The Magicians and Mrs. Quent (29 page)

“Who might what?” Rafferdy said, his sense of dread sharpening.

But Lord Rafferdy said only, “Fashion and the expectations of others are not the only reasons I have chosen to enclose my lands around Asterlane. Soon there may be other needs for the safety of walls.”

“I don’t understand. What other needs?”

His father glanced again at the heap of letters and invitations on the table. “You have dwelled all your life in a world populated with light and music and the pleasurable company of others. Nor have I been so anxious as you perhaps think to remove you from such an existence. Yet have you never asked yourself what lies beyond the circle of illumination in which you dwell, out in the coldness, in the silence?”

“Never,” Rafferdy said. “What can there be beyond what we know? For if we do not know it, it cannot exist. And if I want to hear stories of better worlds than this one, I’ll go to a church and listen to the prattle of priests.”

“It is not of better worlds that I speak,” Lord Rafferdy said, looking at him now. “And the darkness is not so empty as you imagine. Think of attending a party at night, in a house brightly lit with candles. If we happen to glance out the window, we cannot see into the darkness or know what lies outside. Yet any out there in the dark can see inside to us.”

Rafferdy could not fathom what these words meant. All the same, the hair on the back of his neck prickled, and once again he found he could not bear to sit still. He rose from the chair.

“Are you leaving, then?” his father asked.

Without even thinking of it, Rafferdy had moved to the door. Once again the urge came over him to rush out, to go as fast as possible to Whitward Street and present himself at her door. All his life he had indulged his every desire, but without any real satisfaction. It had all been whim, a craving for diversion no different than a hungering for food or a thirst for drink: base instincts, and meaningless. But to be with her—it was the first thing in his life he had ever truly
wanted
.

For a long moment Rafferdy gazed through the door. He breathed out, and could not help thinking it was some better part of him that was expelled with the air from his lungs. Then he turned around and crossed the room to his father.

“You said it is time to address my future, sir.”

Lord Rafferdy looked up at him and nodded.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

I
VY’S HOMECOMING WAS a joyful occasion. Her mother and sisters had quit Fairhall Street after that first night, once it was certain Ivy was out of danger. While notes had been frequently sent back and forth, they had not seen one another since that parting, and so there was much to tell on both sides. For Mrs. Lockwell’s part, a quarter month’s worth of exclamations had to be compressed into a short space. Ivy bore it all lightly, with many smiles; she could not remember a time when she had been so happy.

Rose was unusually talkative upon Ivy’s arrival home. The wisteria was blooming, she said; she must show Ivy the queerest insect she had discovered in the garden, if it could be found again. There was a crack in the window on the second landing that caught the light in the most amazing way when the sun was setting. She had counted all the steps in the house again and was certain there was exactly one more than before.

“Do you think the house is growing taller?” Rose asked, her eyes going wide.

“Well, it
is
a magician’s house,” Ivy said.

Upon which Rose immediately began climbing the staircase to make her count again.

Lily forwent the melancholy air she had been affecting of late, Ivy was grateful to notice, and even played several songs on the pianoforte that did not require a minor key. After that she modeled an array of new ribbons and bonnets. Ivy gave each one dutiful appreciation and decided to worry later about the damage any purchases made in her absence had done to the household ledger.

“We must make a party,” Lily proclaimed. “Even if it’s just us, it will be a jolly affair. Mrs. Murch will make cakes. You can read from a play if you like—something dramatic. Rose can wear one of my new ribbons, while I will do a dance for us.” She whirled around, ribbons fluttering.

Lily’s idea was met with enthusiasm by all the denizens of the house. Even Mr. Lockwell seemed to come more to life with Ivy’s homecoming. According to Mrs. Lockwell, he had refused to leave the attic since Ivy’s departure. However, he allowed Ivy to lead him to his room, where Wilbern dressed him; and when she took his hand and guided him down to the parlor, he did not resist, though it had been years since he had descended from the uppermost floors.

Mrs. Lockwell came into the parlor, and when she saw him sitting there she stopped, tears springing to her eyes. Ivy thought she had made a mistake, that she should return Mr. Lockwell to his room; only then her mother brushed her cheeks and brought her husband a cake. She sat by him, feeding him little morsels and telling him all manner of foolish things—how she wanted to change the drapery, and put paper on the walls, and bring in more light—such as he used to listen to indulgently.

Lily danced, while Rose sat on the edge of the sofa, hardly daring to move for fear of disturbing the ribbons in her hair. Ivy, finding she had quite an appetite, ate several of the cakes herself. She thought to bring another to her father, but as she turned she saw that, while the rest of them were engaged, Mrs. Lockwell had taken his hand. She stroked it as she spoke to him in soft tones, the opposite of her normal utterances. Perhaps it was just the fading light catching his eyes, but it seemed he watched her, his face serene.

At last Lily wilted into a chair, while Ivy and Rose applauded with vigor; Mrs. Lockwell did the same, coming over to join them. On impulse Ivy took her mother’s hands, then gazed at her sisters and at Mr. Lockwell, and her heart swelled inside her.

“I missed you all,” she said. “I missed you all so much while I was gone. I never want to leave again. I can’t bear the thought of it. I have spent more time away than should be allowed in a lifetime.”

Mrs. Lockwell patted Ivy’s cheek. “There, you are a good daughter, Ivoleyn. I am sure you believe you speak the truth. But I don’t doubt you will be of a different mind soon when a handsome man comes to take you away from us. It is we who shall miss you then.”

“But I cannot imagine what you speak of,” Ivy said with a laugh. “I can expect no such occurrence, I am sure.”

“Well, you should expect it,” Mrs. Lockwell said. “For I am a good judge of such things, and I am certain I am not mistaken when I say that Mr. Rafferdy means to propose to you.”

Ivy was astonished. “I am sure you can have no direct knowledge of such a thing,” she said, a bit breathless of a sudden. “Do not mistake a kindly manner and a genuine concern at the well-being of an acquaintance—of a friend, I might even go so far as to say—for something more than it is.”

However, Mrs. Lockwell would not hear any argument on the subject. “Think what you wish, Ivoleyn, but you will see I am right soon enough. There is no gulf too great for true affection to bridge. One day—before this month is out, I should think—a carriage will arrive at our house, and Mr. Rafferdy inside it. And when that day comes, you will see that you are not, after all, so very sorry to leave us. Now,” she exclaimed, “let us continue our party!”

They did, eating more, and dancing more, and playing a game of blindman’s bluff, which gave them much amusement until Rose, unable to catch them despite the small size of the parlor, began to weep behind the blindfold. But her tears were mingled with laughter as Ivy and Lily went to her and took the scarf from her eyes, and she said, “There, I have found you both, after all.” For which they embraced her.

It grew late. Mrs. Lockwell was nodding in her chair. Cassity had gone home, and Mrs. Murch and Wilbern had retired downstairs.

“See to your mother,” she told her sisters, “and I will take Father to his room.”

Ivy clasped Mr. Lockwell’s hand and led him up the stairs. However, it was dark, and Ivy was forced to leave her father on the third landing and retreat downstairs for a candle.

“So, you have returned at last from your wanderings,” he said as she came back up the stairs. His voice was solemn but with a keen note of interest to it. She had not heard him speak so clearly since he fell ill.

“I wasn’t wandering,” she said at last, thinking he had been addressing her. “I only went to get a candle.”

He did not respond to her words, and as she drew near she saw he was not facing her but rather stood at the window looking out, his face tilted upward. She stood beside him and followed his gaze. Between two gables was a wedge of night sky. There, amid a handful of familiar stars, shone an interloper: a dull, ruddy spark. She had never seen it before yet knew it all the same; it could only be the new celestial body she had read about, the one that had been detected recently.

According to the reports, the new object in the sky had grown steadily brighter, but Ivy had not known it had become visible without the aid of ocular lenses. What its nature was, men of science were still debating, but most supposed it to be some kind of comet, despite its lack of a tail. While the stars around it danced and glittered, the new object in the sky emitted a dim but unwavering glow.

“What do you see, Father?” she asked, but he did not answer her. Instead, his hands moved before him, tracing circles and twisting about in an intricate dance whose purpose—if indeed it had one—was beyond her fathoming.

She set down the candle and put her hands over his, stilling them. “Come, Father,” she said, and he followed her to his room. Outside, the red stranger watched from the sky.

T
HAT HER MOTHER could be right concerning Mr. Rafferdy’s intentions was impossible. Each time Ivy considered it over those next days, the idea appeared only more absurd.

That he had seemed to enjoy their conversations, she conceded. That he was altogether agreeable and had gone out of his way to make himself amiable to her and her mother and sisters, she would not impugn. However, the significance of these things must not be overstated. When placed opposite all the weighty evidence of position and fortune, they could not cause the scale of possibility to so much as budge.

The more she studied these facts, the more Ivy convinced herself of the soundness of her reasoning. Indeed, she concluded one afternoon as she worked on her poor basket, there was no use in wasting another moment’s thought on it; the matter was resolved; she could expect—
would
expect—nothing from Mr. Rafferdy.

“I see a black carriage coming down the street!” Lily said from her perch by the parlor window.

Ivy winced, then sucked her finger; she had pricked it with the needle. Her heart pounded. But it was only from the start that Lily had given her, she told herself. All the same, she did not draw a breath as Lily described the progress of the carriage.

“Oh, it’s not stopping,” Lily said, and turned from the window with a frown. “I do wonder when Mr. Rafferdy will come. And when he does, he had better bring Mr. Garritt with him, or I shall be very cross.”

“You must not expect such an event,” Ivy said, resuming both her breathing and her sewing. “And I wish to hear no more about Mr. Rafferdy. I assure you I will speak no more about him this day!”

Lily sulked from the window and sat at the pianoforte, though she did not play anything. In the time Rose finished one shirt and began another, Ivy succeeded only in tearing out the seam along a sleeve.

“There!” she announced with grim satisfaction. “How horrified Mr. Rafferdy would be to witness such a poor display of sewing. It is best he is not here. He would cease any association with me at once.”

And a short while later, when the clatter of a passing carriage sounded outside, she exclaimed, “There is no need to look, I am quite certain by the squeaking of the wheels
that
is not Mr. Rafferdy. His cabriolet is very quiet, as I remember. Do not even bother going to the window, Lily.”

That night was an unusually short umbral, a mere four hours according to the almanac. While it was light when they sat down to supper, it was already full dark by the time they finished their soup.

“We must hurry to bed!” Mrs. Lockwell said, rushing them from the table, “or it will be light before we get a wink of sleep.”

Despite the brief night, Ivy rose early. Dawn found her in the kitchen, heating a kettle for tea. Though the sky warmed from gray to pink to blue while she drank her cup, the rest of the household had not stirred, having gone to bed only a few hours ago. Even Mrs. Murch, who was usually very early, had not made an appearance; so when the bell rang for the post, Ivy ventured out to retrieve it herself. She waved to the postman across the street, and he cracked a great yawn in reply.

The day was already sultry, having had little chance to give up yesterday’s heat. She took a bundle of letters from the box, dismayed to note that the topmost was a bill from a fashionable Uphill clothier. She returned inside and without further examination set the stack of letters on the table in the front hall; her mother always insisted on going through them before anyone else and would be upset if she perceived this was not the case.

The stack slid to one side as she let go, revealing a letter addressed in a cramped, formal hand.

Ivy stared. She reached for the post, determined only to straighten the stack, then found the letter in her hand. It was addressed to Mr. Lockwell and sealed with red wax, just like the one that had come some months ago.

It was not
hers
to open. All the same, her fingers slipped beneath the wax seal, prying it from the paper without cracking it. She trembled and was forced to hold the letter with both hands in order to read it in the morning sun that streamed through the front window.

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Lockwell,

I address this to you both, though it is my belief that only one of you will read it, for if things had altered for the better I am sure I would have heard such news. It is my hope they have not altered for the worse. It is also my hope that this missive will win a reply, though my previous letters have gone unanswered. That I have only the best wishes for you and your family, I cannot make more plain than I did when last we met, and the intervening years have not altered my intentions.

My little cousins, which I previously described to you, are now come to my house at Heathcrest, and I still have great need of someone to see to their care and education. I have only a small staff, and they have little time or ability to see to the shepherding of young souls and young minds. The children need a governess, and I am sure I could do no better than to have one of your three daughters.