The House On Durrow Street Part 14

"No, they cannot."

Yet even as Ivy said this, she recalled her encounter with the man in the black mask. There were other magicians, he had said, and other doors. She wondered what Mr. Quent might think of this, only she had not told him about the most recent visit of the man in the black mask, and once again she found herself reluctant to do so. He had enough to concern himself. If the stranger in the mask showed himself again, then she would tell him.

"Well," he said, his eyes upon her. "Are you not going to look at it?"

Ivy picked up the journal again. For so many years she had been deprived of her father's intellect and his wisdom, his companionship and humor. Now, here in her hands, was an entire volume filled with it. Eagerly she opened it and turned past the first page to the next.

It was blank.

Ivy turned the page once more, but again found herself gazing at a blank sheet. She flipped through several more pages in the journal. All were empty. She opened the book a quarter way through, halfway, and toward the end. Blank, blank, and blank again. Other than the first page that she had read, the journal was devoid of words.

A gasp escaped her; or rather, a sob. How much crueler it was to lose something marvelous when it had just been promised to you mere moments before! The journal fell to her lap, and this time Ivy could not prevent tears from rolling down her cheeks.

With gentle motions, Mr. Quent wiped them away.

"Lockwell must never have had the chance to write in these pages as he intended to," he said. "Before he could work on the journal, he must have been forced to take action to stop Mr. Bennick and the rest of his order from using the artifact." pages as he intended to," he said. "Before he could work on the journal, he must have been forced to take action to stop Mr. Bennick and the rest of his order from using the artifact."

"You must be right," she said, though she could barely speak the words. She was shivering, as if the fever had come upon her again.

"I am sorry, Ivoleyn."

She forced herself to smile at him. "I am as well. However, even these few words of his are a gift." So they were-if a bittersweet one.

For several minutes they were content to be with each other in contemplative silence. At last, Mr. Quent remarked that she looked very tired, and she confessed that she wished to rest. He kissed her brow and left her, promising to return in a little while. When she was alone, Ivy laid a hand upon the journal. She felt the same as she did after one of her trips to see her father at Madstone's, for here was a thing that gave her remembrances of her father, yet which contained none of his thoughts, his intellect, and his feelings.

Ivy felt her eyes sting, but she blinked away the tears. She would not succ.u.mb to despair. That That her father would not have wanted. He had known what he was doing when he sacrificed his mind to stop Mr. Bennick and the Vigilant Order of the Silver Eye from using the artifact. She placed the book back in the box of Wyrdwood and set it on the table by the bed, then laid her head on her pillow. Even as she did this, a thought occurred to her, and as it did some of her sorrow was replaced by puzzlement. her father would not have wanted. He had known what he was doing when he sacrificed his mind to stop Mr. Bennick and the Vigilant Order of the Silver Eye from using the artifact. She placed the book back in the box of Wyrdwood and set it on the table by the bed, then laid her head on her pillow. Even as she did this, a thought occurred to her, and as it did some of her sorrow was replaced by puzzlement.

If her father had never had a chance to write in the journal, then why had he gone to the trouble of finding a way to seal it inside a box of Wyrdwood that only she could open?

AT LAST THE doctor p.r.o.nounced Ivy fit to leave the inn, and that very day Mr. Quent drove her in the cabriolet to Durrow Street so that she could behold the latest discovery that had been made in the house.

Upon entering, Ivy was astonished at the progress that had occurred in her absence. That none of the peculiar attributes of the house-the wooden eyes, the clawed doork.n.o.bs, and any such thing odd or wizardly-be altered was one of the stipulations under which Mr. Barbridge worked. All the same, much had changed since last she set foot in the house. A second set of steps was being constructed, a mirror to the original, to form a double stairway that swept up to the second-floor gallery. The front hall had been made grander by replacing the square beams with arched vaults, and the floor planks had been pulled up to reveal an exquisite mosaic in the style of the Princ.i.p.alities, depicting a wild forest strewn with stags, lions, and huntsmen.

The mosaic had been badly damaged, which was likely why it had been covered up. Artisans had been hired to painstakingly cut new pieces of tile and match them to the original pattern, restoring it to its colorful glory. However, as wondrous as this was, it was not what Mr. Quent had brought her here to see. Instead, he led her to the north end of the hall.

As they went, he described how the mantelpiece above the fireplace had been removed, for it had been charred in a fire that had gotten out of hand sometime in the past. Once the mantel was taken down, it was apparent that the entire fireplace was surrounded by a plaster facade. This was torn away as well, and beneath was revealed the original fireplace.

As they approached, Ivy's wonder was renewed. The fireplace was framed by pale marble traced with green veins. The marble was sculpted into rich scrollwork that intertwined with a pair of eagles perched to either side. There was no mantel. Instead, above the fireplace was a bas-relief carving of a shield. Behind the shield was a single sword, and the whole thing was wreathed with leaves as delicately rendered as those on the door they had discovered in the gallery upstairs, though these were fashioned of stone, not wood. Chiseled upon the shield was a name: Dratham Dratham.

A new thrill pa.s.sed through Ivy. "Dratham? Do you think it might be the name of the man who built this house?"

"It must be so," Mr. Quent said. "I spoke to Mr. Barbridge, and he is convinced the crest above the fireplace is original to the house." he is convinced the crest above the fireplace is original to the house."

Ivy moved closer, examining the stone shield. "I suppose it was covered over when the house changed hands. A new master would not have wanted for the name of the previous owner to be so boldly advertised."

Mr. Quent concurred with her a.s.sessment. Nor was there any disagreement between them on the matter of the fireplace. Both agreed the fireplace must be restored to its original appearance.

After that, they pa.s.sed a pleasurable hour as Mr. Quent showed her all the things that had been done to the house while she was ill. Ivy examined everything with great interest; and if a few times her gaze strayed to a window, as if expecting to see a tall figure all in black standing outside, her attention always quickly returned to Mr. Quent.

At last she grew weary, for she was still somewhat weak from her illness, and Mr. Quent returned her to the inn. The next morning she woke feeling greatly refreshed, and after breakfast she went to the Toll House in hopes of learning more about the builder of the house.

The Toll House was a turreted building of thick gray stone next to the Hillgate. Long ago it had been home to the collectors who exacted a tax on everyone and everything pa.s.sing in and out of Invarel, and the vaults beneath had guarded the great sums of money so gathered. These days the Toll House held not taxes, but rather the Old City's registers.

At first the clerks could not be bothered with Ivy's request to examine some of the old records. Finally, weary of being ignored, she introduced herself again to the head clerk, this time giving her name not as Quent, but as Lady Quent. While she was reluctant to flaunt her newly gained t.i.tle, Ivy could only admit that its effect was clear and immediate. She was hurriedly shown to a room and placed at a table, and any such ledgers as she requested, for any particular year, were brought to her.

Ivy spent several hours poring over dusty ledgers and registers, and sorting through crackling parchment deeds. Many of the doc.u.ments were faded or spotted with mold, and the records for many years were missing altogether, lost in the past to fire or flood. doc.u.ments were faded or spotted with mold, and the records for many years were missing altogether, lost in the past to fire or flood.

But even if the records had been complete, there was no reason to think the man Dratham had been born in the same district in which he built his house, or even that he had been born in Invarel at all. However, it seemed the most logical place to start, and so she gamely read through lists of names in the rolls of births, marriages, and deaths for the West Durrow parish.

She did not know exactly how far back to start, as they were not sure of the age of the house. Thus she started at the beginning of the register, which went back over four hundred years. Eventually her eyes began to smart from staring at the columns of names written in dim, archaic script. Given the gaps in the register-as well as the gaps in her own attention, which could not be prevented from wandering from time to time-she began to despair that the task was impossible. After all, this was just the register for one parish, and there were seventeen parishes in the city. She might read them all and still never find what she sought.

Then she turned a page, and there was the entry from over three hundred years ago, right near the top: DRATHAM, WAYWREND L LOERUS.

There was scant information in the birth record. All the same, it told Ivy a great deal. The mother's name and place of birth were given as Ethely Milliner of Lowpark Parish, and her residence at the time of the birth was listed as Marmount Street. The father's name was not written in the ledger.

So here was a woman with a modest name from a modest part of the city who resided in what, at the time, was one of the most fashionable sections of Invarel-for the New Quarter was yet more than a century away from being constructed. What was more, the father's name was omitted, and the child's surname did not match the mother's.

From these facts, Ivy could draw but one conclusion: Waywrend Loerus Dratham was almost certainly the illegitimate son of a well-to-do gentleman, or perhaps even a lord. While the man had been unable (or unwilling) to marry the descendant of a hat-maker, he had not abandoned Ethely; and he had set her and the child up in an expensive district of the city. had been unable (or unwilling) to marry the descendant of a hat-maker, he had not abandoned Ethely; and he had set her and the child up in an expensive district of the city.

It could even be surmised that the man had left some part of his fortune to his son, for Waywrend Dratham had gone on to build a very fine house on the west end of Durrow Street, replete with exquisite marble fireplaces. True, it was possible Dratham had made his own fortune in life. Yet given the way his father had obviously treated Ethely well, it seemed fair to presume that at least some portion of Dratham's fortune had come from his sire.

As for his name, that was likely not his father's surname, though Dratham might have been his father's middle or given name. Indeed, as she continued to look through the register, she saw no more incidences of the name Dratham anywhere.

Until she got to a page fifty-three years later. There she saw the name one more time. There were no details listed, nor any heirs or survivors noted. Instead, there was only a brief entry: DRATHAM, WAYWREND L LOERUS, OF OF W. D W. DURROW P PAR., ON T THIS D DAY D DECEASED.

In the intervening years there had been no record of marriage or of further births involving anyone named Dratham, and such events were always recorded in the man's parish of origin. So Ivy knew not only that Dratham was the misbegotten son of a gentleman or a lord, but also that he never married and had died childless (or at least with no legitimate children).

Despite her excitement at having learned more about the history of the house, a melancholy descended over Ivy. She gave the ledgers back to the clerks, then left the past and the dusty air of the Toll House to walk out into the warm present of a brilliant afternoon.

Ivy had intended to hire a cab to take her back to The Seventh Swan, for she had told Lawden not to wait for her in case her sisters needed the carriage. But she always seemed to think better when walking, and she had much to ponder. So she walked up the bustling length of King's Street and considered all she had learned that day.

There was no way to really know, but Ivy was convinced from what she had learned that Waywrend Loerus Dratham had been a magician. She did not know for a fact that the magickal eyes in the house were original to it, but there had been nothing found to indicate they were added later. In which case they had been what she had learned that Waywrend Loerus Dratham had been a magician. She did not know for a fact that the magickal eyes in the house were original to it, but there had been nothing found to indicate they were added later. In which case they had been his his doing. doing.

Then there was the matter of his middle name. From what Ivy had read, the planet Loerus was one whose movements were often watched by magicians. That Dratham's father, whoever he was, would give his son such a name could not be chance, and he may well have been a magician himself. The fact that Dratham had never married also gave the impression of a man alone in his house, studying arcane lore.

Still, this was all conjecture. For all she knew, he had been a dull-witted man who was too homely to get a wife and who never cracked the pages of a book in his life.

Yet she couldn't believe that that. A man with an incurious mind would never have built a house so interesting as the house on Durrow Street. All the same, she had to admit it was unlikely that she would ever uncover proof that Dratham was a magician. While these days it was becoming fashionable for the sons of lords to study magick-or at least to affect the appearance of studying it-that was not the case two and three centuries ago. In that era, there had still been edicts banning the practice of magick. And if Dratham was a magician, it was something he would have done in secret.

So consumed was Ivy with these thoughts that it took her several moments to realize that someone was calling her name.

"Good day, Lady Quent!" came the voice again, followed by a clatter of hooves and wheels against cobbles.

Startled, Ivy looked up to see a barouche of lacquered and gilded wood, drawn by a pair of perfectly matched grays, come to a halt not ten paces away. The driver, whose coat was as rich as any gentleman's, leaped down to open the door, then helped a woman out of the carriage. Her gown was a violet that matched her eyes, and her hair fell in a shower of chestnut curls over her shoulders.

"I knew it could not be long before we met again, Lady Quent," the woman said as she approached. Then she gave a bright laugh. "But how dreadful you must think me! You can only imagine I devised this encounter even as I did our first. Yet this time I can profess my complete innocence. I had come to the Old City to select new pigments for my painting. I am weary of all my usual colors, and long for new ones. However, I discovered nothing of any interest. Until I spied the woman said as she approached. Then she gave a bright laugh. "But how dreadful you must think me! You can only imagine I devised this encounter even as I did our first. Yet this time I can profess my complete innocence. I had come to the Old City to select new pigments for my painting. I am weary of all my usual colors, and long for new ones. However, I discovered nothing of any interest. Until I spied you you from the carriage, that is." from the carriage, that is."

"Lady Crayford!" Ivy managed to say at last, and made a curtsy.

"Lady Quent," the other said, curtsying herself.

This shocked Ivy. The wife of a viscount had no need to pay honor in such a way to the wife of a baronet-and one freshly made, at that. Only then she saw the gleam in Lady Crayford's eyes, and the curve of her lips, and Ivy knew the other lady was making light of the whole affair.

"I see that you go afoot," the viscountess said. "Exercise is beneficial, no doubt, but talking is far more entertaining. Can I tempt you into the barouche? There is a great deal of room, as I bought very little today-a fact for which my husband will no doubt be glad!"

Presented with such an invitation, Ivy could hardly refuse. Nor could she say she had any wish to. Nothing could be more pleasant than spending a little time in the company of one so charming and interesting as Lady Crayford, and this way she would return to Mr. Quent and her sisters all the sooner.

"You are very kind," Ivy said after the driver had helped them both into the carriage.

"On the contrary, I am very selfish," her companion said from the opposite bench. "For this way I can have you all to myself, at least for a little while."

"I am sure you hardly need me for company!"

Indeed, there was a pretty girl in the carriage, a servant who had no doubt accompanied the lady to help bear packages. She was a meek thing, though, and sat very quietly with her head bowed.

"On the contrary, I need you very much," Lady Crayford said. "I haven't encountered a single interesting person or seen a single lovely thing today. And how is an artist to paint with nothing for inspiration? I might as well coat my canvas all in gray. Do you mind if I direct the driver to go around by way of the Promenade? It is a little farther that way to Marble Street, I confess, but it is prettier." lovely thing today. And how is an artist to paint with nothing for inspiration? I might as well coat my canvas all in gray. Do you mind if I direct the driver to go around by way of the Promenade? It is a little farther that way to Marble Street, I confess, but it is prettier."

Ivy conceded that it was, and as she was already going to return faster than she would have on foot, she could hardly complain.

"What sort of things do you like to paint?" Ivy asked after the directions had been relayed to the driver.

Lady Crayford shook her head. "No, Lady Quent. I will not let you so deftly turn the topic of the conversation to me, as I am sure is your wont. Rather, I will defy your modesty, and instead ask all about you you."

She proceeded to quiz Ivy on what she had been doing that day, and why she was residing at The Seventh Swan, which required an explanation of the refurbishment of the house on Durrow Street. Ivy at first attempted to keep her answers brief, so the topic would not become tedious. When Lady Crayford pressed her for all manner of details, soon Ivy found herself discussing what she had learned about the house.

"How fascinating to live in a house with such history!" Lady Crayford exclaimed. "And owned by a magician, you say. I'm sure there must be all manner of hidden doors and secret pa.s.sages."

Indeed, they had found a hidden door, Ivy said, one all carved with leaves, though it led only to a blank wall. All the same, her companion was intrigued.

"I envy you, Lady Quent, to soon be dwelling in such a remarkable abode." Lady Crayford gave a sigh. "None of the houses in the New Quarter is nearly so interesting. Oh, they are pretty enough. Yet they are neither truly new anymore, nor really old enough to offer real character. Well, it is always the way that what was new becomes old, and what was old is rediscovered. Thus I wouldn't be surprised if everyone started moving back to the Old City soon. Which means you are in the vanguard of fashion, Lady Quent."

That was a point Ivy could not concede. They were dwelling on Durrow Street because the house belonged to her father, she explained, and for no other reason. Except that wasn't really true. No doubt Mr. Quent could have afforded a house in the New Quarter and would have moved them there if Ivy had asked him to. was a point Ivy could not concede. They were dwelling on Durrow Street because the house belonged to her father, she explained, and for no other reason. Except that wasn't really true. No doubt Mr. Quent could have afforded a house in the New Quarter and would have moved them there if Ivy had asked him to.

The carriage rounded a bend on the Promenade, resulting in a striking view of Halworth Gardens with the Crag rising above, and Ivy remarked that it would make for a lovely painting. This time her attempt to turn the topic away from herself succeeded, for Lady Crayford agreed that it would indeed be pretty, but that there was a superior view just a short way ahead, where the ragged edge of an old wall created an interesting frame to it all.

As the carriage continued on, they leaned out the window, and Lady Crayford pointed out other scenes worth painting. Ivy noted that she seemed to favor provocative contrasts: a dead tree in the midst of a garden in bloom, or a dusty street sweeper standing beside a heroic statue of a general, holding his broom even as the statue gripped a sword.

Ivy could not help noticing that they received many looks from people in the street as they pa.s.sed. However, Lady Crayford seemed not to care. Nor, after a time, did Ivy. Why should she she worry if others thought her and her companion deserving of a stare or a gawk? In a moment those faces would flash by, and Ivy would never see them again. Before long she laughed as Lady Crayford did, leaning out the carriage window and pointing at anything that intrigued or delighted, imagining them in a painting. worry if others thought her and her companion deserving of a stare or a gawk? In a moment those faces would flash by, and Ivy would never see them again. Before long she laughed as Lady Crayford did, leaning out the carriage window and pointing at anything that intrigued or delighted, imagining them in a painting.

Too soon the carriage came to a halt before The Seventh Swan. Ivy thanked Lady Crayford for the conveyance. Then, perhaps imprudently-but she was yet filled with excitement from their conversation-she exclaimed, "I wish I could see your paintings someday!"

"Then you must come see them," Lady Crayford said, her expression pleased. "I would not have thought to compel you to view such tedious things, but since you have tendered yourself, you cannot withdraw the offer. You must come to my next party. I am planning it for Brightday eve. Your presence will a.s.sure it is a lively gathering." am planning it for Brightday eve. Your presence will a.s.sure it is a lively gathering."

At once Ivy's excitement vanished. How could she have been so presumptuous? She must have appeared as if she were fishing for an invitation. How dreadful she must seem!

"I am sure my presence cannot be needed to make an affair at your house lively," she said. "And you no doubt already have a full guest list."

"On the contrary, there is always room for one more couple, and you and Sir Quent will be the best thing about the party. I will be delighted to show you off."

Ivy hardly knew what to say. According to the stories Lily had read in the broadsheets, the viscountess's parties were the most famous affairs in the city, filled with all manner of n.o.ble and glorious beings. That she and Mr. Quent would be out of place there was beyond a certainty.

"But my husband is often out of town."

"Well, if he cannot come, then bring another companion." She reached out and gripped Ivy's hands. "But come you must, Lady Quent. Promise me that you will."

Asked so directly-with such warmth of feeling, and by one who was her superior-Ivy could not refuse. Nor, once she had accepted the invitation, could she say she was in any way sorry, for she truly did wish to see Lady Crayford's paintings.

Once Lady Crayford was satisfied with the solemnity of the promise, she bid Ivy farewell, and in an unexpected and charming gesture, kissed Ivy's cheek. Ivy said farewell, then departed the carriage and entered the inn. As she did, laughter rose within her. She had just been invited to a party at the house of the renowned viscountess Lady Crayford! How was she to tell Mr. Quent? What was she going to wear?

And, most of all, whatever was Lily going to say?

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

RAFFERDY KNEW THERE was no further use in leaving it to luck.

His friend could only be avoiding the Sword and Leaf. Twice in the last half month Rafferdy had gone to their old haunt and had sat for at least an hour, and neither time did his drinking companion have the decency to present himself. True, it had been a few months since they had met at the tavern in the Old City. All the same, was it too much to ask for Garritt to present himself when he was wanted?

Apparently it was. While a chance meeting with a friend was always more merry than a planned affair, the problem with such encounters was that they never seemed to reliably happen when one wished them to. Which meant if he was ever going to meet with that rascal Eldyn Garritt, it was going to have to be arranged.

As he blotted and sealed the note he had composed to Garritt, his gaze strayed to the stack of invitations on his writing desk. At the top was a letter from Lady Marsdel, informing him that his presence was required for tea tomorrow. The note had come two days ago, but Rafferdy still had not written a response. Each time he tried to pick up a pen to do so, some invisible force stayed his hand. For what if she she had been invited to tea as well? had been invited to tea as well?

True, he had promised Mrs. Baydon that he would not avoid another affair at Lady Marsdel's just because he knew Mrs. Quent would be there. He had realized it was not for Mrs. Quent's benefit that he had kept himself from her these last months. However, knowing that one had acted ign.o.bly was far from the same thing as being n.o.ble, and the idea of encountering Mrs. Quent was one that still filled him with discomfort. as being n.o.ble, and the idea of encountering Mrs. Quent was one that still filled him with discomfort.

That she would gloat about her marriage, or burden him with overly affectionate anecdotes concerning her husband, was impossible; she had too much sense, and too fine an apprehension of the feelings of others, to ever do such a thing. She She would never say anything to injure his feelings. would never say anything to injure his feelings.

Still, no matter how thoughtful or sensitive her statements were, she would not be able to conceal her present state of joy. Merely to be bright and lovely in his presence would demonstrate stronger than any words how content she was with the way fate had arranged things.

No, Rafferdy was not ready to witness that that yet. Besides, there was no way to know if she had been invited to Lady Marsdel's tomorrow. Which meant if he turned down the invitation, it could not be because she was expected there. Thus his promise to Mrs. Baydon would not be broken. yet. Besides, there was no way to know if she had been invited to Lady Marsdel's tomorrow. Which meant if he turned down the invitation, it could not be because she was expected there. Thus his promise to Mrs. Baydon would not be broken.

Rafferdy took up a pen. However, after a minute he set it back down without writing a word. Instead, he picked up the note for Garritt and gave it to his man.

TO RAFFERDY'S IMMENSE satisfaction, a reply came that very afternoon. Garritt would happily meet him at the usual place; he would be there an hour after sunset, and he promised his purse would be full.

He set down Garritt's note and returned to the mirror, where he had been modeling his new robe of black crepe. After some consideration, he decided it gave him a lordly look. Not that this was something he had sought. The main benefit of the robe was that it did not emanate a musty odor. The lack of any kind of ruffle was also a welcome characteristic. If it happened that the garment lent him a more official air, he supposed it could not be helped.

As he turned to admire the drape of the robe, he noticed a flash of blue. Rafferdy raised his right hand, looking at the ring on his fourth finger. He had grown so used to the thing that he seldom paid it attention anymore. Except that wasn't entirely the case, for on more than one occasion since the opening day of a.s.sembly, he had found himself absently turning the House ring around and around or gazing into the blue gem. his fourth finger. He had grown so used to the thing that he seldom paid it attention anymore. Except that wasn't entirely the case, for on more than one occasion since the opening day of a.s.sembly, he had found himself absently turning the House ring around and around or gazing into the blue gem.

It was only a stray sunbeam that caused the jewel to glimmer now. But it wasn't sunlight that had made it flare that day at a.s.sembly, when he used an enchantment to unlock a door and gain his escape. He had not studied magick since his final lesson with Mr. Bennick last year, but the spell of opening had come easily to him. It seemed he had not forgotten everything he had learned from the former magician.