trust her; she had failed to solve his puzzle in the end.

Mr. Rafferdy sat down on the step beside her. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. As he did, a spot of gold appeared on the shoulder of his coat. One last ray of light must have filtered in from somewhere to fall upon him.

Ivy frowned. “But that can’t be.”

“What can’t be?”

“That,” she said, pointing to the dot of red-gold light on his coat.

“The sun must be setting.”

“I’m sure it is, but the last time I looked out a window, a storm was coming. The sky has covered with clouds.”

“Perhaps it’s cleared off.”

Ivy held out her hand, catching the spot of light upon it. “No, I don’t think so.” She stood, turning around. The ray of light was coming from somewhere down the upstairs corridor.

She moved slowly, careful to keep the beam of light upon her hand as she went, following it down the corridor, through the open door of the study. Dust floated on the gray air, and she could see the thin shaft of red-gold light. Hand outstretched, she followed the light across the study, past the secret door Mr. Rafferdy had opened, into the small chamber beyond.

Ivy drew close to the center of the room, the spot of light still upon her palm. It emanated from a small hole in the cloth draping the heap of objects there. Or was it a stack of boxes and chests after all? The chamber was dim now—sunlight no longer beamed in from the study—but as she examined the cloth, she realized what it concealed was rounded, not flat like the top of a crate or an old cabinet.

“Where is the light coming from?” Mr. Rafferdy said.

Ivy gripped a fold of the black cloth and tugged. It fell to the floor with a hiss, and red-gold light flooded the chamber.

It was a perfect sphere of crystal, a thing so large she could not have encircled it using both arms. The crystal orb was suspended within a frame of intricately braided wood that in turn rested upon a wooden stand fashioned of thick, ornately carved columns. The red light emanated from within the sphere, welling out, suffusing the air of the room with crimson.

“It looks rather like an eye,” Mr. Rafferdy said behind her, his voice oddly distant-sounding.

He was right. The braided wood wove together, forming a lid from beneath which the orb peered past them with its red gaze. All this time they had been looking for the wrong thing. The door her father had written about in his letter was not some ordinary portal set into a wall. It was this. And in a way it made sense. Were not eyes often described as doorways to the soul?

Fascinated, Ivy peered closer. It seemed there were things within the orb, though it was difficult to see through the haze of ruddy light. She could make out only indistinct shapes. However, she had the impression of a flat, dark landscape receding into a vast distance. Just above the line of the horizon hung a great, livid ball like some impossibly bloated sun.

Ivy leaned closer yet, and a queer feeling came over her: a sensation that the land she saw was not flat at all. Instead, it surged and writhed, like the surface of a furious black sea. Only the sea was not made up of drops of water but of individual motes of darkness, each one moving and struggling, trying to climb its way over the others. Above, dark shapes flitted and lurched across the face of the alien sun.

“No, don’t look,” Mr. Rafferdy said, pulling her back. “I know he’s with
them,
but I think Mr. Bennick’s right about this. I don’t think it’s a good idea to look through that thing.”

Ivy held a hand to her temples. Her head throbbed, and she felt ill. A cold sweat had broken out on her skin.

He regarded her with a worried look. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, I’m fine.” However, even as she said this, a moment of dizziness came over her. She reached for the wooden stand that held the orb and its frame, gripping it for support.

The crimson light turned green. At once her headache vanished, as did her fear, her weariness. She felt refreshed, as if she had just drunk a cup of cool water. With a gasp she let go of the wooden stand. The air in the room went red again.

“What is it, Mrs. Quent?” His worried expression had been replaced by curiosity. “Something happened just now, didn’t it?”

Ivy shook her head. How could she explain it? It seemed impossible, yet there was no mistaking it—the stand that supported the artifact was fashioned from boughs taken from the Wyrdwood. So was the frame that held the crystal sphere. It was no longer alive, but she had felt the echo of life in it, just as she had in Mr. Samonds’s bentwood chair. But why would such unusual wood have been used to hold the orb? Surely any sort of lumber would have supported its weight.

“I’m fine,” she said. “Really.” It was true. She
did
feel fine. Even now she could sense the soothing presence of the wood taken from a grove of ancient forest. She could tell that it had been cut, not picked up as deadfall, yet she could sense no resentment from it. Indeed, she had the feeling it had let itself be taken willingly….

“Now that’s peculiar,” Mr. Rafferdy said as he walked around the artifact.

She looked at him. “What is it?”

“Watch it for a moment. Don’t gaze into it, but just look at the edges of the crystal. Do you see it now—the way it’s moving?”

A bit of the sick feeling sank back into Ivy’s stomach. Mr. Rafferdy was right. The motion was subtle but unmistakable; even as she watched, the surface of the sphere expanded inward and outward, growing and shrinking by turns. She started to draw near, to examine the effect closer.

A shadow passed inside the orb, dimming it, and the whole thing shook. The shadow vanished as whatever had cast it moved by, and the artifact settled again upon its stand—though it continued to grow and shrink.

“The spell,” she said, turning toward Mr. Rafferdy. “I think you should speak the spell to renew the binding.”

He swallowed. “I believe you’re right. Give me the paper, then.”

She shook her head. “I’m sorry?”

“I said give me the paper.”

“What paper?”

“You know, the paper with the spell—your father’s letter.”

“I don’t have it.”

He stared at her. “What do you mean you don’t have it? Of course you have it.”

“You have your own copy of the spell. Surely you took it to Mr. Bennick’s.”

“No, I was starting to grow afraid he’d discover me looking at it. I left it because I knew you’d bring your father’s letter with you.”

“But I didn’t bring it! It’s still at—”

A loud noise echoed up from below, as of something cracking apart. They exchanged wild looks.

“You’ll have to speak it from memory.”

He took a step back, alarm on his face. “I can’t.”

“Yes, you can,” she said, advancing toward him. “I know you can.”

“You’re wrong. I don’t dare. If I were to make a mistake—”

“You won’t. You’ve spoken every part of the spell over and over.”

“Not the last lines. I don’t know them by heart—not like you do.” He looked at her. “That’s it, Mrs. Quent. You know the last phrases of the spell—you can tell them to me.”

“No, I can’t,” she said, despairing. “I can’t speak them at all.”

“But you could write them down, couldn’t you?”

For a moment she stared at him. Then she was running. Ivy dashed from the room, out the study door, and down the corridor. She went from room to room, ripping the cloths from the furniture until, in the third room, she found a desk. A quick search revealed a few sheaves of paper in one drawer and a pen in another, but that wasn’t enough. She opened more drawers, rummaging through their contents.

Her fingers closed around a hard object at the back of one of the drawers, and as she pulled it out she felt a spark of triumph: it was an ink bottle. She opened the bottle, dipped the pen, and set its tip to the paper.

It did not leave a mark. She dipped it again, but it was no use. With growing dread she turned the ink bottle over. Nothing came out. It had dried up long ago.

A sound like thunder rattled the house. Only it did not come from the clouds but rather rose up from the first floor.

“Mrs. Quent!” she heard Mr. Rafferdy’s voice call out from the corridor. “Where are you?”

“I’m coming!” she called back. “Just a moment.”

There was no time to look for more ink. For a second she held her breath, steeling herself. Then with a quick motion she jabbed the nib of the pen into her fingertip.

She had worried it would be hard to draw blood, but her urgency had made her blow more vigorous than intended, and a steady flow of red oozed from her fingertip. Hissing against the pain, she squeezed her finger, directing the trickle of blood into the bottle. Then she dipped the pen and, at a furious pace, began to write.

“Mrs. Quent!” came Mr. Rafferdy’s voice again. She concentrated, writing the last few words, making sure they were correct. Then she ran out into the corridor, sucking her wounded finger as she went.