The Master of Heathcrest Hall (27 page)

“I don’t know,” Lily said, and played a somber chord on the pianoforte. “It seems very ill of us to be making merry here in the city, when so many soldiers are going off to fight in the Outlands. I wish we could offer
them
some amusement, rather than simply amusing ourselves here.”

Rose bit her lower lip. “I don’t understand. I thought the soldiers were fighting to keep the rebels away from the city so we could all continue to live as we were. So how can they be offended if we do?”

Ivy could not help smiling. Once again, in her simple way, Rose had stated a truth that more complicated arguments could only fail to do.

“You’re right, Rose,” Ivy said, sitting beside her. Miss Mew let out a great yawn, and Ivy stroked the little tortoiseshell cat. “The soldiers must believe they have someplace good to come back to when their battles are done. We must do our best to show them that their efforts are for a purpose, and that they have preserved the spirit of our city and nation.” Now she looked at Lily. “Besides, it is far from impossible that there will be some lieutenants or
captains there, in the city on leave for a little while. In which case, you
can
provide them some amusement—by dancing with them.”

Lily did not agree with this statement, but nor did she immediately counter it, and this gave Ivy some relief. She remained concerned by what she had seen in Lily’s folio the other day—the many drawings of dramatic scenes upon a stage, and the handsome actors who all tended to have dark eyes and dark, flowing hair.

Previously, she had believed Lily had gotten over her infatuation with Mr. Garritt, as well as her fascination with illusion plays, but the sketches in the folio showed that was far from the case. Indeed, Lily had somehow conflated the two; though why that was so, Ivy could not guess.

Ivy had still not had an opportunity to discuss the matter with Mr. Quent. Then again, she had not seen Lily working in the folio since that day. Perhaps the discovery, though awkward and painful on both their parts, had made Lily reconsider the wisdom of her actions. At the very least, it was an encouraging sign that she was willing to go to the dance that evening, and Ivy could hope that some handsome young man of station might catch her eye and cause her to forget her other preoccupations.

Once it was resolved her sisters would attend the dance, Ivy might have had some time to read more of the book. Only a glance out the window showed that the day was suddenly failing, and then all of them were in a great rush to ready themselves for their evening engagements. As she dressed, Ivy hoped Mr. Quent would return from the Citadel so he could accompany her; but all that arrived was a note from him, stating that he would be very late, and that she should not wait for him.

Ivy’s disappointment at Mr. Quent’s absence, while not forgotten, was at least ameliorated by the party at Lady Marsdel’s, which while small in size was of the best quality. (Though she was concerned to see Lord Baydon looking in such poor health, despite his usual good cheer.) She was particularly happy to encounter Mr. Rafferdy there, for it had been some time since she had seen him.

And now she knew why, for he had joined up with another arcane society!

Ivy did not know whether to be thrilled at the idea or worried. Perhaps both reactions were justified. It was perilous indeed for him to be a member of an occult order. Unsanctioned societies were now expressly forbidden by the Gray Conclave, and to be caught as a member of one was a crime against the nation. Nor could Mr. Rafferdy expect that his status as a magnate would preserve him from a trial or conviction were his actions to be discovered. Just that morning, Ivy had read an article in
The Comet
concerning a lord who was found to have been sending missives, about the size and condition of ships in the royal navy, to the Principalities—where they were likely passed to agents of Huntley Morden. That the lord in question would hang for treason was almost certain; his title would not preserve him.

Yet despite this, Ivy felt an excitement at Mr. Rafferdy’s news. What he was doing was perilous, but it was worthy as well. And while the Gray Conclave might brand it a crime, Ivy knew otherwise. No doubt most people who called for the destruction of the Wyrdwood did so out of simple fear. But what if there were those who knew what Ivy and Mr. Quent and Mr. Rafferdy did—how the Wyrdwood could fight against the power of the Ashen? If there was a magician in Assembly who was beholden to the Ashen, would he not seek to pass laws to have the Old Trees cut down and burned?

Ivy could only believe that was the case. Thus she was grateful that Mr. Rafferdy and his compatriots worked to prevent the passage of such laws. And she was astonished as well. She knew that Mr. Rafferdy was brave; she had witnessed that firsthand when they confronted the magicians of the Vigilant Order of the Silver Eye, and again at the tomb of the Broken God within the Evengrove.

Yet it was largely due to her actions that he had been placed in those situations, and she had to confess, she tended to think of Mr. Rafferdy as a man preoccupied with himself and his own people rather than society at large. She had not known he was capable
of acting in such an entirely selfless manner—to willingly place himself in a position of harm for the sake, not of himself or someone he cared for, but of the country.

Well, she had misjudged him. And now that she knew what he was doing, Ivy could only feel an even greater pride and affection for him. She had an urge to tell Mr. Quent about it. At the same time, she was not certain this was wise. True, Mr. Quent was a defender of the Wyrdwood. Yet Mr. Quent was an agent of the government as well, and was often in communication with members of the Gray Conclave. Would he not be bound by oath and duty to report Mr. Rafferdy’s doings—or be complicit in the crime if he did not?

If so, then it would be exceedingly wrong of Ivy to place him in such a position. She thought about the matter during the entire drive from Lady Marsdel’s, and by the time the carriage reached Durrow Street she had come to a conclusion. While the idea of keeping a secret from Mr. Quent pained her, holding Mr. Rafferdy’s confession in confidence was the only way she could protect both her husband and her friend. To do anything else would put both men at risk. Whatever distress keeping the secret might cause her, it was nothing to the anguish it might cause if she did not.

Resolved in the matter, Ivy entered the house on Durrow Street and discovered that neither her sisters nor Mr. Quent had returned. Which meant she at last had time to finish
The Towers of Ardaunto
.

Now, as the candles burned low in the library, Ivy turned the final few pages, at once fascinated and horrified by what she read. When she first found the book, she had thought it to be a romance: a fanciful tale of two lovers. How wrong she had been!

After witnessing the occult ceremony, the young gondolier had leaped into the room at the top of the tower. It had been his crazed thought to wrest his beloved free of her father. Yet before he could reach them, the merchant flung out a hand and shouted harsh words of magick. At once the gondolier became as a statue, unable
to move or speak. He could only watch, mute and powerless, as the merchant led his daughter from the chamber.

As they went, she cast a look over her shoulder. Her face was as white and hard as porcelain, but in her now-black eyes he thought he could still see a glimmer of the same regret and sadness he had perceived in them that day they first met. Then she turned, and the two were gone.

Hours passed, and at last the gondolier could move again. He staggered down the steps of the tower. He found the door at the bottom open to the night, and there was no trace of his beloved or her father.

The pages that followed described the young man’s effort to find his beloved, in hopes he could undo the transformation that had been wrought upon her by her father and the magicians. His search lasted many years, becoming an increasingly fevered hunt—one that took him deep into the Murgh Empire, across the ocean to the island of Aratuga, and to the frigid and desolate realms of the far north. Always he sought out and followed the trail of father and daughter, never ceasing no matter how scant the clues or how perilous the routes along which they pointed.

At last he came to Altania, following whispers and rumors to a half-ruined castle in the rocky northwest of the island. By then, he was much transformed himself. No longer was he a handsome young boat keeper from the canal city of Ardaunto. His travails had left him gaunt and scarred, and his obsession to find his beloved had descended into a form of madness.