The Master of Heathcrest Hall (100 page)

A horn blared.

“Well, it’s time,” Dercy said.

Eldyn’s heart quickened in his chest. “So do you really think we can make a go of it there?”

“What do you mean?” Dercy said with a mock scowl. “There will be no finer tavern in the colony than the Two Jesters. Of course, there will be no other tavern at all when we arrive, but that only proves my point.”

And all at once Eldyn could not stop laughing.

Dercy shook his head, though he was grinning himself. “An angel and a devil running a tavern. I wonder what other wonders we’ll see in the New Lands? Now come along, my angel.”

Arm in arm, the two made their way to the dock, and up the plank to the ship.

I
VY SAT IN THE SHADE at the base of the old stone wall, reading. The book in her hands was a new scientific treatise entitled
On the Inheritance of Color in Peppered Moths
. It had been written by Dr. Lawrent, and Ivy was finding it to be just as engrossing as her discussions with the doctor over dinner had been back at the house on Durrow Street.

A zephyr passed through the grove, and Ivy shut her eyes, listening to the whisperings of the leaves. In their discussions, Dr. Lawrent had explained how it was possible that a trait which had existed benignly in a species for long years could suddenly become
beneficial if circumstances changed. Certainly that was the case for the moths, who had put their ability to produce black spots to good use by making these spots larger and larger.

And it was true for the Wyrdwood as well. Had the Old Trees really developed that ability to move and lash out by defending themselves from enormous animals that were now long extinct? That was what the Elder One had said, and perhaps scientists would one day find the ancient bones of such creatures to prove it.

Whatever the reason for its origin, that ability of the Old Trees had become crucial again ten thousand years ago when the Ashen first came to Altania. In the millennia since, the trait became even more strongly fixed as civilization encroached upon the Wyrdwood. Only those trees which were the most likely to resist, and did so the most vigorously, survived to produce acorns and nuts. And so it was that, while there were far fewer Old Trees when Cerephus once again drew close to the world, those trees which remained were far stronger than before. That was something the Ashen hadn’t counted upon.

Yet the Old Trees weren’t unique in passing down an inherent trait to resist the Ashen to their offspring. Many of those first witches had borne daughters, who had borne daughters in turn, and so on—each of them inheriting the ability which allowed them to communicate with the trees. Similarly, the Elder Ones had given rise to the seven Old Houses, passing the trait of magick from father to son. So it was that the seeds to protect the world had been planted long ago, during the first war with the Ashen.

The breeze dwindled, and the grove fell silent once more. The trees drowsed in the warmth of the long day. Yet Ivy knew that, if a long night ever fell again and they were needed, they would awaken once more. Nor was there any fear that those Old Trees which remained would be cut down. They were now protected by royal decree, for King Huntley had declared all groves of Wyrdwood to be national treasures. Indeed, there was even talk of enlarging the walls around certain groves in more remote areas, to give them room to grow to a larger and healthier size.

Ivy opened her eyes and shut her book. It was time to start back, for someone would no doubt be waking up soon. Tucking the book under her arm, she made her way down the hill, away from the old grove of Wyrdwood and toward Heathcrest Hall, which loomed on the ridge to the west. For a moment her eyes searched for the sight of a horse cantering down from the ridge toward her. Only there was no horse, and no rider. Only the gorse, and the heather in bloom.

Just the other day, it had occurred to her that her time spent without Mr. Quent’s company had now surpassed her time with it. Though that was not entirely true, for not a day passed that she did not think of him, or speak his name, or feel his presence. Even now, she had only to look at Heathcrest to see his countenance in its sturdy construction and stern eaves. It was not, she supposed, the handsomest manor house to be found in the country. But there was none in all of Altania that was more pleasing to her eye, or in whose walls she felt more secure.

Which was well, for Heathcrest Hall was her own now, as well as the lands around it.

After Sir Quent was pardoned posthumously, and the title of earl of Cairnbridge conferred upon him, Ivy had feared that great legal complications would arise. She couldn’t help recalling how they had been ousted from the house on Whitward Street after their mother’s death due to entailment. Instead, the lawyers had been able to make quick work of it all. As Sir Quent’s—or rather, Earl Quent’s—wife, all of the lands and possessions conferred to him, along with his existing holdings, immediately fell to her. Nor were any of these entailed in any way. What was more, there had even been some talk recently of allowing women to own property separately from their husbands, which meant a wife or daughter being ousted from their home after losing a husband or father would be a thing of the past.

Of course, there were some in Assembly who resisted such newfangled ideas, in particular the oldest and stodgiest magnates, but so much was changed in Altania now that it had become a
little easier for people to give up some of the notions they had hewed to historically. As a result, Ivy had every hope that a woman would one day be able to manage her affairs as she wished in every way, to attend university, or even hold a position in Assembly. True, these notions seemed perhaps far-fetched now, but living things could change over time, so why not societies and their manners? If moths could alter their spots given enough time, so perhaps could bluff old lords in Assembly.

A pounding of hooves caused Ivy to look up. A horse was indeed riding down the hill.
It is him!
she thought wildly for a moment. Only it was odd, for even as she thought this, she didn’t know just who it was she meant.

The rider rode down the slope, quickly drawing closer, and she saw that it was, in fact, Lawden. He brought the chestnut mare to a neat stop before her, then dismounted.

“Your ladyship,” he said in his soft voice, his homely face solemn, “I would that you had allowed me to drive you.”

Ivy could not help smiling. Of late, Lawden had been very insistent on wanting to drive her everywhere. Evidently countesses were not supposed to walk about the moors and get mud on the hems of their gowns. Or perhaps it was that he feared her not fully recovered as of yet. Though it had been nearly five months now, and in truth she felt very well.

“The weather is quite fine,” she said. “And I needed the exercise.”

He appeared unconvinced. “Mrs. Seenly is putting out tea. It will grow cold.”

Ivy sighed, knowing she would get no peace until she consented. Besides, her legs were a bit weary from walking, and she had been gone longer than she had expected. Rose might need some assistance by now.

“Very well,” she said. She allowed him to help her into the saddle, and he led the horse up the ridge and back to Heathcrest Hall.

A quarter hour later Ivy entered the parlor off the front hall. Of
all the manor’s many chambers, this little room was still her favorite. Knowing this, Mrs. Seenly had set out the tea things here. Ivy poured a cup and was just taking a sip when she heard footsteps behind her.

“There you two are,” Ivy said, smiling. “Did everything go well while I was gone?”

“Oh yes, very well,” Rose said as she entered the parlor, a bundle wrapped in a yellow blanket in her arms. “Miss Merriel slept nearly the entire time, so I got a good deal of sewing done. She only just now woke up.”

Ivy set down her cup and went to Rose. Smiling, she gazed down at the baby in her sister’s arms.

“Hello, dearest,” Ivy said, and took the little bundle from Rose. “Did you behave for your aunt?” She cradled her tiny daughter, and kissed that soft, warm head.

Even though he was no longer here with her in this world, still Mr. Quent had managed to give her so much—a house, and lands, and security. But here in her arms was a far greater gift, one Ivy cherished above all. For Ivy had only to look at her daughter—
his
daughter—to know that he was with her yet. She could see Alasdare in the brown curls atop Merriel’s head, and in the shape of her nose and the firm set of her jaw.

Then the baby opened her eyes, and it was Ivy’s own eyes she saw gazing up at her, as green as new leaves.

Ivy had been shocked that day at the house on Durrow Street, when Rose said she had seen the spark of gold in Ivy’s light. Only she shouldn’t have been surprised. After all, the strange dream had started coming to her again, the one that began with her gathering shells along the shore.

It wasn’t a dream, though; she knew that now. Rather, it had been a memory, though not one of her own. It was the memory of one of the first witches—one that had somehow been passed down from mother to daughter over the ages, just like the ability to speak with the trees.

Layka. That had been her name, the young woman who had
lived by the sea. It was she who had been used in the most terrible manner by the Elder One named Myrrgon, and who had borne him a son, whose infant body he had thereupon entered, seizing it as his own so he could be reborn. Yet despite this horror, Layka must have endured, and at some point after that she had given birth to a daughter. Like Layka, this child had possessed the
wayru
, the ability to speak with the trees, and she had passed this trait to her own daughter, and she to hers, and so on—all the way to Rowan Addysen, and to Merriel Addysen, and to Ivy herself.

And now to Merriel Lockwell Quent, here in Ivy’s arms.

Why Ivy had started having the dream each time she was expecting she wasn’t certain. She thought perhaps it had to do with the presence of Myrrgon himself, for on both occasions the Elder One had been nearby, temporarily inhabiting the body of Lord Farrolbrook. Just as the memories of her ancestor had been hidden deep within Ivy, so must have been the knowledge of how Myrrgon had betrayed Layka to construct a vessel for his spirit. Ivy could only think that having him close by while she herself was with child had awakened those ancient memories.

Strange though this idea was, it had to be possible. After all, was it not for the same reason that, since the time of the very first magicians, no witch had ever borne a son to a magician? Ten thousand years ago, the Elder Ones had taught both the first witches and the Wyrdwood to resist the power of the Ashen with all their might. But the power of magick and that of the Ashen was one and the same, for it was the Elder Ones themselves who had created the horror of the Ashen.

So it was that, ever after the first war against the Ashen, a witch and a magician had never been able to make a son together. Always the essence of the Wyrdwood within the witch would reject the germ of magick because of its association with the wood’s ancient foe, the Ashen. And so it was that, in using the Wyrdwood to fight their enemy, the Elder Ones had defeated themselves, assuring they would never again be able to be reborn in a body that combined both the powers of this world and their own.

Yet would it ever be that way? Organisms changed over time, which surely meant they could change back. After all, if soot stopped staining walls in County Dorn, would not the moths there turn white again? It had to be so. And now, with the threat of the Ashen gone forever, resisting the power of the arcane could no longer impart any special benefit to the Wyrdwood, or to the women who spoke with it.

Which meant, perhaps one day, it would stop doing so.

Ivy’s mind began to whir, like the gears of the old rosewood clock on the mantelpiece. She would write to Dr. Lawrent when she had a chance and ask him his ideas upon the theory.

But first, there was another matter of great importance to attend to.

“I imagine you are very hungry, dearest,” Ivy said, gently touching her daughter’s nose and cheeks, upon which Merriel let out a series of little chirps and clucks that clearly expressed this was indeed the case.

While Rose sat and turned through the pages of a folio of drawings which Lily had given to her—and which she never seemed to grow tired of looking at—Ivy draped a shawl over her shoulder and cradled her daughter close. She supposed some might think it unusual, even peculiar, that a countess would deign to perform such a chore herself, when there was surely a young woman in the village who had recently had an infant, and could be brought up to the manor to be a nurse to Merriel. Yet, no matter what propriety wished for, Ivy could not imagine surrending such a tender joy as this to another, and so she had kept it for herself, along with many others.

When Merriel was finally content, Ivy rocked her for a time, and murmured soft songs to her. At last she kissed her daughter again, then stood.

“I believe Merriel wants for a changing.”

Rose quickly set down the folio. “I can take her to Mrs. Seenly if you like.”