your features have much in common with hers.”
So Ivy had been told. “You must have known her,” she said.
He responded slowly, as if taking care in his answer. “Yes, I did. I saw her on several occasions when visiting Heathcrest Hall.”
“And she was very much like me?”
Now he gave a soft laugh. “Like you? No, not at all. She had green eyes and fair hair, as you do, Lady Quent. But she was taller. And while you have a calm and serious intellect, I would say Gennivel’s proclivities lay more in the direction of parties and dances and other such amusements. This is not to say she was frivolous, for she was also very accomplished in artistic endeavors, such as painting and music.”
“So I was not like her after all,” Ivy breathed, more to herself.
Dr. Lawrent gave her a solemn look over the wire rims of his spectacles. “If you have ever thought Sir Quent married you because you reminded him of her, then I think you are mistaken.Rather, it was only when he met you that I think he was finally able to cease dwelling upon the past.”
Ivy appreciated these words. It was reassuring to know that she was in fact different from the first Mrs. Quent. Yet there was still one characteristic that Ivy and Gennivel had in common—one which all witches shared. But how much did Dr. Lawrent know about that?
“I’ve heard it said in the county that there aren’t many sons in the Addysen line,” Ivy said.
He nodded. “I am given to understand there have only ever been a few male children born into that family. And they are often—”
He cut his words short, but Ivy knew what he meant. They were often similar to Mr. Samonds, the farrier in Cairnbridge. And while he was kind and handsome, he was not likely ever to marry or have a child himself. A pretty lady would never strike his affections that way.
“That is,” the doctor went on after clearing his throat, “there seems to be a strong proclivity for women of that particular lineage to bear daughters rather than sons.”
Ivy suffered a deep ache—though it was not the spasms returning. “Thank you, Doctor,” she said quietly.
“Of course, Lady Quent. Please let me know if you have any need of me.” Then he turned and left the room, shutting the door behind him.
Alone, Ivy leaned back against the pillows and watched the shadows of the branches weave upon the far wall. But if there was any meaning in the pattern made by the branches, it was beyond her understanding.
N OW WAS HIS MOMENT. Rafferdy gave his wig a quick tug to make certain it was set firmly upon his head. Then, before anyone else could claim the floor, he rose from his seat on one of the frontmost benches.
The High Speaker’s gavel came down with a loud clatter. “The Hall recognizes Lord Rafferdy!”
Now that the floor was his, Rafferdy moved to take it as if he were in no great hurry, strolling to the front of the Hall of Magnates. Once there, he took the time to flick a wrinkle from his elegant robe of black crepe, plucked a stray thread from the sleeve, then proceeded to make a thorough examination of the state of his fingernails.
Sighs and mutters of impatience ran around the benches, but still Rafferdy kept his attention fixed on his fingernails. The Hall was hot and stifling, for the lumenal had been exceedingly long—more than twenty-five hours at that point, and it was not over yet. Anticipating this, Rafferdy had dressed very lightly beneath his robe, and he had directed his man to sprinkle a large quantity of powder inside his wig to prevent any rivulets of perspiration that might otherwise trickle down his brow. As a result, while many of the lords were boiling in their robes and dabbing at red faces with damp handkerchiefs, Rafferdy at the least appeared cool.
He waited for the sounds in the Hall to rise into a cacophony of cane thumping and calls of
Get on with it, sir!
All at once, as if suddenly recalling where he stood, Rafferdy looked up.
“Gentlemen, it has
So Ivy had been told. “You must have known her,” she said.
He responded slowly, as if taking care in his answer. “Yes, I did. I saw her on several occasions when visiting Heathcrest Hall.”
“And she was very much like me?”
Now he gave a soft laugh. “Like you? No, not at all. She had green eyes and fair hair, as you do, Lady Quent. But she was taller. And while you have a calm and serious intellect, I would say Gennivel’s proclivities lay more in the direction of parties and dances and other such amusements. This is not to say she was frivolous, for she was also very accomplished in artistic endeavors, such as painting and music.”
“So I was not like her after all,” Ivy breathed, more to herself.
Dr. Lawrent gave her a solemn look over the wire rims of his spectacles. “If you have ever thought Sir Quent married you because you reminded him of her, then I think you are mistaken.Rather, it was only when he met you that I think he was finally able to cease dwelling upon the past.”
Ivy appreciated these words. It was reassuring to know that she was in fact different from the first Mrs. Quent. Yet there was still one characteristic that Ivy and Gennivel had in common—one which all witches shared. But how much did Dr. Lawrent know about that?
“I’ve heard it said in the county that there aren’t many sons in the Addysen line,” Ivy said.
He nodded. “I am given to understand there have only ever been a few male children born into that family. And they are often—”
He cut his words short, but Ivy knew what he meant. They were often similar to Mr. Samonds, the farrier in Cairnbridge. And while he was kind and handsome, he was not likely ever to marry or have a child himself. A pretty lady would never strike his affections that way.
“That is,” the doctor went on after clearing his throat, “there seems to be a strong proclivity for women of that particular lineage to bear daughters rather than sons.”
Ivy suffered a deep ache—though it was not the spasms returning. “Thank you, Doctor,” she said quietly.
“Of course, Lady Quent. Please let me know if you have any need of me.” Then he turned and left the room, shutting the door behind him.
Alone, Ivy leaned back against the pillows and watched the shadows of the branches weave upon the far wall. But if there was any meaning in the pattern made by the branches, it was beyond her understanding.
N OW WAS HIS MOMENT. Rafferdy gave his wig a quick tug to make certain it was set firmly upon his head. Then, before anyone else could claim the floor, he rose from his seat on one of the frontmost benches.
The High Speaker’s gavel came down with a loud clatter. “The Hall recognizes Lord Rafferdy!”
Now that the floor was his, Rafferdy moved to take it as if he were in no great hurry, strolling to the front of the Hall of Magnates. Once there, he took the time to flick a wrinkle from his elegant robe of black crepe, plucked a stray thread from the sleeve, then proceeded to make a thorough examination of the state of his fingernails.
Sighs and mutters of impatience ran around the benches, but still Rafferdy kept his attention fixed on his fingernails. The Hall was hot and stifling, for the lumenal had been exceedingly long—more than twenty-five hours at that point, and it was not over yet. Anticipating this, Rafferdy had dressed very lightly beneath his robe, and he had directed his man to sprinkle a large quantity of powder inside his wig to prevent any rivulets of perspiration that might otherwise trickle down his brow. As a result, while many of the lords were boiling in their robes and dabbing at red faces with damp handkerchiefs, Rafferdy at the least appeared cool.
He waited for the sounds in the Hall to rise into a cacophony of cane thumping and calls of
Get on with it, sir!
All at once, as if suddenly recalling where he stood, Rafferdy looked up.
“Gentlemen, it has
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