Chapter 27

The world outside Ivy's window was slowly slipping into winter, the trees reluctantly shedding the last of their brittle leaves, the moors fading ever deeper into muted browns and washed-out golds, dismal grays. Frost touched the edges of the window, and in the garden, robins squabbled over flower heads gone to seed. But Ivy noticed none of this quiet drama. She was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling and trying to recall the plot of Little Women. Following a hairline crack in the plaster molding, names like Amy and Jo floated through her mind, but their faces and stories remained elusive. Her empty hands ached to hold a book in them again, and a new kind of loneliness spread through her, a kind that held no reprieve nor secret glimmer of hope.

Ivy's melancholy thoughts were interrupted by a noise in the hall, followed by a key sliding into the door. Sitting up, she watched as Arthur came in cradling something swathed in maroon velvet, a servant behind him carrying a small wooden desk.

Wordlessly pushing aside the table which she took her dinners on, they arranged the desk in front of the window. Arthur produced fresh sheets of paper, pens and ink, and paperweights. "Don't say I never did anything for you," he muttered as he arranged them all. "My father would be apoplectic if he knew that I was giving you all of this. He thinks that I'm off to find the late Lord Hayworth's notes."

Ivy pressed her lips together, too curious as to this new turn of events to muster an argument.

When the desk had been prepared, Arthur took the manuscript from the servant with reverent hands, and placed it down. The servant was dismissed, and Ivy watched as Arthur carefully pulled back the velvet covering.

It was not an impressive book, not in the sense of elaborate binding or gilded embellishments. It was bound in simple leather, worn so soft and light that it might have been butter. But an overpowering sense of awe gripped Ivy all the same. The manuscript radiated potency, something drawing her to it yet repelling her at the same time. Her fingers twitched at her side, her eyes trained on the browned edges of the pages, just begging to be opened.

Arthur caught her staring and gave a smug smile. "It's magnificent, isn't it," he said. "Truly magnificent."

Slowly, Ivy approached the desk, letting her fingers graze the soft vellum pages, a shiver running through her body. The book seemed to sigh a breath of relief as she opened it, releasing the smell of old paper and something almost metallic. "What is it supposed to do?" she asked. "How will I know if it's been...activated?"

Behind her, she could hear Arthur shift his weight, slide his hands into his pockets. "I'm not certain, to be honest. My father seems to think that there will be some sort of celestial event, though dashed if I know where he got that notion. Even if we could just access the knowledge within its pages, then that would be enough."

But of course, that would not be enough. Arthur was right—it was magnificent. Even Ivy could feel the power in the pages, the promise that they held. The Mabrys and their Sphinxes would want every part of the manuscript, not just its knowledge. They would want to be able to take memories from people, mine their knowledge and secrets. They would want to control and kill and dominate. They were, at their hearts, military men. And that's what men with power did.

Taking a seat at the desk, Ivy straightened her workspace to her liking. Arthur had provided her with pads of scratch paper, a jar of pencils, and even a dictionary. How many times had she dreamed of having her own desk, her own office? Of being a respected professor at a university? And how many times had the world not so gently reminded her that such dreams were impossible for a woman, and a woman of her class, no less? If only she could take some joy in the task that lay before her now, but Ivy's head ached and light was starting to dance behind her eyes.

"I can't work with you looking over my shoulder like that."

"And I can't leave you alone here with it."

Ivy was about to protest, when a tingling at the nape of her neck worked its way down her spine, and the house trembled, the water in her basin sloshing over the sides. The tremors lasted for only a minute, but they felt urgent, like a prelude to something more.

"Do you see what I mean? It's powerful, and highly voluble. I need to know that you won't subvert anything you find for your own gain."

Suddenly, Ivy's stomach was churning with acid and she felt as if she might be sick. She pushed away from the desk. What good was deciphering the manuscript really going to do her? It could only unleash more power, cause more destruction. She was to be a captive in any case, and Arthur had no reason to honor any agreement they might come to.

"I take it back—I won't do it," she said, her legs shaking. The manuscript which had only moments ago held her in such thrall, now felt like a wicked maelstrom, expanding and threatening to pull her into its depths.

"Oh, I think you will though. I think you will do anything that I ask of you."

Revulsion pulsed through her. The sense of entitlement that she had seen as confidence had worn through, showing the ugly truth beneath. "You can't possibly believe that I would still marry you, not after all of this."

"Darling, we've been over this. Besides, it's in your best interest to help."

"Well, I won't do it." She pushed her chair away and crossed her arms. "You can have your manuscript and the library and all the power that goes with it, but I'll be damned if I'm party to this scheme of yours."

Arthur was staring at her with unnerving interest. "My God," he said softly. "You really don't remember, do you? I thought perhaps you would forget bits and pieces, but not the whole thing."

Ivy shifted despite herself, the sudden earnestness in his tone sending alarm bells ringing through her head. "Remember what? What are you talking about?"

"I'm afraid you haven't much choice, because the fact of the matter is, we're already married."

Ivy sat down, hard, nearly missing the edge of the bed. "What? No, that's not possible. I would remember—" but the words caught in her throat and she faltered. Would she remember it? Who knew what had transpired since coming to Blackwood? She might have done any number of things, and forgotten all of them. If some things were etched into the marrow of her bones, then others were as temporary as washing soap out of one's hair.

"How do I know you aren't lying?"

"Look," he said, rising.

She followed him with her eyes as he stood and reached into his vest pocket. "Here."

Ivy automatically outstretched her hands and Arthur placed a thick card into them. The blood stopped in her veins, her dry throat working compulsively to say something that would make sense out of what she was seeing. But there was no arguing with the picture in her hands. The young woman in the white dress with lace headdress was clutching a bouquet of calla lilies, looking, if not altogether happy, then at least content. Next to her stood Arthur, his dark eyes triumphant, his hand resting possessively on her shoulder.

"Our wedding portrait," he said.

She threw the picture to the floor, as if it could erase the image already etched into her mind. "No," she made herself say. "No, I don't believe it."

"I can show you the marriage registry, if that would help," Arthur offered. "But I rather think that you're either inclined to believe me or you're not."

"When? When were we...married?" she forced herself to ask.

"After your friend came to call. We both agreed that there should be no more delays and when I proposed an abbreviated engagement, you were all too happy to oblige."

She never would have said that, not even on her foggiest of days. Ivy was sure of it. Yet the portrait seemed to tell a different story. "Well, it doesn't change anything. I still won't do it."

"Doesn't it?" Arthur looked at his watch and clucked. "I'm terribly sorry, but I must be going. I'll make a bargain with you though—you take as much time as you want with the manuscript, by yourself, and I'll be back tomorrow, and we can go over your notes then. Don't let me down, Ivy," he said, bending to retrieve the portrait and slide it back into his pocket. "I expect great things from my wife."