Part 53 (2/2)

Ivy shook her head. How could she explain it? It seemed impossible, yet there was no mistaking it-the stand that supported the artifact was fas.h.i.+oned from boughs taken from the Wyrdwood. So was the frame that held the crystal sphere. It was no longer alive, but she had felt the echo of life in it, just as she had in Mr. Samonds's bentwood chair. But why would such unusual wood have been used to hold the orb? Surely any sort of lumber would have supported its weight.

”I'm fine,” she said. ”Really.” It was true. She did feel fine. Even now she could sense the soothing presence of the wood taken from a grove of ancient forest. She could tell that it had been cut, not picked up as deadfall, yet she could sense no resentment from it. Indeed, she had the feeling it had let itself be taken willingly....

”Now that's peculiar,” Mr. Rafferdy said as he walked around the artifact.

She looked at him. ”What is it?”

”Watch it for a moment. Don't gaze into it, but just look at the edges of the crystal. Do you see it now-the way it's moving?”

A bit of the sick feeling sank back into Ivy's stomach. Mr. Rafferdy was right. The motion was subtle but unmistakable; even as she watched, the surface of the sphere expanded inward and outward, growing and shrinking by turns. She started to draw near, to examine the effect closer.

A shadow pa.s.sed inside the orb, dimming it, and the whole thing shook. The shadow vanished as whatever had cast it moved by, and the artifact settled again upon its stand-though it continued to grow and shrink.

”The spell,” she said, turning toward Mr. Rafferdy. ”I think you should speak the spell to renew the binding.”

He swallowed. ”I believe you're right. Give me the paper, then.”

She shook her head. ”I'm sorry?”

”I said give me the paper.”

”What paper?”

”You know, the paper with the spell-your father's letter.”

”I don't have it.”

He stared at her. ”What do you mean you don't have it? Of course you have it.”

”You have your own copy of the spell. Surely you took it to Mr. Bennick's.”

”No, I was starting to grow afraid he'd discover me looking at it. I left it because I knew you'd bring your father's letter with you.”

”But I didn't bring it! It's still at-”

A loud noise echoed up from below, as of something cracking apart. They exchanged wild looks.

”You'll have to speak it from memory.”

He took a step back, alarm on his face. ”I can't.”

”Yes, you can,” she said, advancing toward him. ”I know you can.”

”You're wrong. I don't dare. If I were to make a mistake-”

”You won't. You've spoken every part of the spell over and over.”

”Not the last lines. I don't know them by heart-not like you do.” He looked at her. ”That's it, Mrs. Quent. You know the last phrases of the spell-you can tell them to me.”

”No, I can't,” she said, despairing. ”I can't speak them at all.”

”But you could write them down, couldn't you?”

For a moment she stared at him. Then she was running. Ivy dashed from the room, out the study door, and down the corridor. She went from room to room, ripping the cloths from the furniture until, in the third room, she found a desk. A quick search revealed a few sheaves of paper in one drawer and a pen in another, but that wasn't enough. She opened more drawers, rummaging through their contents.

Her fingers closed around a hard object at the back of one of the drawers, and as she pulled it out she felt a spark of triumph: it was an ink bottle. She opened the bottle, dipped the pen, and set its tip to the paper.

It did not leave a mark. She dipped it again, but it was no use. With growing dread she turned the ink bottle over. Nothing came out. It had dried up long ago.

A sound like thunder rattled the house. Only it did not come from the clouds but rather rose up from the first floor.

”Mrs. Quent!” she heard Mr. Rafferdy's voice call out from the corridor. ”Where are you?”

”I'm coming!” she called back. ”Just a moment.”

There was no time to look for more ink. For a second she held her breath, steeling herself. Then with a quick motion she jabbed the nib of the pen into her fingertip.

She had worried it would be hard to draw blood, but her urgency had made her blow more vigorous than intended, and a steady flow of red oozed from her fingertip. Hissing against the pain, she squeezed her finger, directing the trickle of blood into the bottle. Then she dipped the pen and, at a furious pace, began to write.

”Mrs. Quent!” came Mr. Rafferdy's voice again. She concentrated, writing the last few words, making sure they were correct. Then she ran out into the corridor, sucking her wounded finger as she went.

”There you are,” he said, looking relieved. He nodded toward the stairs. ”I don't know what's happening down there. I don't hear anything anymore.”

The house had fallen silent. Perhaps there was still time.

”Here,” she said, handing him the paper.

”But this doesn't look like ink. How did you-”

”It doesn't matter,” she said, grabbing his elbow. ”Hurry-you have to work the enchantment.”

Together they ran back down the corridor, into her father's magick room and the chamber beyond. The crystal orb still seemed to expand and contract, an eye opening wider each time it blinked. The crimson light pulsed on the air. Ivy took out the parcel she had purchased from Mr. Mundy and gave it to Mr. Rafferdy. He poured out the various powders, tracing three concentric circles around the artifact, then with a finger drew the prescribed runes.

”I think it's ready,” he said, rising.

Ivy examined the runes; as far as she could tell they looked correct. Holding the paper, Mr. Rafferdy faced the orb. His face looked pale in the lurid illumination.

”Now, Mr. Rafferdy,” Ivy said, breathless. ”Work the enchantment.”

”That won't be necessary,” said a low voice behind her.

It felt as if she were moving through water. Slowly, Ivy turned around. As she did, a man in a black robe entered the room. Two more came with him. She could see another pair of dark figures through the doorway.

”Mr. Rafferdy, speak the spell!” she cried.

”I wouldn't advise that, Mr. Rafferdy,” the magician said, his voice calm and even. ”If you speak one word of magick, I a.s.sure you that Mrs. Quent will be dead before you can utter a second.”

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