The Master of Heathcrest Hall (28 page)

H
ER HAND TREMBLING, Ivy turned the page, but no more followed it, and this time she knew it was not because any had been cut from the book. This was truly the end of the story. Only what did any of it mean?

She set down the book and crossed her arms, shivering, for the fire had burned out on the hearth long ago. She could easily imagine why it had been published, for horrid books were popular these days; people took a great thrill in reading about terrible things.

But why had the man in the black mask—if it had indeed been he—left the book on the front step? And why had he excised the final chapters? Surely he had known she would eventually seek out a complete copy. In which case, why bother to cut out the last pages at all?

Besides, it was not as if they had offered any illumination. The story had been fascinating, to be sure, particularly the descriptions of the transformation the magicians had wrought upon the merchant’s daughter. Ivy wondered what the magicians had sought through the gate, and how the young woman—the White Thorn—was to have protected them. The author had never really said, though for some reason it all felt vaguely familiar to her.…

But of course it was. Before she had ever opened this book, Ivy had already known the story of a young woman who, by the actions of a magician, was transformed into a preternatural creature with alabaster skin. It was the story of what Mr. Bennick had done to Ashaydea—how he had made her into the cold, pitiless being called Lady Shayde. No wonder Mr. Quent had warned Ivy in a letter about Mr. Bennick. Years ago, Ashaydea had been his childhood companion at Heathcrest Hall. Knowing what Mr. Bennick had done to her, Mr. Quent could only have been horrified when he learned the former magician had then approached Ivy.

Yet it appeared that Mr. Quent was not the only person familiar with Lady Shayde’s origins. Surely the author of the book had known about her, and had used her as inspiration for his story. Or was it the other way around? Had Mr. Bennick read a copy of this book, and through it gotten the idea to research ancient magicks and learn to make a White Thorn for himself?

Ivy didn’t know. But while the story had been fascinating, as far as she could tell it had contained no clues regarding the whereabouts of her father’s old compatriot in magick Mr. Fintaur. So then why had the man in the mask left it for her in the first place?

Ivy went to the desk, took out the Wyrdwood box, and opened it with a touch. She picked up the sheet of paper on which she had transcribed the last entry to appear in her father’s journal.

You must begin to gather the others
, he had written, knowing the
entry would appear only when Cerephus had drawn close.
As for Fintaur, I believe you will find his whereabouts in the city of Ardaunto, across the sea.…

Mere days before this entry had appeared, a copy of
The Towers of Ardaunto
had arrived on her front step. It could not be chance. There had to be a clue somewhere in the book. Only she had been too dull—or too caught up in the story—to see it.

Which meant she would have to read the book again, more slowly this time. Only now she was far too tired for such an endeavor. She looked through the journal, but finding all of its pages to be blank, she locked it back inside the Wyrdwood box.

Then Ivy blew out the candles and went to bed.

S
HE WOKE TO FIND Mr. Quent snoring softly beside her. Ivy smiled and touched his bearded cheek, then slipped quietly from the bed.

Downstairs, she found Rose and Lily already at the breakfast table.

“I am surprised to find you awake so soon,” Ivy said. “I would have thought you would still be sleeping.”

Lily dropped several lumps of sugar into her teacup. “Sleeping? Why in the world should we still be sleeping?”

“Because, though it is very enjoyable, dancing can also be very tiring.”

“And I am sure that is why we are awake already,” Lily said, dipping a spoon into her teacup and stirring vigorously. “For there wasn’t a bit of dancing to be had last night, as there was no one at all to dance with.”

Rose set down her toast. “But there were several gentlemen there, Lily. I am sure they would have asked you to dance, but you always happened to turn and walk away at just the moment they approached.”

Though it was clear Rose was trying to help, the look Lily gave her sister was anything but grateful. “Well, it’s not my fault, for I didn’t see them coming. And anyway, I am sure they wouldn’t
have asked
me
to dance, as they were all very old. Of course, if they had been soldiers, I would have danced with them no matter what. It would have been my duty to help lift their spirits while they were in the city on leave. But none of them were officers, and I had no desire at all to dance myself.”

Ivy considered stating that it was curious Lily had known the age and civilian nature of the men who approached her when she had not ever seen them, but she let the remark pass. It was clear her hopes were misplaced, and that a dance populated by young men (she was sure they had not been old) had not caused Lily to forget her preoccupation with illusion plays, or her fascination with Mr. Garritt.

Ivy would have to bring up the matter with Mr. Quent. Perhaps he could speak to Lily and encourage her to pursue other interests; Lily adored him, and so might listen to him when she would not her older sister. But for now, Ivy let the topic drop, and instead mentioned that she would be going to Madstone’s after breakfast, as it was visiting day.

“Can I come with you?” Lily said suddenly, setting down her teacup.

Ivy hesitated, then shook her head. “As we’ve discussed, I don’t think that’s a good idea, Lily.”

“Why not? Why are you always able to go visit him and not us? I miss Father, too, you know. I should like to be able to speak to him sometime, and I’m sure Rose would, too. Wouldn’t you, Rose?”

Rose smiled. “But I do—” Her expression faltered, and she looked to Ivy. “That is, I would like to speak with him as well.”

“I will arrange for you both to visit Father, soon,” Ivy said. “I promise.”

And she would. It was not fair that Lily and Rose had been deprived of their father’s company for so long. Yet Ivy did not know exactly how she would keep this promise. Though the room Mr. Lockwell was in now was pleasant enough, to reach it one must pass near to those parts of the hostel where the most severely mad and deranged were housed, and where their father had once
been held. That her sisters must never glimpse that portion of the hostel—or hear the awful cries and keening that filled it—Ivy was resolved.

Well, she would find some way to keep her promise. It would be good for her sisters to see their father.

Or had Rose already seen him? No, that was not possible; Mr. Lockwell was at Madstone’s. But perhaps she could glimpse some remnant of him—some echo of his power which yet lingered here. How else to explain the light Rose claimed to have seen about the house?

That Rose had indeed seen something, Ivy was increasingly convinced. After all, it was not in Rose’s character to willingly speak a mistruth. Nor did she possess, as Lily did, a fanciful imagination which was capable of inventing such things. Yet if Rose could see some trace of her father in the house, what did it mean? Ivy didn’t know, but she would be sure to bring it up with Mr. Quent, along with the matter of Lily’s folio.

For now she finished her breakfast, then departed the house. Lawden had the cabriolet waiting, and he drove her to the very east end of the city, to the long, low building of drab stone which stood apart from all other structures at the crest of a long, low hill.

She was admitted through the iron gate, and one of the day wardens led her away from the cacophony of wails and screams to the quieter wing where her father resided. The warden unlocked the door with a heavy iron key. She had not seen him before, though he was generally indistinguishable from the other wardens given his gray smock and the impassive expression upon his soft, colorless face.

“Pull the cord at once if he should grow violent and attempt to harm you, Lady Quent,” he said placidly.

Ivy had long ago given up responding to such statements as this. At least for a change he had gotten her name right. “Thank you” was all she said, and entered the room. There was a grinding noise as the lock turned behind her.

Across the room, a wispy crown of white hair rose above the back of a chair, like a puff of tobacco smoke exhaled by the chair’s
occupant. At once, all thoughts of the wardens and the hostel receded. Ivy crossed the room and came around the chair.

“Good morning, Father.”

He did not speak, or even move. His blue eyes stared blankly at the iron-barred window. However, she saw the slight relaxation of his shoulders and a shallowing of the furrows upon his brow, which let her know he was, at least in some way, aware of her presence.

As always, an ache crept into her heart at the sight of him. It was good to see him, but how she wished he could see
her
as well, and know her for who she was. How she wanted to be able to speak to him, to tell him about all the things that had happened, and to ask for his counsel on all the things that were to come.

“I trust you have been well this past quarter month,” she said, kneeling beside his chair. “Have you been watching the weather out the window? It’s been very peculiar of late. The other night it was hot and stifling, even though it was a long umbral. And it seems every lumenal a wild storm blows through, which is then gone as suddenly as it comes.”

Ivy stroked his hand as she spoke. It was limp under her own, but warm, and his face, though slack, had good color. His clothes were clean, if somewhat rumpled, and his cheeks had been shaved. In all, he looked well enough. His appearance would not alarm her sisters.

Yet he did not move in response to her touch, nor did he speak in answer to her words. She could only believe the electrical shocks had lost whatever potency they once had. The wardens must have come to similar conclusions, for it was evident they had not performed the treatment on him in some time. The metal band used to transmit the shocks to the brain always left red weals upon his brow. But other than the usual rows of wrinkles, the skin of his forehead was unblemished.

Or perhaps it was simply that the wardens had become bored, disappointed that the patient had not continued to make exciting progress that would lend credence to their novel theories, and so had abandoned him in favor of treating more promising cases. Ivy
considered discussing it with them, then dismissed the idea. She doubted she could convince them to do anything they had not decided to do themselves. Besides, what use was there in putting her father through the ordeal of further treatment if it could not help him?

Instead, she straightened his collar and used her fingers to correct the errant coils of his white hair. As she did, she spoke to him of small matters—what further repairs had been undertaken on his old house, and how the garden was faring. All the while he remained motionless and silent, until Ivy could no longer maintain her cheerful tone, and she fell silent herself, lest she begin to weep.

“I wish you could speak to me, Father,” she said at last, and she knelt again by his chair, taking his limp hand and looking up at him. “I wish you could tell me why you want me to find the other magicians from your order. I’m trying to, only I don’t know where they are. Well, except for Mr. Mundy, but he wasn’t at his shop the other day. And even if he was, I don’t know what I’m supposed to tell him or the others.”

She thought he gave the faintest sigh, but that was it. Once again, Ivy recalled the time when he had arranged twelve apple seeds in a line on a plate, and he had uttered the words
It
is
about time
. Was that why he wanted her to find the others from his order now, because the twelve planets were beginning to align? If so, it was not here in this room that he would be able to tell her the reason for finding the other magicians of his order, but rather in his journal, if and when another entry appeared.

And even as she thought that, Ivy realized there was no use in keeping him at Madstone’s anymore.

The idea came to her with a start, so that she gasped and stood. As she did, her father’s hand slipped from hers and fell to his lap. It was strange—if she was truly abandoning hope that he could be cured of his malady here at the hostel, should she not feel despair rather than this sudden, fierce joy that now filled her?

Yet that was precisely what she felt at the thought of bringing
Mr. Lockwell home, to his house on Durrow Street, to be with his daughters and his old friend Mr. Quent. Nor was there anything to stop her from doing so. She still had the king’s dispensation, granting her father release from Madstone’s, locked safely in a drawer in the library. King Rothard might have passed, but royal authority was enduring, and unless the order was specifically rescinded by a new monarch, it remained valid. All she had to do was present the paper to the wardens, and they would have no choice but to release Mr. Lockwell from the hostel into her care. And then—

“I can bring you home, Father,” she said, her elation rising further yet. “I can keep my promise to Lily and Rose, and you can be there with us, where you belong.”

Perhaps it was selfish to feel this way, but she no longer cared. If reason and logic dictated that one did what one’s heart wished for the most, then so be it. She threw her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek, and she did not care that he did not utter a sound or make a motion in response. To feel his warmth was enough.

Just then came a grinding sound as the lock turned. Ivy released her father and stepped toward the door as it opened.

“Visiting hours are over, Lady Quent,” the warden said from the doorway. “I am sure you are relieved to depart.”

No doubt he had mistaken the color in her cheeks for distress rather than excitement. Ivy didn’t care; soon she would not have to speak to any of the dreadful wardens again. It was her impulse to tell the one before her now that she was removing her father from the hostel at once.