It was time for Eldyn to go himself; the rector would be expecting him. However, he remained at the table, gazing at the copy of the broadsheet. He turned it over, but the image of the cheerful face was gone. Instead the words had returned to their familiar arrangement, forming grim sketches about the doings of soldiers and brigands, beggars and lords.

Just as Sashie said she did, he examined things he had done since the previous day. A minute ago, such remembrances had filled him with warmth, but now his gut was as cold and sour as the tea he had drunk. Would G.o.d approve of the things he had done at the Theater of the Moon or in Dercy's room? And what would Sashie say if done at the Theater of the Moon or in Dercy's room? And what would Sashie say if she she knew what he had done? knew what he had done?

But the answers to that question didn't matter. For he would never tell her, and there was no way for her to find out. She would never go to Durrow Street, and Dercy would not come here. He claimed he loathed even going near a church these days.

Yet what of G.o.d? There was no way Eldyn could conceal anything he had done from Him Him.

A dread came over Eldyn, and his palms grew damp. He had been so astounded by his sudden ability to work illusions, and crafting them filled him with such delight, that he had not stopped to consider what he had been doing. Instead, he had willingly let himself be encouraged by Dercy's enthusiasm, and he had indulged his own whims and fancies, conjuring illusions without a thought of what it meant for his future, and for Sashie's.

That must not continue. He could only hope he had not already d.a.m.ned himself by what he had done these last days. What if, no matter how much money he saved to enter the Church, the priests took one look at him and rejected him?

Yet that was foolish. Such things could not be perceived with a glance. Besides, he had been marked by sin well before this, given his past and his parentage. He could not believe these most recent actions made a difference in the sum of things. Even if that was the case, he would still have to give up working illusions to become a priest, and the sooner he got in the habit of it, the better.

Eldyn stood, then brushed a hand across the front page of the broadsheet where Dercy's face had grinned up at him a moment before. His clammy fingers came away black, stained with ink. He left the newspaper on the table, then headed out the door.

It was time to do G.o.d's work.

CHAPTER TEN.

IT WAS A fine afternoon on a middle lumenal just after the start of the month when Ivy left The Seventh Swan, a book in hand. Their chambers at the inn were not large enough to afford her much time apart from her sisters, and over the last quarter month she had gotten few chances to read by herself. With this purpose in mind, she walked down Marble Street and pa.s.sed through an arch into Barrister's Close.

Being surrounded by buildings on all sides, the close was well protected from the bustle of Marble Street. There was a small garden in the center, and there she sat on a bench and read in blissful peace. Nor was there any need for her to hurry back; Mr. Quent had gone to the Citadel on business, and he had told her not to expect his return until quite late.

(While in public she and her husband were now required to refer to one another as Sir Sir and and Lady Lady, this was not a custom either of them had adopted in private, nor did they intend to.) The object of Ivy's attention was another book concerning astrography. The volume from her father's collection she had read had been interesting but unsatisfying, as it was clearly out of date. For one thing, the author had suggested there was still a controversy around the theory that the world was not fixed in s.p.a.ce but rather resided on its own sphere of crystalline aether that moved like those of the other planets-a thing that had been observed to be a fact well over a hundred years ago.

Still, the book had set her mind whirling like the celestial spheres themselves, and eager to learn more she had gone to a bookshop and asked for the latest volume concerning astrography. She was not the only one interested in such a topic these days, for the bookseller had known just the book to give her, and he had but a single copy left. She was not the only one interested in such a topic these days, for the bookseller had known just the book to give her, and he had but a single copy left.

The few chapters Ivy had managed to read so far had proved fascinating, if something of a challenge to comprehend, being rather scholarly, and as she sat on the bench in the garden and read, her mind grew even more fascinated by the author's various explanations and theories.

Of particular interest to her was the chapter regarding seasons seasons. Ivy still didn't fully understand the theory, but it had to do with the notion that, some time in the far distant past, days and nights weren't of varying lengths like they were now. Instead, there would be times of the year during which all of the days were long and all of the nights were short, and other times when the opposite was true.

Ivy imagined, in the latter case, it would be like having only short lumenals and long umbrals for months on end. That was a dreadful thing to consider. How cold and dark the world would have grown in such a time! That any living thing could survive for so long without light or warmth was difficult to believe.

However, according to the book, the evidence for the ancient existence of seasons was incontrovertible. If one made just a slight alteration to the movements of only a small number of the celestial spheres, the calculations showed that remarkable symmetries would arise. The current, familiar system of varying lumenals and umbrals would cease, replaced by a new scheme in which days progressed from long to short and back again.

As strange as this idea seemed, there was something about it that Ivy found compelling. Hadn't there been times when she suffered a sense of wrongness wrongness upon arising in the middle of a greatnight and using candles and lamps to carve a waking day out of the long dark? Perhaps their bodies had been fashioned for a time when things were not as they were now. It would certainly be a boon not to have to refer to an almanac to know how long the lumenal would be! upon arising in the middle of a greatnight and using candles and lamps to carve a waking day out of the long dark? Perhaps their bodies had been fashioned for a time when things were not as they were now. It would certainly be a boon not to have to refer to an almanac to know how long the lumenal would be!

Not that the almanac had been any help lately. According to the old rosewood clock-which she had brought with them to The Seventh Swan-the lumenal yesterday had ceased a full twenty minutes sooner than was printed in the timetables. It was clear the new almanac contained mistakes just like the old one. Evidently no source was reliable anymore. the old rosewood clock-which she had brought with them to The Seventh Swan-the lumenal yesterday had ceased a full twenty minutes sooner than was printed in the timetables. It was clear the new almanac contained mistakes just like the old one. Evidently no source was reliable anymore.

Except for the rosewood clock, that was. Unlike the sitting room at Durrow Street, the window in her chamber at The Seventh Swan afforded a good view of the west that was unimpeded by the bulk of the Crag. Thus she had made an experiment, standing by the window and watching both the sky and clock. Just at the moment the sun sank out of view, the black disk moved to cover the last sliver of gold on the right-hand face of the clock. Somehow the clock knew when the umbral would begin, even if the timetable was in error. Yet that seemed impossible. How could an old clock be correct when the almanacs were not?

Well, she could test the theory again that night. For the moment she put aside thoughts of clocks and returned her attention to the book. As she read, a thought gradually occurred to her. If the motions of the spheres in the distant past had resulted in seasons, what had caused those symmetries to become altered so that the present system of varying lumenals and umbrals arose? And when had this event occurred? It was her understanding that the heavens were, by G.o.d's design, eternal and perfect in their fundamental nature; they could not simply be changed on a whim.

Except that wasn't true, for they had had changed recently, hadn't they? She looked upward. The new red planet was not so bright it could be seen by day. Nor could she have seen it anyway. While the day was sunny when she left the inn, the sky was now thick with clouds. changed recently, hadn't they? She looked upward. The new red planet was not so bright it could be seen by day. Nor could she have seen it anyway. While the day was sunny when she left the inn, the sky was now thick with clouds.

Indeed, as she gazed up, a large, cold drop of rain struck her cheek. Another fell upon the open book, and at that moment a great peal of thunder rattled the stones around her. So absorbed had she been in her reading that she had not noticed the storm gathering overhead. Ivy shut her book and hurried from the close.

By the time she turned down Marble Street, it was pouring. Nor was there a hack cab anywhere in sight, as was always the case when it rained. There was nothing to do but walk back to the inn as quickly as she could. While the distance was not far, the rain was hard and frigid, and by the time she reached The Seventh Swan she was drenched. Nor was there a hack cab anywhere in sight, as was always the case when it rained. There was nothing to do but walk back to the inn as quickly as she could. While the distance was not far, the rain was hard and frigid, and by the time she reached The Seventh Swan she was drenched.

At once she stripped away her sodden clothes and ordered a hot bath, but it was no use. Despite the heat of the water, she could not stop shivering. An ache crept into her bones as evening approached, and her head grew so stuffy she could hardly breathe. By nightfall, any thought of testing the old rosewood clock again had been driven from her mind. It was all she could do to crawl into her bed with the help of her sisters.

THAT NIGHT IVY did not sleep, but rather drifted in a dark delirium that was awhirl with stars and planets.

As she turned the handles of her father's celestial clock, the heavenly bodies danced and spun around her. For some reason, it was important to her that the planets all be kept well away from one another. She did not want them to come into proximity; something terrible would happen if they did. However, no matter how she turned the handles or worked the gears, the celestial spheres began to move in time with one another.

She cranked the handles harder, until her hands ached from the effort, but it was no use. The spheres turned with a will of their own, and one by one the planets fell into a perfect line, one behind the other, until she could not see the eleven planets. Instead, all of them were hidden behind a twelfth: a red orb that stared at her like a fiery eye. She withered beneath its red gaze, and she cried out, for all was lost.

Only then she glimpsed an emerald spark out of the corner of her eye. One of the planets had not yet fallen into line with the others. It shone like a green island floating in a dark sea. A hope filled her. She gripped the metal handles of the celestial clock, though they were so hot they burned her hands, and worked them with all her might to keep the green spark of light away from the other planets. with all her might to keep the green spark of light away from the other planets.

Then the red eye blinked, and the dark consumed her.

IVY WOKE TO discover that the umbral had pa.s.sed, and the short lumenal that followed it was nearly half over.

"There you are," Mr. Quent said, his face solemn but his eyes bright. He sat on the edge of the bed, wearing a white shirt open at the throat and brown breeches. He lifted her hand and pressed it against his bearded cheek. "The doctor said there was no great cause for worry, that you would come back to us. So you have. But you were very far away for a while."

His face was the most welcome of sights. She beheld every crag and valley of his mien as if gazing upon the most familiar and beloved landscape-one she had been away from for too long, but now had returned to.

"I am sorry if I alarmed you." Her throat was raw, and it was difficult to speak. "It was silly of me to be caught in the rain. However, I am sure I will be very well..."

She sat up, but at once the room turned in a dizzy circle around her. With strong hands, he eased her back against the pillows.

"... but I believe I will rest just a little longer," she finished with a weak smile.

"Yes, I believe you will, Mrs. Quent."

The sternness of his tone did not alarm her. Rather, she felt only a warm rea.s.surance. She lay back down and shut her eyes, knowing no harm could possibly come to her while he he was here. was here.

Ivy did not rise from her bed for the rest of that day or the umbral that followed. The next lumenal she was improved enough to sit in a chair for a time, but her recovery progressed slowly. While her health was never in grave peril as it had been the year before, when she had been forced to stay a half month at Lady Marsdel's, she was nonetheless plagued by tremblings and a recurring fever. By order of the doctor, she was confined to her room for more than a quarter month.

Not that this was such a dreadful thing. An invalid could not have asked for a more faithful or gentle attendant than Rose, and Lily often helped to occupy the hours by reading to her.

This Ivy appreciated, for the fever had left her eyes too weak to read. However, Lily did not think the listener should have a say in choosing the book, which meant Ivy learned nothing more about the topic of astrography, but instead received much instruction concerning the habits of wicked barons, kidnapped contessas, and dashing young sea captains.

Mr. Quent's business at the Citadel continued to occupy him during this time. Ivy was not privy to the details of his work there. Even if Mr. Quent had wished to tell her about it, he could not do so, for matters of such vital interest to the nation could only be kept strictly secret. All the same, she had the impression that there was some discussion or argument going on concerning how particular dangers to Altania were to be addressed. What's more, from the way Mr. Quent spoke, it seemed that the inquirers were on one side of the matter, while other forces within the government stood on the opposite. Despite all this, he did not neglect observing the work at Durrow Street, and he gave Ivy periodic updates on the progress of the renovations.

In all, her convalescence would have been little trouble to bear, save for one grave blow to her spirits. Namely, she was forced to miss visiting her father not once but twice, for one visiting day came the lumenal after she fell ill, and the next came the lumenal before the doctor p.r.o.nounced her fit enough to venture out.

"Would you like me to go see him?" Mr. Quent asked her before the second occasion.

Ivy knew he would go to Madstone's if she asked, even if it meant delaying his work or rearranging his meetings at the Citadel. However, while he would never admit it aloud, she knew he was reluctant to see Mr. Lockwell in his present state.

Mr. Quent never spoke about his own father. From Lord Rafferdy, Ivy had learned that the elder Mr. Quent had suffered a protracted and agonizing decline when his son was a young man. As Mr. Quent's mother had pa.s.sed when he was hardly out of childhood, it was left to him to care for his father-once a strong man and a loyal servant to Earl Rylend-after an unknown malady left him bedridden, blind, and unable to speak. When at last his many years of suffering were done, it could only have been a relief. childhood, it was left to him to care for his father-once a strong man and a loyal servant to Earl Rylend-after an unknown malady left him bedridden, blind, and unable to speak. When at last his many years of suffering were done, it could only have been a relief.

Ivy could only imagine that seeing his old friend Mr. Lockwell afflicted by illness would stir in Mr. Quent painful remembrances of his father. Nor was there any use in him going. That Mr. Lockwell would recognize Mr. Quent was doubtful; more likely he would perceive him as a stranger, and so become fearful and agitated.

Nor could Ivy ask Lily or Rose to go see him. While Mr. Lockwell resided in a more peaceful part of Madstone's now, she could not allow her sisters to so much as glimpse the other, terrible area where he had been kept for a time. Rose, particularly, would be devastated by such a sight.

No, she would have to trust that her father was well. She had no reason to believe otherwise. Ever since Lord Rafferdy's letter on Mr. Lockwell's behalf, his treatment at Madstone's was of such a quality that it could have been improved only by his being released-which they now had every reason to believe would occur soon.

IT WAS NEAR the end of her convalescence when Mr. Quent brought her something that had been discovered in the house on Durrow Street.

The day had been nearly twenty hours, and her head had ached throughout the duration, so that even listening to Lily read was more than she could bear. By the time Mr. Quent returned to the inn, she was in something of a miserable state. However, even as he entered the room she felt her spirits rise. He carried a bundle in his arms, something wrapped in a cloth.

"The men were working in a room on the upper floor," he said. "They found this there."

Ivy was at once intrigued. Mr. Quent knew that she was always eager to see anything that might provide further clues regarding the age or history of the house. She sat up in bed, and he set the object on her lap. It was rectangular and rather heavy. At once, the headache that had plagued her all day vanished. the age or history of the house. She sat up in bed, and he set the object on her lap. It was rectangular and rather heavy. At once, the headache that had plagued her all day vanished.

"You said you found this on the upper floor," she said, her interest mounting. "Which room was it?"

"The third on the left after you turn into the south wing."

"But I am sure that was my room when I was small!" She laid her hands on the object. It felt hard beneath the cloth.

"The men were repairing the floor, and when they took out several loose boards they discovered this beneath. I think...no, I am certain this must have been intended for you to find."

She could hardly wonder what he meant by this. The look he gave her was so odd-at once eager and concerned, she thought.

"Go on," he said. "Open it."

Ivy did so, removing the cloth from the object.

"Oh," she said, and sighed.

It was a wooden box, about as long as her forearm, half again as wide, and as deep as her hand. The box was like nothing she had ever seen before. Its sides were not planed smooth, nor its corners squared off; instead, the natural, irregular surface of the wood had been left intact, so that every whorl and knot, every groove and furrow, was visible.

This was not to say the box was rough-hewn. On the contrary, the wood had been shaped and fitted together in the most clever way. She could only imagine the maker had chosen each piece with great care, so that they could be bound together with only the most judicious amount of carving. Ivy's fingers ran over the box, as if with a will of their own.

"I've never seen anything so lovely," she murmured.

It was more than its beauty that fascinated her; nor could she believe that Mr. Quent did not already know, or at least guess, what she had been able to sense the moment she touched the box. Why else would he have brought it to her? By force of will she removed her hands from the box, laying them at her sides, and looked at him.

"It's made of Wyrdwood."

"So I thought. I wondered...that is, I knew you would be able to determine it for certain."

Since their return to Invarel, they had not spoken about what had happened at the old grove of Wyrdwood to the east of Heathcrest Hall. Nor had they spoken of the woman who had given birth to her, the witch Merriel Addysen, or the legacy which that parentage had imparted to Ivy. When they were here in the city, so far away from any stand of Old Trees, there was little need to think of such things.

Only here was a thing of Wyrdwood on her lap. Carefully, as if it was precious-or perhaps perilous-she picked it up.

"It feels as if there's something inside. Do you know what it is?"

"I cannot open it. Look here."

At once she understood. The box was locked, but not with any sort of metal hasp. Instead, fine tendrils had been woven into a complex knot around two whorls of wood, holding the lid fast.

"Besides, I do not think it is for me to open," he said. "Your father must have left it in your old room, hoping you would find it when you returned to the house one day."

"How can you know that? He could not have been certain I would be the one to find it. Indeed, I was not!"

"Yes, but he would have known that only you could open it."

Ivy examined the wooden knot. The intricate way the tendrils had been woven together reminded her of the bent willow chair in her room in the attic at Heathcrest, the one made by the farrier in Cairnbridge, Mr. Samonds, when he was a young man. The box also reminded her of the Wyrdwood stand on which the Eye of Ran-Yahgren rested. As she let her fingers move over the knot, Ivy could feel an echo of life in it, like a faint hum. She knew she had only to call to it, and it would awaken and listen.

"Go on," he said, his voice low.

A nervousness came over Ivy. Mr. Quent knew what she was; indeed, he had known about her nature long before she did. Yet knowing a thing was not the same as seeing it. Did he truly wish to witness what she could do?

He was watching her, and she knew she was being foolish. He had told her never to be ashamed of what she was, and she must believe that he had meant what he said.

She touched the knot, and even as she formed a wish in her mind for the box to be unlocked, the tendrils began to move like tiny brown serpents. They uncoiled themselves from around the whorls of wood, then curled up neatly, lying flat against the box.

Ivy heard Mr. Quent let out a breath and she looked up. With his right thumb, he traced the scar on his left hand where the last two fingers had been severed long ago. He must have noticed her gaze, for he slipped his left hand into his coat pocket.

"I was certain you would be able to open it," he said, and he surprised her then, for he gave her a look she could only describe as triumphant. "Well, then, see what is in it."

Ivy lifted the lid. An object wrapped in parchment was nestled within. It was heavy and solid as she took it out, and even before she unwrapped it, she knew it was a book.

She set the wrapping aside and examined the book. The binding was sewn of black leather, but there was no t.i.tle on the cover or spine. The book did not seem particularly ancient, for the leather was supple, and as she opened it the endpapers were not yellowed, but rather a crisp white. Ivy turned to the first page, then her breath caught in her throat. The words on the page had not been printed on a press; instead they were written in a familiar, spidery hand.

My Dearest Ivoleyn, If you are reading this, then it means you have solved the puzzle I left for you and found the key to this house inside my celestial globe. Well done! But then, I knew that you were bound to discover the riddle in the book I gave you for your birthday, and that once you did you would not rest until you had solved it. So you have.

And here in your hands is your reward.

It is my intention to write down upon these pages all manner of thoughts, observations, advice, and any other thing that concerns me. This way you can know my mind, and I can tell you all those things I always wanted you to know once you were old enough to understand thoughts, observations, advice, and any other thing that concerns me. This way you can know my mind, and I can tell you all those things I always wanted you to know once you were old enough to understand.

That I would rather have told you these things in person, you must know. However, just as I was certain you would solve my puzzle, I am also certain that, if you are reading this now, it means I am no longer capable of telling you anything-or, more than likely, that I am no longer to be counted among the living.

But put aside gloomy thoughts! This is no time for sorrow, but rather a time to gather your resolve. Through the power of the written word-that magick of the simplest and most wondrous sort-my thoughts can be with you even if the remainder of me cannot. In this way we can be together, still and always. But be warned. There are others who must not read some of the things I intend to set down upon these pages.

Who are these people? If you do not know them already, then you will learn as you read this volume. Let me stress again, in the strongest manner, that if you encounter any of them you must never show them this journal nor even hint at its existence. It is for you only, as there is no other I can possibly trust. That is why I have taken precautions to be certain no one other than you might come into possession of this volume. There are men whom I once a.s.sociated with, ignorant of their true nature-men who would do terrible things in order to gain this knowledge.

Yet do not fear! You are clever and brave, my dear one. I have every confidence in you. Remember that, as long as you have this volume with you, then I am with you as well. And so I will always be- -Your Devoted and Loving Father Ivy set down the journal, unable to turn the page or even hold it any longer, for her hands were shaking, and she felt a pang deep in her heart. To read these words-it was indeed like having her father with her and hearing his voice speak in a way that he had not for so many years. For a moment she was overcome.

Then she felt Mr. Quent's touch upon her arm, and this lent her strength. She picked up the journal again and read the page aloud, to hear the words again herself, and also so Mr. Quent might hear them. her strength. She picked up the journal again and read the page aloud, to hear the words again herself, and also so Mr. Quent might hear them.

"'There are men...men who would do terrible things in order to gain this knowledge,'" Mr. Quent repeated. "That is a dark thing to write. Yet I suppose he meant the magicians of the Silver Eye, and they can pose a danger no longer."