The First Stone

“If it’s nowhere you’re going, then you’ve time to indulge me in a bit of conversation,” Moody said, his voice and breath thick with drink. A falling mist beaded on his black robe and dampened his gray hair. “Now tell me, lad, have you given any further thought to your salvation?”

I gave him a pert grin. “I sleep in a crypt, Deacon, you know that. So you can’t save me, seeing as I’m already dead.”

The deacon’s expression, previously jovial, became grim. “No, you’re not, lad,” he said, laying a rough hand on my shoulder. He gazed around the Grassmarket. “There are many on these streets who are dead indeed. They keep on walking and eating and breathing, but they’ve forgotten what it’s like to be alive, and their hearts have gone cold as iron. All they care for are hard things, like the weight of gold in their pockets, or the feel of a gun in their hands. Beyond grace, they are. But not you, Jimmie Golden. Not yet. Do you hear me, lad?”

I reached into my own pocket, feeling the heavy purse. Perhaps the man I had stolen it from had planned to use the money to settle an account. Perhaps now he would be thrown in debtor’s prison to rot.

Dread grew in me, and my own heart felt cold, but I quickly traded the feeling for anger and directed the full force of it at Moody. They had cast him out of the Church for his sins. What did he know? I was a thief, that was all. Grace was not for the likes of me.

I glared at him, and I know not what he saw upon my face, but he jerked his hand from my shoulder, and a soft word escaped his lips. It might have been, Mercy.

Moody stumbled back against a wall, and I pushed past him, racing down the Grassmarket. I reached the square where witches and criminals were hanged, then veered right, heading down toward Greyfriars.

Dusk was thickening to dark, and the mist clung to my eyelashes; I suppose that was how I did not see him standing before the iron gates of the graveyard. I rounded a corner of the wall and ran into him headlong. He was tall, and solidly built. I glanced off him like a bird striking a window and fell dazed to the cobblestones.

Strong hands picked me up and shook me out, standing me back on my feet.

“Sorry, my lord,” I said, keeping my eyes down, then started to move past him.

His hand touched my shoulder, stopping me. “Perhaps you can help me,” he said, his voice deep and thrumming. “I’m looking for someone.”

I kept my eyes on his black boots, but a shiver coursed through me, for I recognized that voice, though it had been almost four years since I had heard it last, in the confines of Advocate’s Close.

“I’ve been looking for this person for some time,” the man said. “I recently heard that he lives here, in Greyfriars.”

“No one lives here, my lord,” I said. “ ’Tis a graveyard.”

“Is that so?”

A strong finger touched my chin, tilting my head up. He was even taller than I remembered. As before, a wide‑brimmed hat shadowed his face, but I caught two glints of gold light in the darkness. His eyes were locked on me, and they were yellow like a wolf’s.

“Who are you?” I said in a hoarse rasp.

“Someone who can help you.”

My fear receded a fraction, and I felt a spark of anger flicker up in me again. First Deacon Moody, now this stranger in black. Why did they want to help me? Couldn’t they see it was no use?

“Leave me be,” I said, jerking away from him.

“As you wish, James.”

These words stunned me so much that I stopped in the act of turning away. I looked over my shoulder. A stray shaft of light fell from a window above, illuminating a strong mouth framed by a dark beard.

“If you change your mind, come to Advocate’s Close at twilight on the first day of any month. You’ll find me then, just as you did before.”

I clenched my hands into fists. “I won’t come.”

The man said nothing. He turned and walked down the street. When I could no longer see him, I gazed up at the gates of the cemetery. I was weary and longed to lie down in the crypt to sleep. Only I did not dare–not now, not ever again. Somehow he had learned that I made my home there. Someone on the street had told him, and that meant I could never sleep in Greyfriars again. No more would I know the peace of the Gilroy mausoleum, or the comfort of my imagined family. A pang of sadness pierced my heart.

I crumpled the feeling and tossed it away, like refuse in the gutter. Deacon Moody was an old, drunken fool, but he had been right about one thing. Sorrow was not for the dead. I straightened my bony shoulders and passed into the night.

After that, I put all thoughts of Greyfriars and the stranger in black out of my head. A change had come over me, as sudden as a storm sweeps out of the Highlands. While before I had been quick to laugh or make a jest with other folk on the street, now I was grim and silent, and I spoke to no person except out of need. I no longer slept in a crypt, but all the same I had died, just like the people Deacon Moody had spoken of.

It was not simply temptation that had caused me to steal that man’s purse on the stair below High Street. Desperation had factored in as well. As the years passed, despite the wretchedness of my diet, I had sprouted. My breeches had become knickers of their own accord, and my shirtsleeves reached barely past my elbows.

The taller I grew, the harder it became to compel the ladies to charity. Fewer carriages stopped, and when they did I received smaller coins for my troubles. Then, for a long time, no carriage stopped at all.

I had all but given up on winning alms by the time I robbed that fellow. However, the day after I fled the dark stranger at Greyfriars, I tried one more time, cleaning myself up as best I could and standing beside the road. To my surprise, it was not long before a glossy coach stopped in front of me. To my further surprise, it was not a woman who opened the coach’s door, but a man: a barrister or other well‑to‑do gentleman, edging on toward middle years, but still handsome in his fine attire.

Looking back, I should not have been so astonished. With the change that had come over me, I had not bothered to affect the cherub’s forlorn and beatific expression. Instead, I looked exactly like what I was–a young man with yellow hair, thin and pretty and dangerous. I should have known they would stop for me.

The piercing light in the fellow’s eyes told me he did not seek to do charity unto me, but the coins in his hand, gold as my hair, removed any qualms I might have felt. I climbed into the carriage, and the door shut behind me.

After that day, I realized it did not matter if the fair ladies would no longer make a fuss over me. There were men who would give me far more money, and for far different reasons. One thing, though, remained the same: they all favored my golden locks. I let my hair grow long and luxuriant, and always kept it clean.

Sometimes, as on that first day, I stood beside High Street, waiting for a carriage to stop, but I soon found only the boldest favored that method. More often I could be found as dusk fell, lingering in the square just below the Tron kirk, whose wooden steeple beckoned like a finger against the sky. That’s where I’d find them waiting in shadows, eyes hungry and furtive. I’d give them a look, then lead them away down a side street, toward a crib in a wooden tenement I had rented with my first earnings.

Usually I’d let them pay their coin and do things to me before I robbed them while they slept on the dirty straw mattress in the crib. If they were fat or smelled bad, I’d just rob them right away, pulling my mother’s knife on them once we were alone in an alley. Either way, I didn’t worry about getting caught. The men would be far too ashamed to go to the constable to report a robbery. After all, there was a special place in Hell for men with appetites such as theirs; that’s what the ministers inside the Tron said–a place where tongues of fire licked at your nether regions and devils dug at your entrails with hot pokers for all eternity.

As for me, I was not concerned with devils. After all, if I was dead, then I was already in Hell. Or perhaps I was one of Lucifer’s devils myself, sent here to torture the wicked.

Autumn edged into chill winter, and I used my newfound money to buy clothes, including a gray cloak that was in truth quite plain, but still fine by the standards of those who lived on the street. Those who had greeted me with friendly words when I was younger now gazed at me with suspicious or jealous looks. More than once I saw Deacon Moody at a distance, gazing at me from across the Grassmarket. I paid no heed to any of them.

One of the men who came to me introduced me to the fiery taste of whiskey, and I found I quite liked it, though more than once I became too besotted to remember to rob my clients, and once one of them rolled me while I slept in a stupor. However, that did not inspire me to caution, and soon the majority of what I earned went to buy bottles of the stuff, for I favored it over food. I grew taller yet, but remained thin as a whip, and pale from haunting the night and sleeping in the crib by day.

I did not know it at the time, but as winter released its grip on Edinburgh and the warmth of spring seeped onto the air, in the year of our Lord 1668, I was near to death. A cough had afflicted me, and often in the morning I would bring up gobs of yellow phlegm flecked with blood. Even on chill days sweat sheened my pallid skin, for it seemed I always had a fever. I could keep little food down, and only the whiskey seemed to dull the pounding in my head, though it made the gnawing in my stomach worse.

To compound matters, I found my money running short. Rarely now could I keep my wits about me long enough to rob the men who followed me from the square below the Tron. Too often I would fall unconscious, leaving them to paw at me as they wished without making payment. I would wake to find them gone and my body so sore I could scarcely walk. All the same I would shrug on my clothes, untangle my hair, drink a little whiskey, then head out to find another I could offer myself to.

I began to grow reckless, not bothering to wait for the shadows of night, and approaching men directly rather than waiting for them to slink after me. When a constable would ask me what I was doing, lurking about, I would try to bribe him by offering my services for free. The first two or three accepted, but then one–a big fellow with ruddy cheeks and red hair–struck me with the back of his hand, so hard that blood burst out from my lip and I had to run through twisting streets to escape him.

For some reason I could not name, after that happened, I thought to go see Deacon Moody. Not for help–I was beyond that–but perhaps simply so I could remember something of my younger days. It is said that, as death approaches, one often relives the events of one’s life.

When I reached the Grassmarket, however, I found no sign of Moody. I inquired here and there and soon learned that the Deacon had been found a few months ago, dead.

“How did it happen?” I asked the grog seller who told me the news.

“By his own deed,” the woman said, wiping hands against her dirty smock to no effect. “ ’Tis whispered both his wrists were laid open, and that into each he had carved the figure of a cross.”

She pressed her thin lips together and made the sign of the cross herself. I turned and left without a word, feeling neither sad nor stunned, simply empty. The dead cannot feel, the Deacon had said. I pressed a hand to my heart, yet it seemed forged of iron. Not even my swollen lip hurt. I walked back toward my crib, and I did not think of Deacon Moody again.

I might have died that day, curled up like a dog on my matted bed, but something roused me from my torpor. Only what was it? It had sounded like the bells of the Tron kirk, only clearer, more distant. Purer.

Pulling myself up with weak arms, I peered out the narrow slit in the wall that passed for a window. Outside the day was ending, and twilight filtered down between the tenements like soot. A shadow moved on the street below. It vanished around a corner, heading up toward High Street, but I had caught a glimpse of a black robe, its hem stained with mud, and of lank gray hair.

Was this sight a hallucination brought on by fever, a regurgitation of what I had learned in the Grassmarket that day? Or was it something more? It is sometimes said that ghosts appear to those who are near to death themselves.

Even now, after more than three centuries, I still believe it is the latter of these two explanations that was true. Regardless, I knew I must follow the man in the black robe.

New strength flooded my body. I felt bright and powerful of a sudden, as a candle flaring just before it burns out. I flung myself through the door of my crib and down the rickety stairs of the tenement, then out onto the street. Though evening fell, the spring air was balmy, and already tainted with the rich scent of rot that would ripen into a stifling miasma as summer drew close. A black cat slunk away from me, crossing my path as I lurched up the lane toward High Street.

I saw the shadow once more as I reached the Tron, just vanishing around the corner of the church, then again drifting past St. Giles cathedral. Why I followed the wraith, I do not know. I had no words for Deacon Moody, except perhaps to ask if he was glad he was dead, if he felt nothing now. The thought occurred to me that I was dead myself–truly dead–and even at that moment my corpse lay stiffening in the crib as the first rats discovered me, squealing their delight.

The world darkened around me, torches and lanterns burning like distant stars. I saw the shadow just ahead, beckoning to me, and I followed through an archway. Muted laughter drifted on the air. I rubbed my eyes and saw that I was no longer on the High Street, but rather in a courtyard. It seemed familiar to me, and then I saw the moldy stone plaque on the wall. ADVOCATE’S CLOSE, it read. There was no trace of the shadow I had followed.

“Well, what have we here?” said a rough voice.

I turned and saw a man in the archway, illuminated by dirty light spilling out of windows above. He was big, clad all in blue. A grin parted the thatch of his red beard, and I recognized him as the constable I had fled from earlier that day.

“What is it, MacKenzie?” A second shadow appeared in the archway. He was short and heavy‑shouldered, his voice slurred with drink.

“It’s the devil’s own, that’s who,” the constable said, stalking forward at a leisurely pace. The iron gate behind me was locked. “Tell me, boy, given anyone Lucifer’s Kiss today?”

His companion laughed. “So he’s one of those, is he? How about you bend yerself over, MacKenzie, and let him plant a kiss on you.”

“Shut your trap, Ralph,” the constable said, glaring. “I’m no lover of Satan or his ilk. Not like this whelp. A scourge on this city, you are.” He edged closer, big hands flexing.

I didn’t move. “You can’t hurt me,” I said quietly.

“Think so?” he said with a hard laugh. “Your face looks bad enough from where I got you this morning. Did I ruin your pretty looks? Well, there’s plenty more where that came from. You may serve Satan now, but I can beat the fear of God into you.”

I didn’t flinch as his fist descended toward my cheek. He could not harm me. I was beyond that now. Although I had not thought of her in many months, I called out to her now.

I’m coming, Mother!

“Stay your hand,” spoke a deep voice.

It seemed impossible, given the force and speed behind it, but the constable’s fist froze not an inch from my cheek.

“What’s wrong with you, MacKenzie?” the short man said. “Come on, give the whelp a good one.”

“I can’t,” the constable said through clenched teeth. Sweat glittered his brow. His arm shook, as if all his muscles strained, but his fist moved no closer.

“Bloody Hell, if you’ve gone all soft, then I’ll do it.” The one named Ralph marched forward and reached for me with both hands.

“I said stay,” the voice intoned.

Ralph went stiff as a corpse, arms before him, and his eyes bulged. A gurgle sounded low in his throat, but he made no other sound. A figure clad all in black parted from the shadows and drifted into view. It was not the ghost of Deacon Moody.

“Are you well, James?” he said, gazing down at me.

I tried to speak, but I seemed as paralyzed as the two men. I had grown since our last meeting, but the stranger still towered over me, and his voice–full of danger a moment ago–had been as resonant with kindness as I remembered. A stray shaft of light illuminated his face, and I thought it stern and wise and handsome.

“Who are you?” I finally found the breath to ask.

“That is a long tale, and there is no time to tell it now, James. I would that you come with me tonight.”

I glanced at the two motionless men. Spittle dribbled from their mouths.

“You can do with me as you would,” I said. “I can’t stop you.”

He bent down and, as he had long ago, laid a hand on my shoulder. “No, James. I’m not like them. I will not make you do something you would not. I want you to come with me because you choose it, because you want something better for yourself than what you have been given. Because you want to live.”

A moan escaped me. For so long I had believed I was dead, capable of feeling nothing. Only I had been terribly wrong, for at that moment a pain pierced my heart, and a longing came over me–though for what I could not name, except that I thought of the calling of the bells that had awakened me, and how clear the sound had been. I thought as well of Deacon Moody, and how he had wished to save me. Perhaps he had after all.

“I will come with you,” I said.

“I am glad, James.” Keeping his strong hand on my shoulder, he guided me from the close, past the two men who stood still as statues, and like ghosts ourselves we passed into the night.

While it was years before I would finally learn the secret of the Sleeping Ones, before my own eyes would become gold as his, the moment I walked from Advocate’s Close with the stranger was the moment I left death behind and first embarked upon the path to immortality.

While the days that followed are a blur to me now–events seen through a gray fog–I remember that night with perfect clarity: how he led me to a coach waiting on High Street and spoke quiet words to a man clad in a servant’s coat.

“Lay him down in the back. Be gentle with him. And after you arrive at Madstone Hall, you must send for the doctor at once.”

“What of yourself, sir?”

The servant’s voice was rich with an accent I could not name, unlike the stranger’s speech, which seemed to bear no accent at all.

“I must finish my business here in Edinburgh. I’ll take a horse to the manor later tonight.”

“We’ll keep a fire burning in the library for your arrival, sir.”

I could not see–yet I felt–his smile. “Thank you, Pietro. Even after all these years, I haven’t grown used to the chill of this land. To think, they call this springtime. Here–use this to keep him warm.”

He removed the dark cloak and wrapped it over me. It was soft, and laced with the sweet, masculine smell of tobacco. Though his hair was white, and his angled face weathered with age, the servant picked me up with little strain, for I was light as a bird. The tall buildings tilted; stars wheeled in the sky above, then vanished as the coach door opened and I was set on the leather seat inside.

“Go quickly, Pietro. A fever burns in him. I fear he is near to death.”

No, I tried to call out. I am well now.But my lips could not form the words, and it didn’t matter, for the door was shut, and moments later the coach was clattering down the High Street.

I lay on the seat, wrapped in his cloak, weary in every bone of my young body, but strangely awake and alert. I had the sense that the coach was heading downward, and in my mind I could see it moving through the Canongate, past the spires of Holyrood Palace, and into the night‑shrouded world beyond, like a tiny craft on a wide, dark sea.

It occurred to me that I should perhaps be afraid. Maybe the stranger had not saved me after all. Maybe he merely wanted me, and sought to use me just as all the others had before him. But no, he was not like other men; that was the one thing I was certain of.

After that my mind drifted, and soon it seemed I was floating on the dark sea. From time to time I heard voices, and I think they were what kept me from sinking into the water. The voices were difficult to make out; they blended with the murmur of the waves. One was the strangely accented voice, while another spoke in the lilting tongue of a well‑to‑do lowlander. Then, sometimes, there was the other voice, as deep as the ocean I drifted on.

“Come back to us, James,” I heard it say once, and I tried to call out in answer, only black water filled my mouth.

“The fever burns hotter in him than ever,” said the Scottish voice. “It must break soon, or it will burn him to death.”

“It will break,” the deep voice said.

I felt something cool touch my brow. A peace came over me, and I smiled as at last the water pulled me down.

When I woke, it was quite to my surprise.

By the light streaming in through the window, it was late morning. I propped myself up and found I was naked beneath clean white sheets in a large bed. The chamber around me was large as well, with a fireplace, a pair of chairs, and three tall windows, one of which stood open to let in a sweet breath of spring air. Beyond gauze curtains I saw green hills rolling away to a misty horizon. I stared, for I had not been beyond the walls of the city in all my fourteen years, and I had never seen a sight so beautiful.

I was still staring when the door opened and a man stepped through. I recognized him at once by his servant’s coat and his gray hair, which was pulled into a knot at the nape of his neck. His nose was hooked like a hawk’s, and his wrinkled skin was a deep olive color I had never seen before. He regarded me with black eyes and nodded.

“The doctor said you would likely wake today.” The servant, Pietro, seemed more to sing than talk, for all words were musical and trilling upon his tongue. “The master will wish to speak with you, but first we must see to your appearance.”

I felt strong and ready to talk to the master at once. I started to tell Pietro this, but as I slipped from the bed I found I was anything but strong. My limbs shook with an uncontrollable spasm, and I would have fallen but for the older man’s tight grip.

Such was my state that I felt no shame at my nakedness as Pietro bathed me before the fire in a wooden tub and dressed me as if I were an infant. He dusted my shoulders and turned me to face a mirror. The figure of a young nobleman gazed back. His coat and breeches were a soft dove gray trimmed with silver, and his shirt was as crisp as snow. A dark ribbon held back long gold hair from a face that was pale and delicately wrought. His eyes glittered like twin emeralds. The only thing that spoiled the image was the bruise that marred his left cheek.

Pietro nodded. “I believe the master will approve. You look a fine young lord, sir.”

I ran my fingers over the cool silver buttons. “Tell me, Pietro, who is he? The master.”

“A kind man,” the servant said. “Though a private one. He shall tell you in good time, I believe.”

“But what is his name?” I said, turning from the mirror. “I must know what I am to call him.”

“His name is Albrecht. He is lord of this manor, and so you may address him as Master.”

“But what does he want with me?”

“Your fingernails need paring,” Pietro said, clucking his tongue, and went to fetch a knife.

To my great disappointment, I did not see the master that day.

“He has been called to Edinburgh on sudden business,” Pietro informed me as I ate breakfast in the manor’s kitchen. It was a great, rambling stone room with fireplaces as large as the niche in the tunnels where I had slept with my mother as a child. Pietro waited on me himself, and I might have found that unnerving save I was ravenous, and my thoughts were wholly occupied by the dishes prepared by the kitchen staff that Pietro set before me.

In all my life, I had never eaten such marvelous food. There was crusty bread and butter, eggs and fat sausages fried crisp, and dried fruits drowned in the thickest cream. I ate until my belly visibly protruded from my thin body.

After that I thought no more of the master, but only of sleep. Docile as a lamb I let Pietro lead me back to my room, remove my fine new clothes, and lay the bedcovers over me.

When I woke it was evening, and the doctor was there, a corpulent, red‑cheeked man with a jovial air about him. He examined me, used a silver knife to let a small amount of blood from my arm, and pronounced me firmly on the mend, much to his amazement.

“Favored by God, this lad is,” he said to Pietro as he gathered his things. “The Lord must have some purpose on this Earth for him.”

At his words I shivered, but perhaps it was only some last remnant of the chill that had afflicted me.

“Master Albrecht thanks you for your service,” Pietro said, then saw the doctor to the door. When the man was gone, Pietro brought me a cup of water.

“Does God really have a purpose for me, Pietro?” I touched my bandaged arm. It hurt where the doctor had cut me.

“Such things are beyond me, Master James.”

My gaze went to the window and the deepening twilight outside. “He has a purpose for me. Doesn’t he?”

“Go to sleep,” Pietro said, and I did.

When I woke again, the sky was still gray outside my window, but I knew that many hours had passed, and that it was no longer dusk. Rather, dawn grew near. I heard a faint ringing noise, and I thought perhaps it was the sound of bells. Then I knew it for what it was: the music of a horse’s bridle jingling.

I leaped from the bed, feeling shockingly strong for the food and rest, and ran to the window. My chamber looked over the manor’s courtyard, and below I saw a figure wrapped in a cloak–Pietro, by his stoop –shuffle forward as another, clad all in black, rode into the courtyard on a massive stallion. He swung down from the horse in an easy motion and handed the reins to Pietro. The rider started across the courtyard, then paused and looked up. Two sparks of amber flashed, their gleam directed at the window through which I peered. I stumbled back from the sill. Then I moved to the wardrobe and–fingers fumbling with the unfamiliar buttons and clasps–donned my new clothes.

By the time Pietro entered my chamber, I was ready. He led me downstairs to a room carpeted with Oriental rugs and walled with books, bound in leather and writ upon their spines in gold ink. A fire roared in the fireplace, making the room warm. Objects decorated the mantelpiece: porcelain figurines, a golden mask, and metallic devices that seemed to have scientific purposes I could not fathom. Fascinating as these items were, I gave them barely a glance.

He sat in a chair by the fire, and his hat and cloak were gone, so for the first time I truly got a look at him. Even sitting back in his chair he was tall, his long legs stretched out toward the fire, one large hand resting upon his thigh. He was still clad in riding attire–a form‑fitting coat, breeches, and boots all in black– and as I drew near him I caught the rich scents of leather and horses. His dark hair was held back by a ribbon, and the firelight played across a bearded face that was too strong and sharply hewn to be handsome, but which was nonetheless striking.

As I approached, he turned his eyes–gold as old coins– upon me. I froze, and it was then I noticed there was something in one of his hands. It was a cloth of silver.

“I believe this is yours, James,” he said, holding out the cloth.

I hesitated, then stepped forward and took the cloth from him. Relief flooded through me at its cool touch. I had feared that, in my fever, I had left it behind in the crib.

“Pietro found it tucked inside your shirt when we brought you here three nights ago. I fear we had to burn your other clothes. But not this.” His amber eyes locked on me. “It was without stain or rent.”

“My mother gave it to me.”

He nodded, then turned his gaze to the fire, as if this were all he had required of me. I stood silently, until I could bear it no longer.

“Why have your brought me here, Master?” I blurted out.

“Can you read?” He did not take his gaze from the fire.

I frowned, puzzled by this question. “A little. My mother taught me some words when I was very young.”

“Good. Then you shall read, James. You shall begin on the morrow. Pietro will help you.”

There was so much more I wished to ask him, but he seemed lost in thought, staring at the fire, then Pietro was there. Gently but firmly he led me from the library. He took me to the kitchen for supper, and eating temporarily quelled my curiosity, but it flared again as soon as Pietro guided me back to my chamber.

“Why does he want me to read, Pietro?” I asked as he helped me off with my coat.

“In this modern time, all fine young lords are expected to be well‑read,” the gray‑haired servant said.

However, that only raised new questions–I was no young lord–and after Pietro left, as I lay in the bed, I was certain there was something more to the master’s command. There had to be.

“If he wishes me to read,” I said aloud to the darkness, “then I shall read every book in the library.”

That was easier said than done. My mother’s teachings did not carry me so far as I had thought they would. I knew my letters, and while I could read simple sentences, the books in the manor’s library were filled with long and arcane words that were beyond my ability to pronounce, let alone comprehend. What was more, I could not write at all, not even my own name.

Pietro became my teacher. In the mornings, we sat in the drawing room off the manor’s vast main hall, or on fine days outside at a stone table in the garden. We drank tea, brought to us by one of the other household servants. I had never had tea before, and I liked it so much I soon forgot my cravings for whiskey.

My reading began with an English translation of Virgil, a poet who lived in the great city of Rome a long time ago. Pietro admired him, being from Italy himself, as he informed me.

“What of the master?” I asked. “Is he also from Italy?”

“Let us begin at the beginning,” Pietro said, and opened the book.

It was slow going at first, but Pietro was a patient teacher, and I soon found myself drawn in by the tale of the hero Aeneas, and how he fought bravely at Troy, then fled after King Hector told him to found a new city that would later become Rome. I was fascinated by how the ghost of Aeneas’s wife appeared to him, and I liked especially the section in which Aeneas went to Africa and fell in love with Queen Dido, only to abandon her when the gods reminded him of his duty to found Rome. After that, Dido threw herself upon a funeral pyre, which I found horrible and compelling.

I practiced writing, and though clumsy at first, I improved so rapidly that Pietro declared I was gifted by God. I soon took to drawing as well, and playing music on a harpsichord, and I excelled at both, for my fingers were long and dexterous, and if I imagined something in my mind it seemed no effort to make my hands bring it into being.

I saw the master regularly, if not often. Usually several days would pass, and I would see him little if at all about the manor. Then, on the third or fourth evening since I had last spoken with him, he would call me to his library and ask what I had learned since our last meeting.

“I learned it is better to die than lose what one loves most,” I said one evening. This was while I was in the midst of reading The Aeneid.

He raised a dark eyebrow. “And what taught you that?”

“Queen Dido,” I said excitedly, for I was obsessed with her story and liked nothing better than to speak of it. “The warrior Aeneas left her, called away by the gods, and rather than go on without him she threw herself on a fire and stabbed herself with a knife while her people watched. There was a great amount of blood, then she burned up.” I never spared the gory details, and indeed tended to embellish them in the retelling.

His golden eyes were thoughtful. “I see. And do you not think Queen Dido was foolish in her actions? Might she not have done good to live on and continue to lead her people?”

I chewed my lip, thinking of how to answer that. His words seemed wise. Why shouldn’t Dido have gone on? She was a queen. “It just seemed right what she did,” I said finally, unsure how else to explain it. “It was sadder that way. And more beautiful.”

To my astonishment, he laughed–a deep, ringing sound. “Continue with your studies, James,” he said, and our meeting was ended.

As spring passed into summer, I grew determined to learn where the master went and what he did in the days between our meetings. Most often he went to Edinburgh, I knew, always late in the day and returning the next morning. From what scant crumbs Pietro dropped, I learned it was business that took the master to the city–though what sort of business it might be, my young mind could not guess.

At other times he took his horse and rode out across the lands of his manor, and we would not see him all the rest of the day, no matter if the weather was fair or foul. Then, past midnight, I would wake to the clatter of hooves in the courtyard, and I would look out my window to see Pietro limp forward and take the reins of his horse. He would stride into the manor, black cape fluttering, and sometimes it seemed to me he held something in his arms. One time he glanced up, his golden eyes fixed on the window through which I peered, and I quickly jumped back into bed, my heart pounding.

On the days he did not leave the manor, the master most often remained locked in his library. Usually he was alone, though some days horsemen arrived, coats spattered with mud, bearing papers sealed with wax, and Pietro would rush them into the library. Soon after they would depart with new papers, imprinted with the master’s own seal. What was written upon those papers, I didn’t know, but I would have given anything to try out my reading skills upon them.

It was Midsummer’s Day–when the simple folk of village and croft venture out onto the hills, to the old standing stones, and leave offerings of the season’s first fruit to forgotten gods– when the visitors came to Madstone Hall. They arrived just as the sun touched the western horizon, in a glossy black carriage drawn by fine horses. Three figures climbed from the carriage, all wreathed and hooded in rich black. One was slighter than the others, and wore a veil rather than hood, so I guessed it to be a woman beneath the shrouding attire.

I imagined a feast would be prepared for such obviously important guests, only then Pietro told me the servants had been commanded to their quarters, and that I, too, was to remain in my room. However, he seemed too preoccupied to lead me all the way to my chamber himself, and so–left to my own devices–I crept back downstairs and concealed myself in the manor’s hall, in a corner behind a chair. Since I was a child, I had always found it simple to spirit myself into shadows and remain unseen, and my skill had not diminished in my time at the manor, for Pietro walked right past me as he opened the door of the master’s library.

“They are here,” he spoke through the open door.

“Send them in, Pietro,” came the master’s deep voice. “There is no use in delaying, I suppose.”

A moment later three dark figures entered the hall. I shrank into the shadows behind the chair as they drew near, and a certainty grew in me that I did not want to be seen by them. There was something about the three–not a wickedness or malice, but all the same a kind of peril–that caused me to shudder. I bit my lip, lest a sound escape me.

As they drew even with the chair behind which I had concealed myself, one of the three–the slender one–paused. She turned her veiled head back and forth, and I felt the hair on my arms stand on end. Beneath the black veil, I caught two sharp glints of gold. Her gaze passed over the chair . . .

. . . then moved on. The three stepped into the library. Pietro shut the door. He pressed a trembling hand to his brow, then shuffled across the hall and was gone. Once he was out of sight, I bolted away like a rabbit who had just seen a fox–three foxes–and dashed up the stairs. I spent the rest of the evening in my chamber, and when I heard the sound of horses and the rattle of a carriage’s wheels, I did not look out my window.

Although curiosity burned in me, neither Pietro nor the master spoke of the visitors the next day, and I did not dare to ask about them. I tried to occupy myself with my studies, but as the hours passed it grew harder and harder to concentrate on books and ink and quill pens. Would the master never tell me anything at all?

Because of my petulant sighs and inability to perform any meaningful work, Pietro dismissed me early from my studies. He gave me a sharp look, but I ignored him and went to my room. I felt bitter and lonely in a way I had not since the master plucked me from the streets of Edinburgh and brought me here. Why had he not revealed his purpose for me?

But perhaps there was no great purpose in his actions. As I paced before the window, I became more and more certain this was the case. I was simply a thing to him: a pretty object like those he had collected for the mantelpiece in his library.

I glanced at my reflection in the mirror. All traces of the scabs and bruises from my days on the street were gone. My golden hair framed my face, pale and delicate almost as a woman’s, but with the first hints of a man’s hard, square lines, and I knew with calm detachment that I was beautiful.

“If I am a thing to him,” I murmured to the mirror, “then it is past time that he used me.”

I would not have minded. While the master was not handsome–his face was too grim, too rough and angular–he was tall and strong, and I had sold myself to far worse on the street. I crept into his room and slipped naked into his bed, letting his rich smell encapsulate me. A warmth kindled inside my body, and I drifted into sleep.

“No, James, this is not what I wish from you,” a voice, deep and soft said, awakening me.

I felt a weight beside me. Half in a dream, I reached for him, slipping my hand inside his robe. Gently, but firmly, he took my hand and pushed it away. I was too weary, too full of sadness, to resist. I wanted to lie on a fire, like Queen Dido, and let the beautiful flames burn away my sorrow. For the first time I could remember in my life, I wept.

I did not resist as he clothed me in a robe and carried me like a small child–lanky though I was getting–to my own bed. He pulled the covers over me, then laid a hand on my brow.

“You have more worth than this, James. More worth than you can possibly know.”

I didn’t know what to say. His words made me feel strange inside, as if a fish wriggled in me, lovely and silvery and sparkling, but much too slippery to grasp.

“Who were they?” I said instead. “The ones who came to the manor yesterday?” I thought of the golden eyes I had glimpsed beneath her veil. “They are the same as you.”

He was silent for a long moment. “Yes,” he said. “In the beginning at least. But now? I think we are no longer the same. Just as you are no longer the same as you were.” He smoothed my hair back from my brow. “I think it is time we said farewell to James. He served you well on the streets of the city. He was strong and clever and brave, but you need him no longer.”

My weeping ceased, and wonder crept into my chest. “If he is gone, who shall I be, then?”

“I believe you shall be Marius.” He smiled. “Yes, that’s a fine name. Marius Lucius Albrecht.”

Sorrow faded away into the dark. A peace came over me. I was so tired, but it was a good feeling.

“Marius,” I murmured, and fell asleep.

Though there is little I need tell of them now, those next five years were the richest and happiest of my life, both since and ever.

The majority of my time each day was spent in the comfortable confines of the manor’s drawing room, learning of the marvels of language and mathematics, history, music, poetry, and philosophy, and the study of the heavens. At first Pietro was my constant and patient teacher, but after that first year I worked with other teachers as well: learned men and professors whom the master invited to Madstone Hall. They came from Edinburgh and Glasgow, or sometimes even from York or London.

Then, one spring morning, I entered the drawing room to discover neither Pietro nor some black‑robed scholar waiting for me, but rather the master himself, his right hand–laden with rings–resting upon a book. The tome was thick, covered in worn leather decorated with tarnished symbols whose meanings I could not fathom, but which filled me all the same with anticipation.

The hint of a smile touched the master’s usually stern mouth. My excitement had not gone unnoticed. “Pietro tells me you have made excellent progress in your studies, Marius. I am pleased. And I believe you are ready to begin a new subject– one I think you shall find of great interest.”

Bees swarmed in my stomach. I did not know what was going to happen next, only that I was sure it would be wonderful. He gestured to an empty chair at the table, and I hurried to it and sat. As I held my breath the master opened the cover of the book, and that was when my education in the arcane arts began.

The book–which had no name other than the mysterious gold symbols on its cover–contained many chapters. We began that morning with the first, which concerned the art of astrology, then in time moved on to divination, runic lore, numerology, and other occult sciences. Fascinated as I was with each of these topics, always my eyes seemed to skip ahead, gauging the thickness of the book, and wondering what lore was contained in the yellowed pages of its final chapter.

It was some time before I found out. Far more often than not, when I entered the drawing room in the morning, I found Pietro or one of the black‑robed scholars sitting at the table rather than the master. Doing my best to hide my disappointment, I would force myself to focus on the lesson at hand, and would try, though often without great success, not to wonder about the big leather‑bound book with the gold symbols.

“Where is the master today?” I would ask if it was Pietro who was my teacher.

Always the answer was the same. Business had called the master out to one of the villages on his lands, or to Edinburgh, or sometimes even all the way to London. That last news always filled me with melancholy, for I knew it would be many days before the master returned, and that when he did he would be weary. Always he seemed pallid when he came back from London, and grimmer than usual, and he would have neither time nor energy for our studies together for many days.

Eventually, I learned the master kept the book of the occult in his library, for I saw it on the shelf one evening when he called me in to speak with him. However, even if I might have been tempted, I knew it would be folly to attempt to steal a glance at its pages. Certainly the master would know if I entered his library unbidden, and while his wrath had never been directed at me, I remembered the way he had, with a look, frozen the two men who had tried to harm me in Advocate’s Close.

Fortunately, I had other activities to occupy me. On my sixteenth birthday–an anniversary that we had come to celebrate on the summer solstice, for we could only guess at my true age–the master gifted me with a horse. It was a handsome roan gelding, full of spirit, but gentle and forgiving with its young and inexperienced rider. I named the horse Hermes, for I imagined he would run very swiftly.

At the master’s bidding, his stableman, Gerald, gave me lessons in riding, and while he was neither as patient nor gentle as Hermes, before the summer was out I had skill enough that he left me to my own devices. Once released from my studies for the day, if the weather was even remotely fair, I would go out riding.

Sometimes I visited one of the villages that were beholden to the manor, but most often I kept to the bridle paths that led past field and croft, through copse and heather, over bridges and near standing stones, out to the open spaces. There Hermes and I would race across the moors, the wild wind whipping our manes–his of rusty red, mine of bright gold–and my blood would rush with a sensation I could not name. All I knew was that it made me feel strong, and bold, and pure.

One day Gerald saw me riding Hermes from a distance, and that night he swore to the master he had never seen a horse run so fast. I felt a childish pleasure, thinking simply that my horse was special, and that I was lucky to have him, and perhaps even deserving. The master gave me a sharp look, but I thought nothing of it–though I might have, if I could have seen the way my eyes sparked with green fire when I leaned over Hermes’ neck, urging him swiftly over heath and down.

Winter was the hardest season for me to bear, for more days than not, once my morning studies were done, I could do no more than visit Hermes in the stable and watch the gray rain sheet down outside. Also, it seemed the master was gone more often in the winter, and when he was about Madstone Hall he was more likely than ever to be grim and silent.

As time passed, his trips away from the manor grew longer and more frequent, and I knew he was often gone to London. I did not ask Pietro what he did there, I knew he would not tell me, but I thought of the visitors with the golden eyes, and I was certain his trips had something to do with the three who had once come to the manor.

“Can I travel with you, Master?” I would ask each time I learned he was leaving for London.

“In time, Marius,” he would say. “When the time is right, I will take you with me.” Then he would open the book of occult lore to a new chapter, somewhere in the middle now, though as always my eyes strayed toward the end of the tome.

Seasons passed, and though I was happy and content, as I grew taller and broader, and the down on my chin and cheeks became a short beard as thick, gold, and curling as my hair, a shadow stole into Madstone Hall.

The shadow was faint at first, like a fleeting cloud that dimmed the light of a long June day, hinting at the cool purple of twilight to come. Sometimes I would round a corner and see the master leaning against a chair or balustrade, a hand pressed to his chest, his face gaunt. Then he would see me and smile, and at that rare gift all dark thoughts were dismissed.

On my eighteenth birthday, we walked together to one of the standing stones on the moor and, like the common folk, laid down our own offering of bread and wine. He gripped my arm as we made our way up the hill, and I was surprised at how thin his fingers felt against my arm, and how hot, but again it was easy to forget these things when he leaned against the stone and spoke in his deep voice of old gods now lost and forgotten.

“Where did the gods go?” I asked, pressing my palm against the weathered stone.

“Even I cannot say, Marius. Perhaps they returned to the world from whence they came.”

His words caused me to shiver despite the warm midsummer evening. “What world do mean?”

He sighed. “Or perhaps they are no more.”

“But a god cannot die,” I said.

He gazed at his hands. “Even gods die, Marius, when they are old enough, and weary from the weight of long ages.”

That was the first time I remember noticing the way the shadows gathered in the hollows of his cheeks. But it was only the failing light, I told myself, and we walked back down the hill, speaking of brighter things.

However, if in summer the shadow had been easy to dismiss, in the pale blue light of winter its effect was far harder to ignore. The master was always cold, and Pietro commanded the servants to keep great fires roaring in every fireplace in the manor, so that all of us shed our coats and vests and still sweated in our shirts. Yet the master would sit in a chair, clutching a blanket around him with thin fingers. Sometimes, as I passed the closed door of the library, I would hear Pietro speaking in urgent tones. Never could I hear what he was saying, but it was clear that the old servant was pleading with the master, and that the master was refusing.

Then, one night when sleep eluded me, I ventured downstairs to fetch a glass of wine, and again I heard voices as I passed through the main hall. Only this time a wedge of yellow light fell through the door of the library; it stood ajar. I knew I should hurry on, but like some insect compelled by the light, I approached, moving silently over the carpeted floor.

“Do you have it, Pietro?” I heard the master speak as I drew close to the door. “I am sorry to make you do this thing, but I have not the strength to ride out myself.”

“Yes, I have it. But it will do you little enough good, Master.”

“Bring it here, Pietro.”

I heard a whuffling noise, and a muffled squeal, almost like the cry of an infant. All at once the squeal ceased, replaced by the gurgling sound of liquid falling into a metal bowl.

“Give it to me,” the master said, and his voice shook with an eager, hungry tone. There was a long pause, then the master sighed, a soft sound, at once satisfied and full of revulsion. “There, Pietro. You see? I am much better now.”

I could envision Pietro’s worried expression. “You should return to Crete, Master Albrecht. It has been long years since you have been to Knossos. You should leave this very night. You will be healed there.”

“My good Pietro, all your life you have been loyal to me, since you were a boy, and you have received little in return. Always you have cared for me, and for that I thank you. But you know not what you speak. Life I might find if I were to return there, but not healing. This must be brought to an end, what we started long ago.”

“But he is not ready, Master,” Pietro said, his voice shaking. “There is so much more for him to learn.”

At these words, a thrill ran through me. I drew closer to the door, daring to bend my head so that I could see through the gap with one eye, into the room beyond.

On the desk, still half‑covered by the dark cloth that had wrapped it, was a suckling pig. The thing was dead, its neck slit open. A knife lay next to it, stained dark. The master still held the silver bowl that had caught its blood. His lips were tinged red.

“He knows more than you think, Pietro,” the master said, and his golden eyes shifted, gazing toward the door.

I stumbled back, clamping my jaw shut to stifle a cry. It was impossible that he had seen me. The library was bright with fire and candle, and the hall outside where I had crouched was dark. While I had grown, I had not lost my boyhood ability to melt into shadows. All the same, as I stole back to my chamber, I knew I had been seen.

The next morning I found the master waiting for me when I entered the drawing room. I thought he wished to scold me for eavesdropping the night before, or perhaps to cast me out of the manor. Instead, he passed a hand over the worn cover of the book of the occult, then he opened it to the final chapter.

“Everything you have learned until now has been a prelude, Marius. Prelude for this–the most secret and profound of all arts.”

“What is it?” I said, hardly daring to whisper.

“It has many names, in many different tongues. Some call it the Great Work, a name I prefer.”

I bent over the book and read the word written in ornate script at the head of the chapter. It said, simply, Alchemy.

Our lesson lasted all that day, but the hours seemed to fly by as the master and I read together from the book. When that was done, I asked him question after question, listening to his deep voice as he answered, trying to drink in every word he spoke.

Grand and wonderful visions filled my head. I had always thought alchemists were rogues and charlatans who tricked people into thinking they could make gold out of lead. And most of them were. But there was a deeper art, more secret and precious. The transmutation of base metals was not the true goal of alchemy. Rather, transmutation was a symbol for something else–something greater and altogether more subtle than the making of gold. However, as people so often did, they found it more comfortable to think in literal rather than metaphoric terms.

“People would prefer to simply believe something blindly, rather than think about what it means, Marius. Yet in believing without question, they lose sight of the thing’s deeper meaning, its true beauty and purpose.”

I rested my chin on a hand, thinking about these words. “Sometimes, when I was young, I would creep through the doors of St. Giles and listen to the priests speak. They said the world was made in six days, but that’s mad. What would days mean to God? It’s just a story, that’s all.”

“No, Marius, not just a story. Stories can have great meaning, and thus great power as well. And the story of alchemy is one of the greatest stories of all.”

A strange feeling filled me: excitement, wonder, and an ache of longing. “But what does it mean, Master?”

He shut the book. “That is enough for today, Marius. We will continue this lesson tomorrow.”

However, the next morning Pietro told me the master was ill, and that I should go riding if I wished, for the late‑winter day was fine and bright. I did go, but I hardly noticed the landscape as it blurred past, or the feeling of Hermes’ strong back rising and falling beneath me.

I did not see the master the next day, or the next, but on the fourth day Pietro brought him from his chamber to a chair in the hall, where he might sit and receive some sun. He looked gray and brittle, like a tall tree withered by blight. All the same I went to him gladly, kneeling and laying my head on his lap, and though I craved to ask him more questions about the art of alchemy, a stern look from Pietro silenced me.

Nor were my questions answered as the weeks passed. Spring brought life back to the land, but not to the master of Madstone Hall. He spent more and more time in his chamber, allowing only Pietro to see to him, and when he did emerge his tall form was stooped. His dark hair had gone silver, and it occurred to me that perhaps the master was not ill, but rather was simply growing old. Yet how could age have come upon him so suddenly? When he took me in, he had been a man in his prime. Now he looked older than Pietro. His eyes, though, remained brilliant gold.

Then, one fine day in June, Pietro came to me in the drawing room. I was gazing at the book of the occult, which the master had left there after our last session together. I flipped through the pages, but my mind was dull, and mysteries that had seemed so clear when he explained them now confounded me as if I were the simplest child.

I looked up at the sound of Pietro’s limping gait. An anguished light shone in his brown eyes. I shut the book and stood.

“You must go to him, Master Marius. He is waiting for you.” When I entered his chamber, I did not see him at once. So small he had become, so shrunken, that it took my eyes a moment to pick him out amid the tangled bedclothes. I sat beside the bed, taking his hand in mine. It felt as if I held a bundle of sticks.

“Master,” I murmured, not knowing what else to say.

“It is your birthday, Marius,” he said, and his voice was still deep and clear. “Yet I fear I will not be able to walk to the standing stone with you today.”

My birthday? I had forgotten. I was nineteen. A man, I suppose, though at that moment I felt like a boy again, lost and frightened, crawling through the tunnels beneath Edinburgh.

“Why did you not go to Crete, Master?”

His gold eyes pierced me. “Why do you say such a thing, Marius?”

“I listened to you and Pietro speaking.” The words poured out of me in guilt and misery. “He said you would be healed if you went to Knossos. I read about it in a book. It was the palace of King Minos, where the minotaur was imprisoned in the labyrinth.”

His thin chest heaved in a sigh. “No, I cannot go there, Marius. Never again. It is ending for me at last. That is my choice.”

Tears streamed down my cheeks; I felt no shame. “But why, Master? What lies there? Could I not go and fetch it for you?”

“No, Marius, do not seek it!” His voice was sharp, and his eyes flashed. “I thought, when I first found you in the city, that perhaps . . .” He shook his head. “But I was wrong. I want you to live your life, Marius. I’ve adopted you–the papers are complete. Madstone Hall is yours now. You must marry, and have children, and live your days to their fullest.” A spasm passed through him. “And you must beware, Marius. Once I am gone, they will come. You must not trust them. I am sorry. There is so much I should have told you, and now there is no time.”

“No, Master,” I said, clutching his hand to me, kissing it, too full of despair to truly hear what he was saying. “No, you must not leave me. I still need you.”

He smiled, and it was like sunlight upon my face. “My dear Marius. Everything you need is right here.”

His hand touched my chest, lightly, then fell to the bedcovers. A soft breath escaped him, and I watched as his eyes changed from gold to lead gray, as if the alchemy of life had been worked in reverse. I sat with him for a time, my hand upon his brow. Then, as the evening sky caught fire outside the window, I went to tell Pietro he was dead.

The weeks that followed remain dim to me. Pietro brought me food, but I do not remember eating it. I rose before dawn each morning, but I do not recall sleeping. Every day I walked to the grave on the hill behind the manor, but I have no recollection of when it was dug. There was no marker, save for the ancient standing stone we used to visit together, its pitted surface without writing, worn of memory long ago by wind and rain.

I spent much of my time wandering the manor, as if I were the ghost. It seemed I was searching for something. However, what it was I could not name, and I did not find it, though I looked everywhere for it. Everywhere, that was, except for one room. I would drift toward the library, as if compelled by an unseen force, but at the last moment I would pull my hand from the knob and turn away.

Somewhere in the mists I remember men coming to the manor, dressed in the black frock coats of lawyers. They brought me papers and told me to sign them, which I did without reading, and when I was done they said I was now the lord of Madstone Hall. I asked Pietro what that meant, and he said not to worry, that the master had hired men in Edinburgh who would see to the legal and business affairs of the manor.

“Your only goal is to continue your studies, Master.”

“You should not call me that,” I said, and went to saddle Hermes.

But riding my horse could not calm my mind, and I would go back to wandering the manor. However, as time honed the moon of October to a thin sickle, I realized I was not searching after all. Rather, I was waiting. Waiting for something to come. For someone.

Then, on All Hallows Eve, which the folk of the villages still called the Feast of the Slaughter, they came. I stood at the window in the master’s chamber–I had taken to sleeping there, at Pietro’s request, though in my mind it was still his room– watching as the village folk set torches to great wooden wheels and rolled them down the sides of hills. The common folk believed that the borders between the world of the living and the world of the spirits grew thin on this night, and that demons and ghosts might slip through cracks from one realm to the next. Thus they lit great blazes to scare the spirits away.

“Master,” Pietro said behind me. I had not heard him enter. “Master, they have . . . you have visitors. Shall I send them away?”

I did not need to look at him to know he was trembling. Outside, the fiery wheels blazed down the hills. They looked like golden eyes, gazing at me from the night.

“No, Pietro. I will meet them in the drawing room.”

The old servant started to protest, but I turned and gave him a sharp look, and I could see the sparks of green reflected in his own startled eyes. He bobbed his head and hurried from the chamber.

Standing before a mirror, I donned a coat of brown velvet, then bound my hair with a ribbon. My gold beard, thick and full, lent me years beyond the nineteen I possessed, as did the grim expression I wore, which to my amazement reminded me of his own. I looked lordly enough, and only hoped I could feel the same, that I might hold my own against them.

When I stepped into the drawing room, a man and a woman rose from two chairs by the fire. They were not dressed in black, and the pair gazed at me with curious eyes of blue and brown, not gold. Such was my shock that I staggered, gripping the newel post at the foot of the stairs for support.

“Hello, Marius,” the woman said. She was not young–near forty perhaps–and fine lines marked her face, but she was still handsome and lithe in her green gown.

“You may address me as Lord Albrecht.”

She winced, perhaps mistaking the sharpness in my voice for a note of authority rather than fear.

“We are gladdened to finally have the opportunity to meet you, my lord,” the man said. He was much younger than the woman, though less handsome. He was tall but spindly, like a plant grown in a dark closet. All the same, his blue eyes were bright with humor, and his broad grin was genuine and infectious, putting me somewhat at ease.

“And what was preventing our meeting before?” I said.

They exchanged uneasy glances, and I felt my dread recede further. I was at the advantage here, not they. They wanted something–something the master had not granted them. And, now that he was gone, they thought they could get it from me.

For some reason a boldness came over me, and I began a dangerous game. “I know why you’ve come.” I gestured for them to sit. They did, and I took a chair opposite them. Pietro had left glasses of sherry for each of us, and I picked one up. “In fact, I’m surprised it took you so long.”

The man grinned at the woman. “It’s just as I said, Rebecca. He’s heard of us. I told you he would already know all about the Seekers.” He picked up his own sherry glass and took a drink.

Seekers. I had never heard the word before, at least not in the sense that the man seemed to use it.

“Hush, Byron,” the woman said, not touching her own glass. She turned her brown eyes on me. “So you know of us.”

I shrugged, as if this required no reply, when in fact I was burning to ask questions. All the same, I was certain I’d learn more if I did not ask them. The man, Byron, seemed talkative enough, but I sensed the woman, Rebecca, would not be so easy to maneuver around.

“I know Master Albrecht often went to London on business with the Seekers,” I said. This was a calculated guess; their accents were English, not Scottish.

Byron laughed. “Well, his business was not so much with us as with the Philosophers, of course. They always keep to themselves. I’ve never even met one in person.” He winked at me. “We Seekers are just their lackeys, you see, and they don’t associate much with us mere mortals.”

“Byron!” the woman said sternly, and his grin vanished as he sank back into his chair.

The man’s words fascinated me. Who were these Philosophers he spoke of? By Rebecca’s tone, they were not people to be trifled with. However, I forced my expression to remain neutral.

“Is there something I can do for you?” I said.

Rebecca smoothed the green fabric of her gown. “I hope instead it is the opposite, my lord. I will be plain with you, for I can see there is no need for pretense here. We have never met, but we know a good deal about you. We know you have proven adept at the occult arts, and that you have certain other talents as well–skills our organization is in need of. Thus we have come to extend you an invitation.”

This startled me so greatly I forgot to appear disinterested. “An invitation?”

“Yes, my lord,” Byron said, and while Rebecca frowned at him, this time she did not preempt his words. “We’d like you to come to London with us, to join our order.”

Realization came to me. “To join the Seekers,” I murmured.

“Indeed, my lord,” Rebecca said, meeting my eyes.

Speech fled me. I was right. These two had come to Madstone Hall seeking something of the master’s. Only it wasn’t a book or an arcane object. It was I they were seeking. But why? I was clever, I knew, but surely any talents such as I possessed could readily be found in London. I doubted they were forced to trek all the way up to the northlands for fresh recruits.

They gazed at me expectantly now, but what could I say? Despite my little charade, I knew nothing of the Seekers, yet I dared not ask them about their organization now for fear I would be revealed. I knew I should tell them to be on their way, that I had no interest in their invitation.

Only, little as I knew at that moment, I didhave interest.

You must beware, Marius. Once I am gone, they will come. You must not trust them. . . .

But surely the master had meant the gold‑eyed ones, not these two people. They were curious, to be sure, but not strange and forbidding as the three strangers had been. They were, as Byron had said, merely mortals. What harm could they bring to me?

Yet surely, from all they’ve said, the ones with the golden eyes are their masters–these Philosophers they spoke of, the ones the master so often went to London to see, and who came once to visit him here.

Which meant Master Albrecht himself had been one of them. Only what did it mean? He had said not to trust them, yet he was one of their kind. I needed more time–time to decide what to do.

“It grows late,” I said. “You must be weary from your journey. I will have Pietro ready rooms for you. We can discuss this on the morrow.”

Byron quaffed the rest of his sherry, his expression affable, but Rebecca gave me a cool look. “As you wish, Lord Albrecht.”

I shivered, wishing I had not told them to call me that, and without another word rose and left the drawing room.

“You must send them away in the morning,” Pietro said as he turned down the bedcovers in my chamber. His hands shook. “Please Mast . . . please, Marius. For him, you must do it.”

“Good night, Pietro,” I said, and I did not look at him as he shuffled from the chamber.

I did not undress and lie down in the bed. Instead I sat in a chair, watching as a beam of moonlight crept across the darkened room. Then, when I was sure midnight had come and gone, I slipped through the door and passed, silent as a wraith, down the stairs and through the manor’s main hall, toward a door at the far end.

The library. Not since he died had I entered that room, but now I opened the door without sound, stepped inside, and shut the portal behind me. With my dark‑adjusted eyes I could see all was exactly as he had left it. A thick shroud of dust covered the desk and mantelpiece. Even Pietro had not been in there.

I dared to light a single candle, then sat at the desk. It felt strange to sit in his chair, yet not altogether wrong. I hesitated, then one by one opened the drawers of the desk. I knew not what I sought, only that it was there, and that I would recognize it once I found it. There were sheaves of parchment, feathered quills, a small knife for trimming pen tips, bottles of ink, and sealing wax. Mundane things. Then, in the last drawer I found it, just as I had been sure I would–a silver key.

Standing, I gazed around the library. There–in all my visits to that room I had never seen it before. I suppose my attention had always been on him, but for the first time my eyes seemed to seek it out: a small cabinet lurking in a corner behind a globe of the Earth. I moved to it.

The cabinet was plain, save for a single keyhole. The key fit, and I opened the doors. Inside were two shelves. One held a row of books. The other contained stacks of papers, as well as a small wooden box.

The writing on the spines of the books made little sense to me, though it was clear from flipping through them that all pertained to various magical arts–with the exception of the art of alchemy. Interesting, perhaps, but they could tell me nothing that might help me just then. The loose papers were no more illuminating. From what I could tell they referred to various business dealings–deeds and notes and the like, that was all.

My eyes fell again upon the box. It was small and quite plain, without latch or lock. All the same, for some reason I trembled as I lifted it, and I opened the lid with fumbling fingers.

There were two things in the box, resting on a silk cushion. The first thing was a book. It was very small, like a personal prayer or chapbook, its brittle pages sewn together with gold thread. The second thing was a small glass vial. The vial’s stopper was made of gold as well, and had been wrought with great skill into the shape of a spider, its abdomen inlaid with a single ruby. I lifted the vial. It was filled with a dark, viscous fluid that I knew at once to be blood.

I sat at the desk with the box and removed the little book. Clearly it was more ancient than anything else in the library. Its cover was made of a thin piece of yellowed wood, incised with strange symbols arranged in a circle; its pages crackled as I turned them, flecks of dust swirling up to glow like sparks in the light of the candle.

As the hours of the night stole by, I pored over the little book. Its pages were filled with archaic words composed in a spidery hand, and my head ached as I tried to decipher what they meant. Unlike the others, this book was about alchemy, that much was clear. It seemed to be some sort of diary, written by a man early in the fifth decade of his life, telling the tale of his quest for the Philosopher’s Stone: an object that could transmute metals into their perfect state–gold.

Only it was more than that. It was as my master had said; the Great Work was a story, a metaphor. From what I could make out, it was not simply base metals this alchemist sought to transmute. It was himself. The Philosopher’s Stone could bring anything to perfection– even human flesh.

“Immortality,” I murmured. “He was seeking immortality.” But who was it who had written this journal so long ago? I turned to the last page, and there at the bottom was inscribed his signature. Breath escaped me as I stared at the words.

Martin Adalbrecht, Anno Domini MDCVII

No, it couldn’t be. This diary had been penned in 1607. Which would mean he was over one hundred years old when I met him five years earlier, though he had looked no older than forty. Only that couldn’t be so.

My brain worked feverishly as I flipped back through the crumbling pages as quickly as I dared. There had to be answers within the book. The two Seekers had spoken of the Philosophers, and the master had been one of their order, of that there could be no doubt. The name the Philosophers gave themselves could not be a coincidence; surely there was some connection between them and the Philosopher’s Stone. But what was it? And what did it have to do with the island of Crete and the ancient palace of Knossos?

A soft sound reached my ears. At once I blew out the candle. Silence, then came another noise: a soft thump, followed by a hiss of breath. Though it was dark, my eyes had adjusted, and I could see easily. I shut the book, placed it with the vial in the box, and closed the lid. Tucking the box in the breast pocket of my coat, I moved to the cabinet, locked it, then returned the key to the desk. I paused by the door of the library, listening, then opened it a crack and peered through.

Two dark figures moved in the dimness of the hall, one petite, the other tall and gangly. So perhaps I was not the only thing they had come searching for after all. The two groped their way across the hall, moving toward the library door. I wondered if I should sneak past–I would be no more than a silent shadow to their senses–or if I should confront them.

Before I could decide, a light appeared in the arched doorway at the far end of the hall, accompanied by the sound of shuffling steps. The two figures tensed, then darted through a side door and were gone. A moment later Pietro entered the hall, carrying an oil lamp. He gazed about, his dark eyes glittering with suspicion, then turned and headed back the way he had come. I took the chance to slip from the library and return to my chamber. It mattered not to me if the two returned to their late‑night searching, for I was confident that I now carried in my pocket the very thing they had been sent to find.

The next morning I met the Seekers at breakfast and inquired after the quality of their rest. The dark circles under their eyes belied their polite replies; they had not slept. Nor had I, but I felt strangely fresh and awake. I knew what I had to do. He had said not to trust them, and nor would I. But there was so much I had to learn, things he should have taught me himself. I savored the look of shock on their faces when I told Rebecca and Byron that I would accept their invitation.

“I will journey with you to London at once,” I said. “We shall depart this very day.”

The surprise and satisfaction on Rebecca’s face gave way to a look of perturbation. She knew her late‑night wanderings had been detected, and she would have no chance to repeat them. All the same, a moment later she managed a smile that seemed not altogether counterfeit.

“We are fortunate indeed, my lord.”

“Call me Marius,” I said.

Two hours later, I stood before the manor beneath a leaden sky, watching as Rebecca and Byron climbed into the waiting coach. The luggage was already strapped atop, and the driver was ready.

“We shall await your return, Master Marius,” Pietro said. A chill wind howled from the north, and the old servant shook.

I rested a palm against his withered cheek. “Dear Pietro,” I said, then climbed into the coach.

The driver cracked the reins, and the coach lurched into motion. I turned in the seat and watched until the manor was lost from view. It would be many long years before I would return to Madstone Hall, and I never saw Pietro again.

“This is all terribly exciting, Marius,” Byron said. The two Seekers sat on the bench opposite me. “You won’t regret joining us. There’s so much for you to discover.”

“Yes,” I said, noticing Rebecca’s eyes were on me. “Yes, there is.”

I am afraid I must now leap ahead in my tale, for it has taken me much longer to set down this account of my first two decades than I had imagined. However, I believe it was vital for you to see how I was made in my early years–for otherwise, when at last you reach the end, you might not understand why I chose as I did. Why I chose differently than Master Albrecht. And while I have had more time to pen this journal than at first I dared hope–it seems even eyes of gold do not always see clearly– the hour now grows late. Thus I will fly over those next years of my life, to a gray autumn day in London when once again my world was changed forever.

The year was now 1679, and at five‑and‑twenty years of age I was a man grown into his full power, yet still filled with vigor and optimism that the harshness of the world had not yet had time to wear away. As an order, the Seekers were much the same. Founded in A.D. 1615, the Seekers–like myself at the time–were just coming into their own.

The fractious early years, in which the order was little more than a motley collection of wild‑eyed alchemists scrabbling for the secret of making gold in filthy, smoke‑hazed dungeons, had been left behind, and already the organization would have been recognizable to a modern‑day Seeker. The Age of Discovery and the Renaissance were giving way to an Age of Reason, and thus we chose a scientific approach.

The ideas of transmutation and the Philosopher’s Stone–a mystical catalyst that could bring about the instantaneous achievement of perfection in anything it touched–were thrown in the dustbin along with the ashes of myth and superstition. The Seekers had undergone their own Reformation, and while the order was founded on a belief in the existence of magic–a core conviction we had not rescinded–it was agreed we would approach the subject not with flights of fancy, but rather with logic and cold rationalism. Evidence that pointed to an otherworldly origin of magical forces on Earth was already mounting, and by the time I entered the Seekers the order’s focus was steadily being directed toward a single goal: the discovery of worlds other than this Earth.

It was an intoxicating notion, and at the time not so outlandish as it might seem today. Before the discovery of the Americas, people had believed a ship that sailed too far west would fall off the edge of the world. However, Columbus, da Gama, and Magellan had proven otherwise. So who was to say there were not other New Worlds waiting to be discovered? Except to find them, one would indeed have to sail over the edge of the Earth. And we thought we were the ones to do it.

Master Albrecht had warned me not to trust the ones who would come after he died, and while I did not entirely forget his words, I kept them at the fringes of thought. Surely his concern was with the Philosophers–the result of some old argument or misunderstanding with his peers–and while they were purportedly the leaders of the Seekers, it quickly became clear they were a distant authority at best. Rebecca and Byron had never seen the Philosophers themselves; in fact, I soon realized that none of the Seekers had. The Philosophers communicated with them only through letters sealed by wax and imprinted with their sigil–a hand holding three flames–and never appeared in person.

I considered telling Rebecca and Byron of the time the three with golden eyes had come to Madstone Hall, but decided against it. The last thing I wished was for something that would mark me as different. I had never had a family. My mother, the Gilroys in their silent mausoleum, Master Albrecht and Pietro–all had offered comfort in some way. However, none had been able to provide that all‑encompassing sense of inclusion I now felt. The Seekers were my first true family, and I embraced them with all my might.

Those first months were filled with constant wonder and delight. The Seekers worked to discover new worlds, but I felt as if I already had, as if Rebecca and Byron had pulled aside a curtain woven in the dull grays and greens of Scotland and shown me the gilded door to a fantastical land I had never dreamed existed. London was grand and glorious, so full of life and beauty and grand squalor that it made Edinburgh look like one of the backward villages huddled around Madstone Hall.

Once my initial astonishment at my new life was complete, I threw myself into my work as a journeyman Seeker. Rebecca had not lied; my talents were indeed perfectly suited to the organization. I had a zeal for both ancient and modern knowledge, and a keen curiosity; but then, so did many of the Seekers. What caused me to excel was my ability to combine these skills with the instincts I had acquired on the streets of Edinburgh. Just as I had been able to sense which passages beneath the old city led upward to light and which plunged into darkness, I was often able to discern the avenues of investigation that would bear fruit from those that were dead ends before concrete evidence favored one over the other.

“You rise more quickly in the order than even I believed you would,” Rebecca said one evening as we lay entwined together on her bed.

We had become lovers not long after our arrival in London. It was not a serious affair. Both of us were far too interested in our work to devote our hearts to another. All the same, our match was a good one. I was tall and handsome, and she had made it clear during the long journey to London that she favored my look. In turn, I found her mature flavor of beauty alluring.

For all my work as a youth in Edinburgh, I had never lain with a woman, but that suited Rebecca well enough. We spent many hours in her chamber, on the upper floor of a small but comfortable house near Covent Garden, in which she taught me the art of making love. And when our bodies were pleasantly spent, we would engage our minds instead, drinking wine as we sat half‑naked on the bed, speaking long into the night about modern science, and philosophy, and the nature of our vocation as Seekers.

I learned much from Rebecca, and perhaps more than she knew–though I suppose she might have said the same of me, for it is hard not to become at least a little vulnerable in the arms of a lover. Still, I think each of us guarded our inner hearts from the other.

I thought little about the life I had left behind in Scotland. Letters came from Madstone Hall–many at first, but fewer as time went on. I paid them little heed, and so I did not notice when they stopped coming altogether. I had no time for such cares. I threw myself into my work by day, while at night, if I was not in Rebecca’s bed, I could be found in one of London’s more raucous pubs with Byron–whose jovial company I had come to greatly enjoy–along with a band of the Seekers’ best and brightest young men.

Once I made the mistake of letting Byron take me to the Cup and Leaf on a night that Rebecca was expecting me. When I tried to beg my leave, the boys grabbed my coat and hauled me back down to the bench.

“Where did you think you’re going, Marius?” Richard Mayburn said. “You’ve had but a single ale.” Richard was a short, stout, red‑haired young man who won every drinking bout he entered.

“I have somewhere to go,” I said, glancing at the window in hopes of a glimpse of the moon, knowing I was already late.

Byron gave me a sharp look. “By Zeus, you’ve got a woman waiting for you, don’t you, Marius? You sly cur.”

My blush was all the answer he needed and elicited whoops of laughter all around.

“So who is this tasty little trollop?” Richard said with an exaggerated leer. “And better yet, are you going to share her?”

“Not with the likes of you, Richard Mayburn,” said a cool voice.

We turned as one to see Rebecca stride across the pub. All eyes were on her, for she was out of place, but wonderfully so, like a dove in the midst of a flock of grackles. The smoky light softened the lines of her face, and her wine‑colored gown accentuated the curves of her body.

“What on Earth are you doing here, Rebecca?” Byron hissed. “This is no place for a lady.”

“I’ve only come to fetch what’s mine,” she said, laying a hand on my shoulder.

Byron’s eyes bulged, and Richard let out a loud guffaw.

“Good show, Marius,” the red‑haired man said, grinning. “Every man in the Seekers has tried to woo Rebecca and failed miserably, and now you’ve succeeded. What’s next? I suppose you’ll be telling us you’ve seen the Philosophers themselves.”

In the humor of the moment, caution fled me. “I won’t keep it a secret from you any longer, gentlemen. The man I dwelled with in Scotland–”

“Was purported to have seen the Philosophers once,” Rebecca smoothly cut me off. Her grip on my shoulder tightened, her fingers digging in. “Yes, so we learned before we came to see you, Marius. Though it’s just a tale, that’s all.”

I looked up. Rebecca’s brown eyes glinted in the lamplight. Did she know that Master Albrecht had once been one of them? Byron and the others clearly did not, for their eyes went wide at her words, and they plied me with many questions about my former master. However, I kept my answers short, for I could feel Rebecca’s gaze upon me, and told them only that he had been an enigmatic gentleman who had taken me in as an orphan and about whom I learned little before he died. It was true enough.

Not long after that night, my affair with Rebecca cooled. I went to her house with diminishing frequency, and we seldom shared her bed when I did. All the same, our partnership within the Seekers seemed stronger than ever, and we often worked together in our investigations. So often, in fact, that I fear Byron grew a bit jealous.

Byron was a good lad, but he was woefully unskilled with women. Somehow, when he tried to speak with them, he always ended up with ale in his face. While the Seekers have had female members from the start, in that time Rebecca was something of a rarity, for I had met no other lady Seekers. Thus it was only natural that Byron should be somewhat fixated upon her; she was the one woman he could speak with and not end up all wet. I feared he would grow angry upon learning of my affair with Rebecca. However, such was his good nature that he said nothing of it, and he remained as jovial a companion as always at pub.

I continued to rise in my career as a Seeker, and in only my fourth year as a journeyman I achieved a significant breakthrough. It was chance, really, that I came upon it at all, but my instincts alerted me that something was not as it seemed, and further investigation proved my hunch.

Near the house where I rented a room, little more than a stone’s throw from the Tower of London, was a bookshop I often haunted for its unusual and varied collection of volumes, especially relating to history. I often engaged in cordial conversation with the proprietor of the shop, a fine, white‑bearded gentleman who went by the name of Sarsin. When he learned of my love for Virgil’s Aeneid, he clucked his tongue.

“The Roman poets were little more than thieves of the Greeks,” he said, then rummaged through his shelves and came up with many classic works of ancient Greece. After that, much of the wage the Seekers paid me went directly into Sarsin’s coffers, and I spent many hours sitting by the Thames, poring over the poetry of Homer and the tragedies of Aeschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides.

It was when I moved on to the works of Shakespeare that I began to grow suspicious. Sarsin claimed that his uncle, who had owned the shop before him, had known the Bard, for he had often come into the shop. I did not doubt that. However, more than once, when recounting these stories, Sarsin spoke as if he were the one who had met Shakespeare, rather than his uncle.

The shop owner was likely daft, I told myself. Yet I didn’t quite believe that, and my investigations soon proved I was right. Sarsin claimed that, like Shakespeare, his uncle had been something of a poet, and I convinced him to show me some of his uncle’s work, and to even lend me a yellowed piece of parchment with one particular song.

That night, I compared the handwriting of the song to that on the receipts Sarsin had written for me when I purchased books. There was no doubting it; both documents had been written by the same hand. Certain I was onto something, I began to question the oldest folk I could find on the lanes around the bookshop, and I soon found an old woman, quite blind now but still sharp of wit, who recalled the former proprietor of the shop. She described him as a handsome, elderly man with a white beard, thinning hair, and bright blue eyes.

It was Sarsin, of course. Not the fantastical uncle, but the one and only. Research into the city’s legal records confirmed what by then I already knew. Every fifty years or so, the owner of the Queen’s Shelf “died” and left the shop to his heir. However, though the names changed, the handwriting of the signatures on the deeds was always the same. There was only one answer: The man Sarsin had owned this shop for over a century and a half, and in that time he had not aged a day.

Excited, I reported my findings to Rebecca and Quincy Farris, our superior in the order, and that was when I entered into my first argument with the Seekers, for Farris foolishly decided to approach Sarsin. This was strictly against the First Desideratum, of course; the Nine Desiderata were set down in the Book by the Philosophers, and every Seeker, upon joining the order, swore a Vow to uphold them. However, Farris was an ambitious man–overly so–and no doubt he thought by winning over Sarsin he could seize this finding from me and claim it for his own, thus furthering his rise in the Seekers.

His action had the opposite effect; Farris was stripped of his rank as master and banished from the order. He hanged himself by the neck in a filthy shack in Cheapside a week later. Unfortunately, his death could not undo the damage he had caused, for now Sarsin was alerted to the Seekers, and he would have no conversations with any of us, myself included. The Sarsin case was closed, and all associated documents sealed in the vaults of the Seekers. There they were forgotten–though I did retain a copy of Sarsin’s song for my personal collection. It captured my fancy for a reason I couldn’t quite name, particularly the final verse:

We live our lives a circle,

And wander where we can.

Then after fire and wonder,

We end where we began.

Though Farris’s meddling bungled the case beyond repair, my work in discovering the Sarsin matter did not go unnoticed, and in the summer I was elevated to the rank of master–the same rank as Rebecca, and ahead of Byron, who was still a journeyman, though the good‑natured fellow seemed to hold nothing but genuine satisfaction for me. We celebrated with much ale, and everything in my world was good beyond my dreams. Then, on that dull autumn day in 1679, though I had no way of knowing at the time, the seeds for my undoing were sown.

“I believe you’ll enjoy this particular assignment,” Rebecca said as she tossed me a folded square of parchment. It was the first of October, a thick layer of mist cloaked London, and we had retreated into the warm, crowded interior of a coffeehouse in Covent Garden to escape the chill.

“What is it?” I asked, catching the paper and turning it over. It was sealed with a circle of red wax. Imprinted in the wax was a picture of a hand holding three flames.

“How should I know?” she said, arching an eyebrow. “It’s from the Philosophers themselves.”

Byron leaned over the table, his blue eyes bright. “Go on, Marius. Open it.”

Although I was every bit as eager as Byron, I forced myself to break the seal slowly. I unfolded the letter, then scanned the contents. They were written in a thin, elegant hand.

“What a dreadful burden,” Rebecca crooned in a tragic voice. “You’re to follow a noble lady about town and keep an eye on her. I’ve heard she’s quite lovely. Poor Marius.”

I glared at her over the letter. “Prevaricator. You knew all along what my new assignment was to be.”

Rebecca smirked and sipped her chocolate.

“Following a lovely lady?” Byron said in a wounded voice, reaching for the letter. “Why did I not get this assignment?”

“Because I’m the master,” I said with a laugh and tucked the letter inside my velvet waistcoat before he could snatch it away. I rose. “Now, if you’ll both excuse me, it seems I have work to do.”

Despite my nonchalant air, my heart pounded as I walked from the coffeehouse and turned down a narrow lane. This was my first assignment since being elevated to the level of master in the Seekers, and my first to come directly from the Philosophers themselves. I had expected something interesting, even remarkable, but this surpassed anything I had imagined. And despite her arch manner, I doubted Rebecca knew everything that was contained in the letter.

I was to keep watch on a fairy.

Or a half‑fairy, at least. I ducked into a green, quiet space protected by stone walls: the courtyard of St. Paul’s Church. This was not Christopher Wren’s grand cathedral, which was still under construction. Rather, it was a small church built by Inigo Jones, and to me looked more like a forgotten Greek temple than a Christian holy house. I sat on a bench beneath a drooping wisteria tree to read the letter again.

According to the information the Philosophers had given me, fairies were not mystical creatures that inhabited children’s stories and Shakespearean comedies; instead, they were unearthly beings, born of another world. And while the Philosophers knew of no true fairies on this Earth, they had encountered a few individuals who bore some fraction of fairy blood in their veins.

Who these otherworldly people were and where they could be found, the letter did not say. If the Philosophers knew, they had not deemed it necessary to relate this information. What the letter did say was that there was a young noble lady–one Alis Faraday–who, unbeknownst to herself or her parents, was descended from one of these half fairies. How it could be that the young lady and her parents were unaware of her fantastical heritage was also not explained. All the letter told me was to observe this lady, keeping notes on everything I saw and heard, while adhering to the Desiderata, especially the first: A Seeker shall not interfere with the actions of those of otherwordly nature.

At all costs, the letter closed, this young lady must never learn from you or any Seeker her true nature. For it is the purpose of this study to determine if one of otherwordly nature, who is unaware of this fact about herself, will–through her ownvolition, intuition, and power– come to learn of her unique her itage, or if she can be content to live as any other denizen of this Earth, with no knowledge of her inherent strangeness.

I drew a breath to steady myself, then tucked the letter into my coat and stood up from the bench.

“Be careful, Marius.”

I turned as Rebecca descended several stone steps, into the courtyard. Her gown was a gray so dark it was nearly black; she looked like a mourner, headed to church to weep for one lost.

“Rebecca,” I said, and left it there, for I could think of nothing to say to her. The words of the letter burned in my brain, as if writ there with fire.

She moved under the canopy of the wisteria; the mist had turned to rain. “An assignment from the Philosophers should not be taken lightly. You are no journeyman now. A master may be placed at far more risk. There is peril before you.”

“What risk is there in watching a young lady, Rebecca?”

“I’m not certain.” Her lips formed a sharp smile. “No, Marius, I don’t know all that is contained in that letter–only what the Philosophers relayed to me themselves, and that is little. I have no particular reason to worry for your safety. But guard yourself all the same.”

There was genuine concern in her eyes. However, I was too excited to listen to her words. There was a person in this city with true otherworldly connections, and I was going to observe her. Perhaps, as she discovered her own heritage, I would learn as well–learn things that would help me find a way to another world. For by then I had already determined that I was going to be the first to accomplish what the Seekers had set out to do: to journey to a world other than this Earth. Master Albrecht had warned me not to trust these people, but I knew how I could be certain they would never rule me; I would rule them instead. I was going to be the greatest Seeker the order had ever known.

“Good‑bye, Rebecca,” I said, and hurried from the courtyard.

I began my work that afternoon, examining public records and making inquires about the city–though I was never too direct in my questioning, so as not to draw attention. With little effort I learned that the Faradays were an old, wealthy, and respectable family, if not particularly remarkable in London society. They dwelled in a fine but not opulent house a half mile beyond Nottingham Hall, and less than two miles from the Houses of Parliament. There the current Lord Faraday, William, sat in the House of Lords, the third in his line to do so.

Lady Beatrice Faraday had been born to a less wealthy, but still well‑regarded, family from York. Young Lady Alis, who was in her twenty‑third year, was their only daughter, and was rumored to be quite beautiful, as Rebecca had said, though it seemed she was seldom seen outside the family’s home.

That was going to make things difficult. How was I to observe her if she never left her home? As I sat in a tavern that night, letting the ale I had ordered languish, I unfolded the letter from the Philosophers. However, despite much rereading, the letter contained no more clues, and I was not going to go to the Philosophers to beg for help on my first assignment as a master.

With nothing else I could do, I rose the next morning and put on my finest clothes, gathering my blond hair into a ribbon in the current fashion so that I might pass for one of London’s many fine young lords. Of course, that would not be a complete fraud, for I wasa lord. Madstone Hall was mine, though I thought of it seldom, and while I had not been born a noble, by Master Albrecht’s dying hand I had been made one, and in truth the look suited me.

I hired the finest stallion I could find, though the beast was nothing compared to my old horse Hermes, and rode out past Whitehall, trading the gray air of the city for sun and blue sky.

After asking directions of a band of workmen, I found my way to the Faraday estate, which lay down a lane bordered by tall hedgerows. It was not so grand as Madstone Hall, being rather squat and square in the Tudor style, but it looked comfortable, nestled between a grove of ash and beech on one side and a pond on the other.

I dismounted and approached the iron gate, which was closed, refining my story in my head: how I was a young lord from Scotland visiting family in London, and while out riding I had lost my way, and so required directions for the way back to Whitehall. I hoped the steward of the house would be polite enough to invite me in for a refreshment, and I would gain a glimpse, perhaps in a portrait, of young Lady Alis. I reached up to ring the bell hanging on the gate.

“Good day, my lord.”

I nearly leaped out of my boots. Seldom could a person come upon me unawares, but so intent had I been on my plan that I had not heard as someone approached me from behind. I turned on a heel, and at once my apprehension vanished. It was simply an old woman, clad in a servant’s frock. There was nothing remarkable about her, save that her green eyes were bright and her wrinkled cheeks as red as apples.

“Is there something I can do for you, my lord?” She drew closer, holding a covered basket.

I gave her a simplified version of my story; there was no need to explain myself to a servant. She nodded, listening to my tale, then smiled.

“I can give you directions back to Whitehall easily enough, my lord.”

A coldness descended in my chest. This would not do. I needed to gain entrance to the manor, in hopes of seeing a painting of Alis Faraday. I had to know what she looked like. Before I could speak, she went on.

“But are you certain it is not directions to Westminster Abbey you would rather have, my lord?”

“Westminster Abbey?” I said. “Why should I ride there?”

“Why, to gain a look at young Lady Alis, of course.”

I felt my face blanch, and a sickness filled me. How could this old woman know of my true purpose there? It seemed impossible, but if she did, then I was already ruined.

She clucked her tongue. “Now there, my lord, no need to fear. You’re hardly the first young man who’s ridden to the gate hoping for a glimpse of Lord Faraday’s daughter. Surely you didn’t dress so finely simply for a ride in the country! But you’ll not find Lady Alis here this morning.”

What a fool I was. Of course this old woman knew nothing of my purpose there. She had simply assumed, and not so far from the truth. However, I saw no reason to correct her.

“And where might one find Lady Alis on a morning such as this?”

“I’ve already told you, my lord, and more than I should have. But I daresay you have a different look about you than the other young men who come to call.” Her green eyes grew sharp. “Quite different indeed.”

I had no notion what her words meant, but I realized the woman had indeed told me where to go.

“How shall I know her?”

The old servingwoman laughed. “A beautiful young noble‑woman should not be difficult to pick out from the crowd, my lord. Then again, one cannot always trust one’s eyes.” She opened the gate a fraction, slipped through, and shut it behind her.

“Please,” I said, gripping the bars, not knowing what else to say.

Again the old woman’s gaze grew sharp, and after a moment she nodded. “She favors the sun in the Cloisters.”

It was midday when I reached Westminster Abbey.

I straightened my coat as I passed through the western doors, into the long hall of the nave. Columns soared to the arched ceiling high above, and despite the urgency of my quest I was forced to pause and gaze upward. It is the purpose of grand churches to inspire awe, to make one believe there is something beyond the world of men.

Indeed there was something beyond it, and that was why I was here. I lowered my gaze and moved on. Although a hush was on the air, the nave was a busy place, filled with clergymen, sightseers just in from the country, and city folk who lingered in niches and alcoves, beneath some marble saint or king, to light a candle and speak a silent prayer.

There were many ladies about the nave; so many, in fact, that the swish of their gowns murmured off the stone walls like the whispered chants of monks. I watched them surreptitiously as I moved past, paying attention to those ladies whose gowns and refined air indicated a noble heritage. Some of them were pretty enough, but none seemed out of the ordinary, and all were more interested in showing off their clothes and flirting with their male companions than in paying reverence at the shrine of any ancient ruler or goodly martyr.

I moved through the sanctuary, and the Henry VII Chapel, and the quiet solitude of the Chapter House, where rays of light–infused with color by stained glass–scattered the floor like a ransom of jewels. It was only when I caught a glimpse of green through a doorway that I recalled the old servingwoman’s words. I hurried out the door, into the open courtyard in the midst of the Cloisters.

The Cloisters were neither so grand nor so crowded as the nave. I prowled along the covered walkways that surrounded the square lawn, but the only women I saw whose mode of dress marked them as noble were a group of gray‑haired ladies who appeared to be on a tour of the crypts, and I wondered if they were perhaps shopping for a future abode. Weary of walking, I halted and leaned against a column.

“Excuse me, but you’re standing on Sir Talbot.”

It took me a moment to see her, for she was quite plain. Her gray dress blended with the stone wall against which she sat, and I could barely see her face for the shadow of a serviceable– but far from fashionable–bonnet. Several sheaves of parchment rested on her lap, and her hands were smudged with charcoal. I took her for one of the abbey’s servants, though why she was resting there, and why she would so boldly speak to one who was clearly her better, astonished me.

“I said you’re standing on Sir Talbot. He doesn’t like that at all. It would be kind if you moved at once.”

I glanced down. Beneath my boots was a slab of marble covering a crypt. The floor of the abbey was so thick with grave‑stones that one thought nothing of walking over them. Like many, this stone was worn by the passage of countless feet, and I could not make out the name carved upon it. However, in deference to the peculiar request, I moved a step to the next crypt over.

“Very well.” The young woman in gray nodded. “Lady Ackroyd believes you have a decent look about you. She does not mind if you linger a while on her stone.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” I said. On second consideration, she was not a servant. Her manner of speech was anything but coarse, and her clothes, though plain, were finely made. Perhaps she was the daughter of a successful tradesman, I thought. My innocence then astounds me now. “So tell me, do you often speak with those who have departed this world?”

“I don’t speak with them.” Her tone was scandalized. “Our Lord would never allow such an unholy mingling of realms. Rather, it’s just that . . .”

“Just what?” I said, curious despite myself.

“It’s just that I know what they would have wished in life,” she finished. “It’s a dreadful fancy, I know. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have told you. Good day.”

She bowed her head, and I knew I should return to the nave. The day had turned gray and cold, and the old woman at the Faraday estate had said Alis enjoyed sun. I would not find her out here. All the same, I found myself hesitating.

“I find I’m actually rather weary,” I said. “Do you think Lady Ackroyd would mind if I departed her stone and instead took a place on the bench next to you?”

The young woman tilted her head, then nodded. “She does not mind at all.”

I sat down beside her. At once I regretted it, for I had no idea what to say. “What are those?” I blurted the first thing that came to mind, pointing to the sheaves on her lap.

She flipped through the papers. Names and dates were outlined on them in charcoal. “They’re rubbings. I make them from the tombs inside the abbey. Did you know Chaucer is buried here at Westminster?” She pulled out one of the papers. “Here is the rubbing of his crypt.”

Her face was alight with excitement, and I saw that her clothes had misled me, for she was not nearly so plain as I had thought. Her features were finely wrought, her complexion moon‑pale, and her blue eyes bright and absent of guile.

“Charming,” I said, not looking at the rubbing.

“You’re too polite,” she said, folding the paper, bowing her head.

I laughed. “I don’t believe I’ve ever been accused of that before.”

She did not look up, but I saw a smile flit across her pink lips. “My father says it is a foolish pastime. He says if I applied as much effort to gaining the society of the living as the deceased, I should be well married by now.”

I felt my smile fading. “And what do you say?”

“I say nothing, of course. He is my father. But in my heart I feel it is only right that I make my society here. After all, I shall–” She bit her lower lip, silencing herself.

A breath of understanding escaped me. Her pale skin, her bright eyes, her slender fingers–these things were not due simply to youthful beauty.

“Are you very ill then?” I said.

She tucked a stray lock of hair, dark as shadows, into her bonnet. “The doctors cannot say. I have been frail ever since I was a child, and they feared I should never reach sixteen. But now I am twenty‑three. So you see? There is cause for hope, and perhaps my father is right after all.” She set the papers on the ground. “Now you must tell me, sir, what has brought you to the abbey today?”

I looked out across the Cloisters. “I came looking for someone who is said to often be here, but I haven’t found her.”

“I am often here myself. Perhaps you can tell me what this individual looks like, and I can say if I have ever seen her.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know what she looks like.”

“Well, that makes it more of a feat, doesn’t it?”

“Indeed it does. But I was given to understand she liked sitting here in the sun.”

“Well, then I fear I shall never have seen her. For I prefer days such as this.” She drew in a breath. “The fog is so soft. It’s the gentlest thing.”

I smiled. “I’ve always liked fog myself, but for different reasons. I favor the way fog conceals one. It’s secret, private.”

“I see. So you’re a man of secrets. And here I thought you might favor me with your name.”

“But that’s no secret,” I said, and I told her my full name, for there was no cause not to do so.

“That is a most auspicious appellation.”

I raised an eyebrow. “How so?”

“Albrecht–it comes from Adalbrecht, I am sure, which means ‘Brightly Noble.’ And Marius Lucius means ‘Warrior of Light.’ ”

A shiver passed through me. “You know much.”

“No, I cannot claim so. But I read a good deal when I was young, on days when I could not go out, of which there were a great number. One picks up many odd facts and notions reading books.”

“I daresay.”

The bells of the abbey began to toll, and pigeons rose up, vanishing into the gray sky.

“I must go,” she said, rising and gathering her things.

I rose as well. “May I offer you any assistance?”

She shook her head, holding an armful of papers. “You are too kind, Mr. Albrecht. But I am well. My father’s man will be waiting for me out front with the coach.”

A coach? Clearly her father was quite well‑to‑do. I bowed to her, and only as she started away did I realize I had not gotten her name. I called this fact out to her, and she halted in a doorway, glancing back.

“My name is Alis,” she said with a smile. “Good day, Mr. Albrecht.”

And as I stared, jaw agape, she vanished into the church.

A mistake–I had made a terrible mistake. But how could I have known? Her manner had been refined, if peculiar, but her dress had been completely at odds with her status. Besides, the old woman had said she favored sun. Had that wretched beldam tricked me deliberately?

It didn’t matter; none of it did. This was only the first day of my investigation, and already I had broken the First and the Third Desiderata. Surely, once the Philosophers found out what I had done, I was to be expelled from the Seekers.

That night I encountered Byron at the pub, and he inquired after my evident misery. I knew there was no point dissembling, though I didn’t dare tell him all the facts contained in the letter from the Philosophers. As I hunched over a cup, I related what I could–how I had inadvertently made my presence known to the young woman I was to watch.

“Well, it does sound like you’ve made quite a mess of things,” Byron said with a laugh. “That’s quite unlike you, Marius. I wonder what set you so off your game?”

A good question, and one I could not answer.

“Well, as I’ve always held,” Byron went on, “in for a penny, in for a pound. There’s no way to undo what’s done, so you might as well take what good there is in it.”

“What do you mean?” My mind was too hazed from regret and rum to understand him.

“If you can’t watch from afar, then watch from nearby. Use your acquaintance with your subject to your advantage. Get close to this person, become a friend, a confidant. What better way can you discover what you’ve been sent to learn?”

“But what of the Desiderata?”

“What of them?” Byron said with a shrug. “From what you’ve told me, your quarry addressed you first. You simply played along so as not to call attention to yourself. That’s hardly what I’d call interference. In fact, it seems you behaved in quite a sensible manner.”

Leave it to Byron to transform foolery into heroism, but perhaps he was onto something. After all, I had made an acquaintance with the bookseller Sarsin quite by accident, and the Philosophers had rewarded me for my work on that case. Why should this be any different? Alis Faraday had chosen to approach me, and as I was bound not to interfere with her actions, what choice did I have but to play along? And if she was to catch sight of me again, I would have to continue the charade. Of course, my manner must remain neutral, never leading her one way or another. But I could not imagine a better way to determine her thoughts, her perceptions, her feelings–to see if she had any developing cognizance at all of her unusual nature.

I clapped Byron on the shoulder. “Bless you, Byron. You’ve saved me.”

“Then the least you can do is buy me an ale,” he said, and I did.

I rode to Westminster Abbey on the next foggy day and found her, again in a gray dress, sitting in the Cloisters.

“There you are,” she said, looking up from a lapful of papers. “I confess, I doubted the veracity of her admonitions. However, Lady Ackroyd warranted you’d be back.”

“Proving herself a most wise old dame,” I said with a bow, and to my delight she laughed, a sound as high and pure as church bells on a winter’s night.

“Would you like to make a rubbing?” she asked, holding up a piece of paper and a lump of charcoal.

“You’ll have to show me how.” I took her hand–so tiny it was all but lost inside my own–as she rose from the bench.

We spent the afternoon in the abbey’s nave, choosing the most interesting and obscure crypts. I would press the paper over the crypt stone, and Alis would scrub the charcoal over the paper, and carved words and drawings that had been too timeworn to make out appeared on the paper as if by magic. Alis laughed often, and each time the sound was every bit as enchanting as the first time I heard it. Passing clergymen would stare at us, kneeling together on the floor, but I would clasp my hands as they went by, mimicking a prayerful pose. How could they argue with piousness?

“Who’s next?” I would say once they had passed, and Alis would lead us to another crypt stone.

Soon enough, however, even that simple activity fatigued her. Her skin seemed to grow translucent, and her hand shook as she made the last rubbing. When she was done, I carefully folded the paper, helped her to her feet, and led her to a bench near Chaucer’s tomb.

“I am fine,” she said when I inquired after her well‑being. “Truly. I’ve laughed so much today, I simply need to catch my breath, that’s all.”

I nodded, and could not help notice that the shadows beneath her blue eyes only accentuated their brightness.

“I was weaker as a girl,” she said, “before my family moved out to the country beyond Whitehall.”

“Perhaps it’s the city air that troubles you,” I said. “To be certain, it’s thick with soot and other foul humors.”

“Perhaps,” she said, though she shook her head. “The city is very great, and very loud, and filled with new contraptions. Wheels and gears and pulleys, all grinding away. I feel as if they’re all pressing in on me sometimes. Were it not for the abbey, I doubt I would come to London at all.” She smiled at me. “But I am glad I did so today.”

“There,” I said. “You look better already.”

“The rest has restored me greatly. And no doubt Sadie will brew me one of her teas this evening.”

I inquired politely and soon ascertained this Sadie was a servant, and one with the old woman I had met at the gates of the Faraday estate. She seemed to be something of an herbalist, and had given Alis teas to ease her discomfort and lend her strength since she was a child.

The bells tolled again, and it was time for her to go. I was pleased when she leaned on my arm instead of the iron railing as we descended the steps before the abbey. Below, her family’s carriage waited. She started toward it, then paused to look at me.

“What are you, Mr. Albrecht?”

The directness of her words, and of her blue eyes, startled me. Had she suspected something of my true nature? “As I’ve said, Miss Faraday, I am visiting from Scotland, and–”

“Yes, Mr. Albrecht, you’ve told me your story.” She smiled. “And I daresay you know all about me already, for there’s little worth investigating there–one more silly nobleman’s daughter in a country full of them. In our meetings I have divined that you are kind and generous, that your wit, for all its gentle courtesy, has teeth, and that you have a goodly face. But I still have no idea whatyou are.”

Her expression was beguiled, not accusing; she did not suspect. With a deep bow I said, “I am, my lady, your servant.”

That response won me a bright laugh, and I stood on the steps, gazing at the street, long after the carriage had disappeared.

We met often after that, and not always at the abbey. Despite her delicate constitution, her spirit was strong, and she was always ready for an adventure. We went boating on the river, and strolled around the Tower of London as she told tales of kings and queens who had met ill ends within, and sat for hours watching as the builders worked on Christopher Wren’s new cathedral.

“It shall be finer than Westminster when it is done,” I said.

She shook her head. “The crypts will not be old. There will be nothing to make rubbings of. How shall we bother the priests?”

“I’ve heard Wren’s made a gallery, high inside the new dome, where one’s whispers run along the curve of the wall to a listener’s ear clear on the other side, over a hundred feet away.”

She clapped her hands. “I should like to see that very much.”

“Then you shall.”

“But only if I–” She turned away. “How long do you think it will be before the cathedral is completed?”

I could see the blue lines of veins tracing down her slender neck, toward a shadow at the hollow of her throat. “You shall see the Whispering Gallery, Miss Faraday. I promise you.”

She turned back, smiling now. “Well, if Lord Albrecht promises it, then it will be so.” She laid her hand over mine, and I smiled as well, and all thoughts of shadows were forgotten.

Our affection was limited to such innocent physical gestures as this. Always when we met it was in a public place, and one of her father’s men was nearby, so no impropriety could be claimed on any part. Apparently the reports that reached the Faraday estate were favorable, for I was soon invited to dine with the family.

“My agents tell me Madstone Hall is a fine manor in the county of Midlothian,” Lord Faraday said as we gathered in the hall after dinner. He was a handsome, white‑haired man, hale throughout most of his life, but lately troubled by gout. He sat with his bandaged foot propped up on a stool. “The estate is not overly large, I am told, but well situated, and yielding a good income.”

So he had made some inquiries. I could hardly blame him. From her chair across the hall, Alis gave me a pained look, obviously embarrassed by her father’s scrutiny, but I smiled.

“It is a good estate,” I said.

“And why have you come to London?” Lady Faraday said, looking up from her embroidery.

“I can tell you that,” Lord Faraday interjected. “These days, what young northern lord would not wish to better his connections in the south by a visit to London? Am I right, Mr. Albrecht?”

In a way, he was–I had indeed come seeking connections, though not any he could imagine–so I simply nodded.

“Miss Faraday has two brothers, one studying to be a barrister, and the other at sea. The eldest shall inherit everything. I fear there will be nothing for her after I am gone, excepting a small dowry. She will have little to offer save her good name.”

“I would say she has much more to offer than that.” I gazed across the hall, and my smile vanished. Alis sagged in her chair, her hand to her brow. I hurried over to her.

“It is nothing,” she said in protest. “A headache, that’s all.”

“Go fetch Sadie at once,” Lady Faraday said to one of the servants. “Tell her Miss Faraday needs her tea.”

I took my leave of the family, and despite her pain Alis managed a smile, while Lord Faraday shook my hand firmly and insisted upon my swift return to dine with them again.

Thus began my fall in earnest. I need not go into great length over my descent. Know only that as snow blanketed the countryside and Christmas neared, I loved her. I loved her truly, with all my being. While sometimes at night, alone in my bed, I would lie awake, thinking of the Desiderata and dreading the wrath of the Seekers, when I was with her such thoughts were driven from my mind. I could think only of her finespun beauty, her angelic voice, and her peculiar variety of humor and liveliness, which never failed to brighten my spirits on the darkest winter days.

“So who is she?” Rebecca said on one of the rare occasions when we dined together. Of late I had seen her little, for she had been absorbed in her own investigations for the Seekers.

“I beg your pardon?” I said, looking up from my wine.

“Who is she?” Rebecca repeated. “The woman you’re in love with.”

I stared, and she laughed.

“Come, now, Marius, don’t deny that you’re in love. I know what it looks like on you. I saw it once myself, though not so dewy‑eyed as this, I must say. She’s absolutely turned your head. Who is she?”

“No one,” I said. “It’s a passing thing. I have no time for such fancies.”

Rebecca coiled a hand beneath her chin. “If you say so, Marius,” though she appeared anything but convinced. “Now tell me, how is your current research going?”

I spoke briefly, in a detached manner, and I offered no particulars. Everything would be in my reports, and if the Philosophers wished Rebecca to know the details, then she would have read them. Despite being madly in love, I had managed to write regular missives to the Philosophers, describing how Alis suspected nothing of her heritage, how she was usually intelligent and sensitive, as well as bold and inquisitive, though of a fragile constitution, which prevented her from engaging in travel and other activities that might have helped reveal her nature.

As for replies and further directives from the Philosophers, I received none. I was on my own. Thus there was no one to catch me as I fell.

I saw her most days, and if a day did pass when I failed to walk with her in Westminster Abbey, or ride out to the Faraday estate, then my mood was bleak and oppressive, and so it would remain until next I saw her.

For her part, Alis seemed to enjoy all my attentions, which only encouraged me further, as did the apparent approval of Lord Faraday, who found my position and respectable manner more than acceptable. And Lady Faraday–propelled, perhaps, by a bit too much wine–proclaimed at dinner one night that surely I was the most handsome and agreeable young man she had ever met.

Alis, of course, was duly embarrassed by her mother’s outburst, though the blush that touched her cheeks made her all the more lovely–like a rose so near to white that the palest tincture of its petals, once detected, rendered it more striking than the most vivid flower.

“What’s the matter?” I murmured, when we were gathered in the hall after supper, bending over the back of her chair where she sat with a book. “Do you not agree with your mother that I am the most handsome and agreeable young man she ever met?”

“Without doubt,” Alis said crisply. “But Lady Faraday is already spoken for, so I’m afraid you’re quite out of luck in that regard.”

“Then I’ll just have to make do with her fair daughter.”

Alis bent back over her book, but not before she could conceal the smile on her lips.

As weeks passed, the Seekers seemed content to leave me to my own devices, even as the length and frequency of my reports to the Philosophers dwindled. Every day I become further ensconced in the Faraday household. My life on the streets of Edinburgh seemed more than a lifetime away, and I felt a deep certainty that Master Albrecht would be pleased for me–that this was what he had meant when he said he wished for me to live my life.

There was only one thing that marred my happiness: As my feelings for Alis grew stronger, she herself was growing weaker.

One day in February, when the unusually balmy weather emboldened us to stroll in the little wilderness outside the Faraday manor, Alis suddenly slumped against me, and when I lifted her into my arms she was as light and trembling as a bird.

“It’s nothing,” she protested. “All I need is to rest for a moment. You may put me down, Lord Albrecht.”

“I will not,” I said, and carried her into the house.

By the time we reached the hall, her protests had ceased, and her trembling had become a violent spasm. She was cold, and her eyes hazed with pain. I set her on a couch and duly retreated to the far end of the hall as Lady Faraday and a swarm of servants descended upon her. It was best for me to stay out of the way, though I wanted nothing more than to be at her side, to hold her hand, and to take away her pain–as if I actually had some power to do so.

She let out a moan, and I clenched my hands into fists. Words escaped me. “I cannot bear this.”

“ ’Tis she who cannot bear it,” a soft voice said.

I turned and found I was not alone in the shadows at the end of the hall. An old woman dressed all in gray stood in a doorway, a weary look on her face. It was Sadie, Alis’s beloved servant.

“You’re right, of course,” I said, cheeks afire with shame. “I should be stronger, for her sake.”

The old woman laughed. “You help her more than you know.”

“Not as you do. They tell me you brew teas that ease her pain.”

“And love eases pain that teas help not.”

I sighed. “Would that I knew what afflicted her. If I did, then I would take it away. I would make her as strong in body as she is in spirit.”

The old woman’s gaze moved across the hall. “It runs more truly in some. ’Tis their blessing, and their curse, for they feel all things more keenly.” Her green eyes turned to me. “Yet in the end, all such folk will feel the same burden.”

These words sent a chill through me, though I did not understand them. Or did I?

“You know something,” I said, moving closer to her. “That’s how you can help her as you do. Tell me, please, what’s wrong with her?”

“Nothing is wrong with her. ’Tis the world that’s wrong. This Earth. ’Tis harming her as it harms all like her. In the end it shall be too great. It cannot be defeated.”

I staggered. These words were a knife to my heart. At last I managed to speak. “That day I first came to the gates, you said she favored sun. But I found her in fog.”

“Favors it, yes. But bears it? Not well, I fear. Not well at all. It burns her, the sun of this world. She is like a figment born of the night mists, one that can only vanish in the light of dawn.”

A sickness filled me. I had taken her outside because the day was fine. What a fool I was! What a miserable fool. Yet despite my agitation I felt a spark of curiosity, and for the first time in many days I remembered I was a Seeker. Who was this old woman? How did she know such things?

“I must go make Miss Faraday’s tea,” Sadie said, and before I could speak she turned and vanished through the doorway.

Alis was soon resting comfortably, and I made my farewell, which she was too weary to protest. When I returned the next morning she was sitting up in bed, and the day after that I found her wrapped in a blanket in a chair in the hall. She continued to grow stronger, even as outside the weather turned chill and gloomy, wet with the rains of March.

All the while, I could not forget the words spoken by Sadie. Did she know something of Alis’s true nature? I had not gained another opportunity to speak to the old servingwoman, but all the same I was sure of it.

This world. It’s harming her, as it harms all like her. . . .

Were there others in London like Alis? If so, perhaps they would know a way to help her.

A scheme came to me. I knew it was an utter violation of the Desiderata to do what I intended, but I hardly cared. Damn the Seekers to hell, and damn the Philosophers with them. Alis was not a thing to be watched: an insect to be caught in a jar and observed as it perished. I would find others like her, and I would make them help her.

Except, even as I began my search, I said nothing of it to Alis; I gave no hint that might reveal her true nature to her. Was this some concession to the Seekers still? Or perhaps I only wished to protect her from knowledge that would trouble her already frail health.

Even I did not know the reason, for by then a madness had begun to come over me. I could not eat, I could not sleep. I could do nothing but think of Alis and search for those like her, those who could help her.

I passed my days with Alis as before, but now by night I descended into the vaults beneath the Seeker Charterhouse, as though I were a ghoul again–just like in Edinburgh as a boy, when I slept in the family crypt of the Gilroys. Only I did not come to these vaults to rest, but instead to work, and I did so feverishly, poring over old books, sifting through stacks of crackling parchments whose faded words I strained to read even in the light of a dozen candles. As a master, nothing in the library of the Seekers was forbidden to me; surely I would find some answers there. After all, the Philosophers had to know something about those of fairy heritage, else they would never have given me the assignment to observe Alis.

I was right. After many nights of searching I came upon a missive. It was addressed to the Philosophers, though it was unsigned. But no doubt they had known who it came from, and the information in it fascinated me even as it chilled my blood.

The missive spoke of a tavern–though it gave neither name nor location for this establishment– describing it as a place where those with “most peculiar and unearthly heritage” often gathered in secret. How the author of the missive came to know of this place, he did not write, but it became plain as I read that the patrons of this tavern were like Alis: people with the blood of fairies in their veins.

The missive was maddening in its brevity, but after many nights of searching I discovered a box lost in a corner, and in it found many more letters, all unsigned, but written in the same slanted hand as the first. I read them all, and by the time the candles were burned to stumps I knew not everything I wished to, but much all the same.

To be a fairy on this mundane Earth was an agony that could not long be borne; such an ethereal creature would soon perish here. Those who possessed some measure of fairy heritage also inherited this affliction, though to a lesser degree. To dwell on this world for such a person was often painful, though not always fatal, and the folk of the tavern had created various remedies that eased their suffering.

That was it–that was the knowledge I needed–though I was still frustrated by the anonymous author’s lack of detail as to the name and location of this tavern. The final missive began to glow in my hands as a shaft of gold light fell upon it. I looked up at a window, high in the wall of the vault; it was bright with the dawn. A new day had come, and hope with it. I spirited the letters back into their hiding place, then ascended the stone steps that led from the vaults, back to the world of the living.

“Hello there, Marius,” Byron said. He was sitting in the hall of the Charterhouse, a book and a cup of tea on the table before him. “So was it a long night at the pub, then? Forgive my saying so, but you look absolutely wretched.”

I lifted a hand to my temple, only realizing then how it throbbed. Lately, I had begun having frequent headaches. But it was only from the long nights of research, and what did I care anyway? This pain was nothing next to what Alis suffered.

“I must away,” I said.

“Nonsense, Marius.” Byron pushed aside his book. “Come, sit with me and have a cup. It’ll do you good.”

I shook my head. “I have things . . . I must away.” And before Byron could protest further, I was out the door of the Charterhouse.

I believed I would tell Alis everything that night–about myself and the Seekers, and about her own true nature. Only I didn’t. She was too weary, and I was weary as well from so many sleepless nights spent in the Seekers’ vaults. Nor did I tell her the next morning, or the morning after that. I remained silent, and each day her face grew paler, though if possible more lovely.

She was stronger some days than others, and on the Ides of March, on a fine spring afternoon, we at last ventured together to London’s new cathedral, St. Paul’s.

The old St. Paul’s, after much abuse and several attempts at restoration, had perished in the great London fire of 1666, and Christopher Wren had been commissioned to erect a replacement. By the look of things, Wren had much work left to do, for the cathedral was far from completed. The earth was open and raw all around, and much of the structure was no more than a stone skeleton cocooned by scaffolding. However, the dome, while not completely faced, soared toward the sky.

“I imagine you can see the whole world from up there,” Alis said, eyes shining, as I helped her down from the carriage.

I laughed. “Perhaps not the whole world, but certainly much of London at least.”

“No, it cannot be so. It is far too lofty to afford such a mundane view. It would show one the whole world.” She gazed up at the dome. “Though I suppose I shall never know.”

A solemnity came over me, and I took her hand in mine. “Yes you will, Miss Faraday. You shall see it with your own eyes.”

We found the man who was directing the construction that day, and after a small amount of persuasion and a sizable private donation we were allowed in for a tour of the cathedral. Even in its incomplete state, it impressed us with its grace and grandeur. It was as light and airy inside as Westminster was heavy and dim.

“I cannot imagine I shall ever get all the way up there,” Alis said, craning her slender neck to gaze at the dome high above.

“There is no need to imagine it,” I said, “for we are going now.” And I whisked her toward a side door before she had any chance to protest.

The steps up to the dome numbered in the hundreds, and she walked only a dozen or two on her own. I carried her the rest of the way, and though my arms soon ached, as did my head, my burden was not so great, for she seemed to weigh even less than the last time I had carried her. We soon reached the first way station, the Stone Gallery, where we were able to exit onto a narrow balcony and gaze out over the city.

“You’re right,” she said, laughing, cheeks flushed with excitement. “It’s only London I see, though it’s a marvelous sight.”

I clucked my tongue. “Nonsense, my lady. It is you who were correct. For there, to the north, just beside that foggy patch, I can see my manor in Scotland. And there to the west, if you squint just so, you can make out a glint of light. That’s the glass isle where King Arthur is buried. And beyond that, you can look all the way to the colonies in America. It’s the whole world, just as you said, right there before you.”

“The whole world,” she murmured, clutching my arm. “I do see it, Marius, I do.”

We stayed there until the cool spring wind chilled her, then went back in through a little door and resumed our climb. After one last effort, we came to an inner balcony, ringed by a stone balustrade, nestled within the base of the dome itself. There we could look down at the workmen far below, moving about like ants.

“Forgive me, but I must rest,” Alis said, though she had walked but a few steps herself from the Stone Gallery.

I sat her on a bench, then moved around the gallery to the far side. If what I had heard was true, this was the gallery where, if one murmured against the wall, a listener a hundred feet across the gallery would hear even the softest words.

I sat on the bench and turned my face to the wall, so she could not see my lips. “I love you, Lady Alis Faraday,” I whispered against the curved stones. “Be with me. Always.”

Across the gallery, she leaned against the wall. I moved my ear close to the stones. Had it worked? I waited for her reply, but I heard nothing save a whirring of air. So it was only a story, then. She had not heard me after all. And perhaps it was just as well. Perhaps it was best if–

Soft but clear, as if she were whispering right into my ear, I heard her voice. “Marius . . . help me.”

I pulled my ear from the wall and stood. She gazed at me from across the gallery, her blue eyes wide. The front of her white gown was dotted with crimson.

I careened around the gallery to her. Blood gushed from her nose, and she had been unable to staunch it with her handkerchief, which was soaked red. I pulled a cloth from my coat–the silvery one I had taken from my mother, and which I had carried with me all these years–and it seemed to draw the blood into itself, while somehow remaining unstained. She held it to her nose, and the flow of blood soon ceased. However, she had lost much, and her cheeks where white as marble.

“Forgive me, Marius.”

“Hush,” I said, and took her into my arms.

I felt no ache, no weariness despite the hundreds of steps I carried her down. I had to get her to the Faraday estate as quickly as possible. When we reached the coach, I was startled to see one of Lord Faraday’s men, Albert, standing there and talking to the driver, who pointed in our direction. Had he heard what had happened? Except that was impossible. It was well over an hour by carriage to the Faraday estate.

“Miss Faraday,” Albert said, astonishment on his face, “are you well?”

She waved a hand. “It is nothing, Albert. I’m very well.” Indeed, she was standing on her own now, and did seem a bit stronger.

“Why have you come?” I asked the servant.

His face was grim. “I bear ill news, I fear. Lord Faraday would have spared your learning of it until you arrived home, Miss Faraday, but Lady Faraday insisted you must know at once, seeing as how you loved her so dearly.”

Alis’s expression was hazed with pain and confusion. “What do you mean, Albert? What should I know?”

“It’s Sadie, Miss Faraday,” the man said. “I’m sorry to tell you, but she passed away this morning.”

“Oh,” Alis said softly, and fainted.

That night I continued my search for those like Alis with redoubled urgency, for Sadie’s death had struck her both in body and spirit.

It had been sudden. The old servingwoman had collapsed in the garden while gathering herbs; by the time others reached her she was already gone. Alis was in great distress. Her nose began to bleed again. The doctor was sent for, and she was confined to her bed.

I doubted the doctor could do anything for her, save to leech her of more blood, so I spoke to the servants, seeing if one of them could brew a tea for Alis as Sadie always had. Only none of them knew what Sadie had put in her teas. Fear struck me, but I willed myself to think clearly. Were there not others who knew how to fashion restoratives for those of otherworldly nature? And indeed, how had Sadie known to make such brews herself? Surely she had been familiar with the folk of the tavern I had read about in the letters.

Taking my leave of the Faradays, I rode hard back to London, to the Seeker Charterhouse. I went directly to the door to the vaults, and though the headache came upon me again as soon as I fit the iron key in the lock, I ignored the pain and dashed down the stairs. I had to read the letters again, to see if they held any clues I had overlooked. Burning as if with fever, I went to the corner where I had found them and had hidden them again.

The letters were gone.

I searched for a frantic hour, overturning boxes and shelves, but it was no use. I had tucked the box of letters into a niche in the wall, behind the shelf where I had first come upon them. The corner was dim; there was no way another could have known the letters were there.

Unless, of course, they had been watching me.

But why would someone remove the letters? Without them, how was I to find the tavern they described, and the folk who could help Alis? A despair came over me, black and depthless, and I staggered up the stairs. I had to go back to her. It was all I could think to do.

“Where are you off to so late, Marius?”

I reeled around. The front hall of the Charterhouse was dim, lit only by a few candles; I had not seen her there, sitting in a chair near the door.

“Rebecca,” I said, and could think of nothing more to add.

She coiled a hand beneath her chin. “You look all in a hurry. Is it heryou’re off to see, then? This woman you so adore?”

I could only stare at her.

“Are you well, Marius?” A light shone in her eyes; it wasn’t quite concern. “I say, you look positively ill. You haven’t had a lover’s quarrel, now have you?”

I staggered, a hand to my brow, and she rose swiftly, catching my arm, steadying me.

“I’m sorry, Rebecca,” I gasped. “I must go to her.”

She did not let go of my arm. “So it is indeed the one you love whom you go to. But you have yet to tell me who she is. Come–give me her name. We shared a bed once, Marius. Surely you owe me that at least.”

Her eyes were hard, her fingers dug into my flesh, and a low sound of suffering escaped me. “No,” I whispered. “Please. I must not . . .”

“By the gods, it’s her, isn’t it?” Rebecca’s face drew close to mine, white and cold as a moon. Her mouth twisted in disgust, and in triumph. “I had suspected it, only I didn’t wish to believe it was true, but it is. You love her, Marius, don’t you? The woman you were sent to watch and observe–Lady Alis Faraday.”

Now it was I who clutched at her. “Please, Rebecca. Do not tell them, I beg you. Do not tell the Philosophers.”

She disengaged herself from me. “You pitiable fool.”

I staggered back, gaping at her.

“It is over, Marius,” she said, her voice cool with detachment. “Do not return to the vaults. You will not find what you seek there.”

“You,” I gasped, but horror constricted my throat, and I could say no more. I pushed past her, running out the door and into the night, weaving the darkness around me with my old, familiar skill.

Only it did not matter. I could not hide from them. Their golden eyes pierced any gloom. Rebecca would tell them what I had done, if she had not already. She had been watching me; she had taken the letters. But she had not taken my will to help Alis. I would find a way, with or without the Seekers.

However, that proved harder than even I imagined. They would not allow me near the Faraday estate. I went the next morning, just after dawn, and a trio of Seekers accosted me before I could approach the gate. Richard Mayburn was among them, and Byron.

“Go back, Marius,” he said, his voice uncharacteristically stern. “You are not to try coming here again.” Then, in a lower voice, he said, “Please, Marius, listen to me. I know you cannot see it now, but this is for the best. Truly it is.”

“What do you know of what’s best?” I spat, breaking free of their grip and vanishing into the morning fog.

That evening I attempted stealth, thinking I could easily creep past them. I had performed similar feats countless times as a boy in Edinburgh. However, either my powers of concealment had fled me, or the Seekers possessed some uncanny ability to see through the shadows I wove about myself. I could not get past them.

Defeated, I returned to my house in the city, reasoning that the Faradays would soon come looking for me. However, days passed without any sign of them, and in time I learned that Byron had gone to Lord Faraday, posing as my representative and saying that I had been recalled to Scotland on sudden business, and would not be returning in the foreseeable future. I cursed the Seekers; they thought of everything.

However, I could be resourceful as well, and though I was being kept from Alis, I could help her yet. I began to make inquiries, venturing into the darkest neighborhoods of the city, asking about taverns that folk frequented, and if there were any that were unusual in some way. This line of investigation revealed nothing, save the locations of some of the most sordid drinking houses in all of London.

Just when hope began to fail, chance renewed my quest. One morning, after another night of fruitless searching, as I walked through one of the city’s poorer neighborhoods, I was recognized by a plain‑faced young woman who dared to approach me. Although I did not recognize her, she knew me from the Faraday estate, where she had labored as a servant until a month ago, when she had returned home to care for her ailing mother.

An idea came to me, and I asked the young woman if she knew the families of any of the other servants who worked at the Faraday estate, specifically of the old woman Sadie. She did not, but she knew someone who might–an old aunt who lived a few streets over.

I thanked her and hurried to the house of this aunt. The old woman was suspicious, but a few coins loosened her toothless jaw well enough, and I soon learned the name and dwelling place of a certain niece of the old woman, Sadie, whose last name was Greenfellow.

A visit was paid that afternoon to the niece, who spun wool in a cottage on the fringes of the city. Jenny Greenfellow was pretty despite her middling years and the burdens of a hard life, and after a long look she invited me in. Introducing myself as an acquaintance of the Faradays, I gave her my condolences regarding Sadie’s passing.

“It is kind of you to think of my aunt,” Jenny said, pouring me a cup of tea.

I took a sip. It was fragrant, and tasted like nothing I had drunk before. My pain and weariness receded a fraction.

“You have her look,” I said without really thinking. But it was true. Her eyes were green and bright, as the old woman’s had been.

“Nay,” she said, smiling, “ ’Tis my brother who takes after her. Everyone says he has her spirit.”

“Your brother?”

“Aye. His name is John. He works at our uncle’s tavern.”

My cup clattered to the table, spilling tea. She stared at me.

“Your uncle’s tavern?” I fought to keep my words controlled. “You mean to say the proprietor of this establishment was Sadie’s husband?”

“Nay, sir. He is her brother. Neither of them ever married. Only their youngest brother, my father, ever did. But he passed away some years ago. Now Sadie has followed, and Uncle is getting on himself. I believe he means to leave the place to John when he’s gone.”

I hardly heard these words. It seemed impossible, yet it could only be so. According to the letters, the folk of the tavern knew how to brew elixirs to restore those of fairy blood, and so had Sadie Greenfellow. Feigning no more than polite interest, I inquired after the location of the tavern, then took my leave of Jenny, though not before giving her several coins for her trouble, which were not refused.

I walked fast through the streets of the city, back toward the river, and for the first time in days, hope–real hope–welled up in my heart.

“Be strong, Alis,” I murmured under my breath. “Endure it only a little while more, dearest. I am coming.”

As dusk drifted like soot from the sky, I turned onto the street Jenny had described and craned my neck, peering at the signs hanging over the various establishments, looking for one painted green.

There was none. The street was dirty and empty, save for a stray dog that slunk away into the shadows. No laughter spilled out of doorways, no cheerful clinking of cups. Night fell.

Perhaps I had passed the tavern in my haste. I turned to go back the way I had come, and that was when I saw him. He tried to leap into the shadows, but he had not my skill. I raced after him, catching his arm, and dragged him into the light of a torch.

“Marius,” Byron said. There was fear in his eyes. What must I have looked like at that moment? Fey and perilous, I can only imagine now, my eyes blazing green as my mother’s had years ago.

“Rebecca sent you, didn’t she?” I said through clenched teeth. “Are you her lapdog then, that you’ll do whatever she bids you? Gods, man, have you no pride at all?”

Anger registered on his usually jovial face, then he shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re doing here, Marius, but you must stop now. Go back to the Seekers. Beg forgiveness. They’ll take you back if they know you’re sincere. It’s not too late.”

“No.” I turned away from him.

He caught my shoulder. “Please, Marius, listen to me. I know you love her, but you have to let her go. It’s for your own good.”

Rage boiled within me, and I whirled around. “My own good? What can any of you possibly know of my own good, Byron?”

I had thought he would lash back at me, but instead he only sighed. “Marius, my friend, would that I was not the one to give you this news. But there is something you must know. I have just come from–”

“Do not trouble yourself,” I said, “for there is nothing you can say that I would wish to hear.” And before he could protest, I wrapped the shadows around myself and was gone.

As I moved down the street I saw it immediately, and I wondered how I could have missed it before. At the far end of the lane, above a red door, hung a sign painted vivid green. The sign seemed to shine in the gloom, and as I drew closer I read the word inscribed on it: GREENFELLOW’S. Gold light seeped through the crack beneath the door. I reached out, but before I could touch the door it swung open.

“What do you think you’re doing here?” said a growling voice.

It wasn’t until I looked down that I saw him. He was a dwarf, standing no higher than my waist, but well formed. His youthful face was handsome, and he peered up at me with keen blue eyes.

“I’m Marius,” I said, too startled to speak anything but the truth.

“And what’s your business here?” the doorman–for clearly he was such–demanded, hands on his hips. “Don’t think I can’t see through your little shadow trick.”

Despite his diminutive size, there was something perilous about the doorman. I let the shadows slip away from me. “I’ve come seeking help. Not for myself, but for Alis Faraday.”

The doorman’s eyes went wide. “Blood and stone! Why didn’t you say so?” He grabbed my hand and tugged me forward. “This way. Come along, now, no time to waste. She said you would come, and as usual she was right. I don’t know why I didn’t recognize you right off. It was your pesky shadows, I suppose. A pretty little glamour that is! Pretty indeed, though it would fool few enough here for long, mind you, so don’t get any ideas. . . .”

So the doorman went on, his words making little sense to me, as he dragged me down a hallway, through an archway of grimy stone, and into the heart of Greenfellow’s Tavern.

I will not describe the tavern at length, for you have seen it with your own eyes and know it is–that it was–a place beyond words. It was different in that time, of course. Smoke coiled among the sooty beams, straw covered the floor, and the music that filled the air was that of harp and lute, drone and tambour. Yet you would not have found it so very changed. It was, after all, a place outside of time.

I felt much attention upon me as the doorman led me through the tavern. There were many patrons, though it was difficult to get a proper look at them, for they sat in dusky corners, and all I saw were their eyes, glinting like jewels in the dark. At last the small man brought me to an alcove, its floor strewn with cushions, and he indicated I should sit. I did, and only then did I see her.

“Thank you, Arion,” the woman said to the doorman. “You should return to your post now.”

The doorman frowned. Clearly he would rather have stayed, but he bowed and retreated into the gloom.

“You came for this, Marius, did you not?” the woman said. She held out a clay vessel, stopped with a cork.

It was difficult to gaze upon her. She was bright amid the dimness, and I had to raise a hand to shield my eyes. At first glance she was young, her skin as lustrous as a pearl, her lips coral, her lovely face framed by raven‑dark hair. But as my eyes adjusted, and I lowered my hand, I saw the wisdom of long years in her gray eyes. Shadows gathered in the hollows of her cheeks, and I knew even in sunlight they would remain, for I had seen such shadows in Alis’s own visage.

“You’re dying,” I said, too filled with sadness not to speak the words.

“We all must die, Marius. And I have endured longer than many do. I shall not protest when it is my time. Besides, it is another that must concern you now.” She placed the jar in my hands.

“Alis,” I said. “You know her.”

The woman nodded. “Her parents, at least. When she was born, they sensed the Light was strong in her.”

“The Light,” I murmured. “Like the light in you. It hurts you, doesn’t it, to live on this world?”

Her green eyes seemed to pierce me. “It hurts all like us, Marius–though some more than others. Alis’s parents believed that dwelling in the outside world might force her to become strong, to gain resistance to its ill effects. Most of us disagreed with them. We felt it was best for the child to stay here, protected. But there were . . . others, from outside, who convinced them to try. When the infant of a noble lord and lady was still‑born, the midwife–who was one of our own–spirited Alis into the cradle instead, unbeknownst to the mundane parents.”

“A changeling,” I murmured. “You mean Alis is a changeling.”

The woman nodded, and understanding glimmered in me. Alis’s parents had sent her out into the mortal world in the hope that confronting the source of her pain and suffering would give her some mastery over it. Only that hope had been in vain.

“It didn’t work,” I said. “Living out there didn’t make her strong. It’s killing her. Who were these people who convinced Alis’s parents to send her out there?” I clenched my hands into fists. “Who were they?”

The fairy‑woman shook her head. “Time grows short,” she said, and I did not know if she meant for Alis or for herself. “Take this as well.” She handed me a small book, bound in frayed leather.

“What is it?”

“It was his.” Her gaze moved past me, to the arch of stone through which I had passed. “Go to her, Marius. You are her only hope.”

Yes, I had to go. I rose and hurried back toward the door. As I neared the stone arch, I saw a shape on the floor.

It was Byron. He lay with his hands clasped around a sprig of holly, his head on a pillow. His eyes were closed, and he seemed asleep, a look of peace on his face, only I knew he was dead.

“His kind cannot enter here without great peril.” Arion said. The small man stood in the archway, his blue eyes sad.

I stared at him. “But how . . . ?”

“Your skill with shadow is not so great as you thought. He must have followed you here, slipping in while I was away from the door.” Arion sighed. “I fear he was lost before I could return and protect him.”

I staggered back. What was this place? Why had Byron perished while I had survived?

Arion urged me forward. “Go, Marius. There is nothing you can do for him now, and dawn comes. You cannot leave here while it is day out.”

These words made no sense. It was only just dusk when I found the tavern. I had been there but a few minutes. However, before I could protest, Arion pushed me through the door, and I stumbled out into the street.

Rose‑colored light welled up from the eastern horizon. I heard a door slam behind me, but when I turned I saw a blank brick wall. There was no red door, no green sign. However, the jar and the book were hard and real in my hands. I started to turn away, and that was when I saw him. Byron’s corpse slumped against the wall, his face white, drained of life. He still clutched the holly sprig.

I felt I should do something, but I knew the Seekers would find him, that they would take care of their own. I slipped the book and the jar inside my coat and lurched down the street.

By the time I reached the Faraday estate it was midmorning. I feared I would be accosted at the gate again, and I was ready to strike down any who stood in my way, no matter their number. However, as I approached the gate, I saw only Rebecca. She wore a black gown.

“Marius,” she said, reaching for me, and for a moment it seemed sorrow shone in her eyes, only when I looked again they were hard as stones, and she had pulled her hand back.

“Do not try to stop me,” I said.

She stepped aside. “I will not stand in your way. There is no need. Did not Byron find you last night? Did he not tell you?”

“Byron,” I said, choking on the word.

She drew close to me, her face hard. “What has happened? Where is Byron?”

I shook my head, then moved past her, through the gate, and ran down the long avenue of trees toward the manor. I had to go to her. I had to see Alis. I reached inside my coat, gripping the clay jar, knowing the fluid within would restore her. She would not live forever; none of us did. She would fade, like the beautiful, nameless woman at the tavern. But not before she and I shared many glorious years together, not before–

I halted at the top of the steps. A black ribbon had been tied to the handle of the door. It fluttered in the breeze, and at last I understood why Byron had come looking for me, why Rebecca had let me pass.

The clay jar slipped from my fingers and shattered against the steps. Green fluid oozed over the stones, and a soft sigh escaped me, like the last breath of a dying man.

I believe I went mad for a time after that, for there is little of the days and weeks that followed that I can now recall.

I drank much, that I do know. Returning to my habits of old, I would drain a flask of whiskey, fall into a stupor, and when I woke, head throbbing, I would slink out in search of another bottle. On more than one occasion I was found drunk on the grounds of the new St. Paul’s, calling out for Alis, and the king’s soldiers would haul me back to my house, or once–failing to recognize me as a nobleman–to a pauper’s jail, where I spent five days and nights shivering in a filthy cell, and did not bother to beat back the rats when they crept forth to gnaw at my legs.

Rebecca retrieved me from the jail, that much I do recall through the haze, and she took me back to my house. I remember her asking questions about Byron as well. The Seekers had found him dead in the village of Brixistane, south of the river. He had been sent to follow me, she said; surely I was the last to see him alive, and she wanted to know the reason he had died when there wasn’t a mark on his body. Only I couldn’t have answered her if I had wanted to. Nothing that had happened that night in the tavern dwelled in the realm of reason, and the only words I spoke to Rebecca were to ask her for more whiskey. She left in rage and disgust.

March gave way to green April. In rare, lucid moments it occurred to me that I should pay a visit to Lord and Lady Faraday, only I would take a drink first to steel my nerves, then another, then I would wake on the floor, my head feeling as if someone had taken a hammer to my temples. I considered returning to Scotland as well. Letters had begun to arrive again from Madstone Hall, piling up on my table. I determined to read them, but always the drink required to clear my mind led to many more that fogged it, and the letters remained unopened. Richard Mayburn came to speak to me, and Rebecca again, and though I did not turn them away I had nothing to say to them. Finally they ceased coming altogether.

I believe, left to myself, I would have drunk myself to death; it was what I wished for. Only there was something that kept me from surrendering altogether–something I had to do. Then, on the first day of May, I happened to pick up a crumpled broadsheet lying in the gutter as I stumbled out in search of more grog. My eyes fell upon a small printed notice, and I knew at last what I had been waiting for: to say good‑bye.

I reached Westminster Abbey at midday. The sun was bright, and its rays pierced my skull, stabbing at my brain. A drink would have succored me, but I had not stopped on the way to buy any whiskey, and I had not had a drink since the night before, which was longer than I had gone in many weeks. However, as I entered the cathedral, the quiet and dimness were like a balm to my mind. The pain grew more bearable, if not diminished.

It took me an hour to find her tomb. The little article in the broadsheet had not said in which part of the abbey she had been laid, only that she had been buried there as an act of kindness to Lord Faraday, who had served the kingdom so well in Parliament. I wandered through the nave and sanctuary, and the two transepts, peering in every corner, looking for a stone that was newer than those around it.

At last I found it, in the place where I should have looked first: on the edge of the Cloisters, not far from Sir Talbot and Lady Ackroyd. The stone was small and plain, with only her name and the dates of her birth and passing upon it. I knelt, but I had no paper and charcoal to make a rubbing with, and so I pressed my hands against the stone, as if to etch the words into my flesh instead.

“Hello, my love,” I murmured, and I wondered if by some strange workings, like those in the Whispering Gallery, she might hear my words. “It’s your Marius. Please, dearest–you must not forgive me for what I have done. Only bid me good‑bye. For surely you and I will never meet, as I belong in no heaven that might house the likes of you.”

I meant to go then. My head, though in pain, was clear of the haze of whiskey for the first time in weeks, and at last I apprehended in full the knowledge I had been masking with drink all this time.

It was my fault Alis had died.

“Is that so?” spoke a soft voice behind me. “Is it truly your fault?”

Had I spoken my anguish aloud? I turned and saw a woman standing above me. She was clad in the flowing black gown of a mourner. Though her lithe figure lent her an air of youth, she leaned upon a cane, and a veil concealed her face.

“Did you know her?” I said, though it was hard to speak.

“Not as you knew her, Marius.”

She lifted her veil. Her face was as pale and luminous as it had been that night at the tavern, though the shadows that gathered in her cheeks were darker than before.

“Why do you blame yourself, Marius?” the fairy‑woman said.

I turned away. “I did not tell her.” Grief tore the words out of me in hoarse sobs. “I did not tell her who she really was. My mission was to watch her, to see if she learned of her true nature on her own. Only she didn’t, and now she’s gone.”

A rustling of cloth behind me. “We all must pass in time, Marius. Her kind, our kind. You could not have changed that.”

“But it did not need to be so soon! I might have taken her to the tavern. You could have helped her. She could have endured for many years.”

The woman sighed. “Perhaps she could have endured. Endured in suffering, and in sorrow. For she had thought herself a child of Lord and Lady Faraday, not something other–a changeling, a thing of legend. Perhaps knowing what she truly was would have given her woe rather than comfort. And even if not, why do you place all this blame upon yourself. Did not those you serve know of her true nature before you did?”

A sliver of ice seemed to pierce my heart. Yes, they had known all along what she was, but they had only wanted to watch her as she failed, not to help her. The Philosophers. And how was it they had known Alis was a changeling in the first place?

But there were . . . others, from outside, who convinced them to try. . . .

I hardly saw as something soft was pressed into my hands. “Dry your tears, Marius.” The woman’s voice was hard and clear as glass now. “It will do Alis no honor to cast away your life. If you would serve her now, then do not forget the gift we gave you. . . .”

Her gown fluttered. Like a passing shadow she was gone, and I knew that I would never see her again. I looked down. In my hands was the silver cloth I had taken from my mother, and which I had given to Alis at St. Paul’s. As always, it was unmarked with stain or rent. With it, I brushed the dust from her tomb. Then I stood and ran through the cathedral.

I reached my house an hour later, breathless, and it took me some time to find it amid the chaos and squalor, for the servants had abandoned me weeks ago for want of their wages. At last I found it beneath a table: a small book, bound in frayed leather. In my grief I had forgotten it. I took it now and sat at the table. My hands trembled, and a strong temptation for a drink came upon me–it would have steadied me–but I dismissed it and opened the book.

It was a journal.

The author’s name was one Thomas Atwater, according to the title page, and the journal was begun in the year 1619.

I begin this record even as I begin a new life, the author wrote. For on this day I have joined a newly established order of men and women who call themselves Seekers. Clever, they are, and curious and bold. They were alchemists once, but have since put such frivolous pursuits behind them, and instead search out the source of deeper and truer magicks. I am of great cheer as I write this, for at last I have found a hope of helping myself and those who are like me. . . .

A thrill came over me as I read these words, for the slanted hand in which they were written was entirely familiar to me. There could be no doubt: The author of this journal was one and the same with the writer of the letters I had found in the vaults beneath the Charterhouse. Thomas Atwater had been one of the tavern folk.

And he had been a Seeker as well.

I read on, page after page, eschewing drink or food, only stopping to light several candles as night stole over the city outside. The journal seemed to contain more pages than possible given its size, recording the events of several years, and it was only as the light of dawn touched the windows that I finally reached the end. I set down the book, staring out the window at the new day beginning, and I knew that, once again in my life, I was just beginning as well. For what I had read in the journal had changed me completely and forever.

Atwater’s writings had contained many revelations, but one above all others burned in my brain. And it was simply this: Everything which the Seekers stood for was a lie.

I thumbed again through the journal, trying to absorb all the knowledge contained within its pages. The author of those first happy lines had been utterly different than the sober and vengeful man who wrote the last pages. Atwater had joined the Seekers, as he had said, out of hope–a hope that their investigation into otherworldly magicks might reveal a way to help his kindred at the tavern, the folk of fairy descent, to ease their suffering at dwelling on this world.

It did not end that way.

Thomas was born to a maid who worked at the tavern, a woman who was badly used by a mortal man–a young lord who promised to give her a new life, then cast her into the gutter once he successfully deflowered her. She died, crushed by the weight of this world as the tavern folk often were, and Atwater was raised by the tavern’s owner, Quincy Greenfellow, father to Sadie and her brothers.

Quincy Greenfellow’s father had founded the tavern, in the village of Brixistane, south of London, as a haven and refuge for those who were like him–those who found the burden of this world heavy to bear. Over time, through whisper and rumor, folk similar to Greenfellow heard of the tavern, and as they came together there, they began to piece together just why it was they were different. They did not know their full history, but they knew they were descended from beings who were something other than human–beings other people called fairies.

In its early days, there were others who were attracted to the tavern besides those of more than mortal extraction. It became a favored haunt for would‑be wizards as well, for those who trod down the dark, secret, and smoky paths of alchemy.

Chief among these alchemists who frequented the tavern was John Dee. At the time, Dee was widely known as Queen Elizabeth’s astrologer, though he had long researched in secret the art of alchemy. In time, Dee’s work led him into disfavor, poverty, and madness. But before the end, he made a discovery that greatly animated him, and which he brought to the tavern to show Greenfellow. It was an ancient scroll that Dee claimed was written by the legendary alchemist Hermes Trismegistus himself, and which he said contained writings about a tomb lost beneath the ruined palace of Knossos on the Greek island of Crete–a tomb that held the answer to the greatest mystery of magic the alchemists sought to unlock: the mystery of transmutation.

Dee never journeyed to Crete, for he fell ill and perished soon after this. But the scroll fell into the hands of some of the other alchemists who frequented the tavern, lesser magicians who had hoped to learn secrets of the craft from Dee. They vanished from the tavern and were not seen again for some years.

Then, one day, several of these alchemists did return to the tavern, and they were much changed. They were clad all in black, and their eyes were gold, and an aura of power cloaked them, as tangible to the folk of the tavern as the dark garments they wore. They called themselves Philosophers now, for they claimed to have learned the ultimate secret of the alchemists: the magic of transmutation and perfection.

These Philosophers, as they styled themselves, did not speak of what they had found on Crete, or what had changed them, but they brought several artifacts with them. Chief among these was a keystone taken from a doorway. They claimed there was a magic in the keystone, one that if they could fathom how to work it would open a door to another world–a world in which the folk of the tavern, those with the blood of fairykind in their veins, would know no pain, no suffering.

Greenfellow gave the Philosophers his blessing to erect a stone arch inside the tavern, and the keystone was set into it. The Philosophers worked many experiments on the stone, and often these involved blood taken from the folk of the tavern. More blood the Philosophers asked for, and more, and always it was given freely, for the folk would do anything if it might mean opening a doorway to a place they could belong, if it meant the end of their pain. For as the world grew more crowded with people and buildings and things wrought of iron, their suffering grew as well.

However, no matter how much blood they received, the Philosophers could not make the stone work. “The worlds must draw closer together first,” they said. And finally they withdrew from the tavern, and did not come back, and for all their help the folk of the tavern were rewarded with nothing.

Years passed, and the tavern folk waited. Surely the worlds would draw closer soon, and the Philosophers would return. Only they did not. Some heard whispers that the Philosophers had begun a new organization, and finally one young man of the tavern grew bold enough to seek out this new order in hopes of finding a way to convince the Philosophers to return to Greenfellow’s and help its denizens.

And that was how Thomas Atwater joined the Seekers.

The Seekers were reluctant to let him join the order at first. They weren’t certain he had the proper background, and they intended to research his origins more fully, only before they could do so word came down from the Philosophers themselves, and so he was admitted to the order–but on one condition. While he was a Seeker, he must never return to Greenfellow’s Tavern. Such was his desire to help his kindred that Atwater readily acquiesced to this request, and he thought nothing of it.

Atwater’s first two years in the Seekers were ones of wonder and constant discovery. He learned quickly, and seemed to have an uncanny knack for finding meanings and connections where others could not. Soon he was promoted from apprentice to journeyman, and his future in the Seekers looked bright.

However, Atwater never forgot his true purpose in joining the order. Always he sought to learn more about Knossos, and the archway, and why the Philosophers believed it might open a doorway to another world. He kept his research in this regard to himself, doing it in secret at night, apart from his other work, for the Philosophers had commanded him not to speak of his true origins to the other Seekers, and he feared if the others knew what he was doing, he would be forced to tell them of the tavern.

His secrecy proved both boon and bane. Such was his skill and cleverness that he was soon left to his own devices, and was allowed access to all the same vaults of books that the masters themselves used. And in his night work, he finally learned the truth–or at least something of the truth–about the Philosophers.

He found it in a box of papers–records set down by the Philosophers themselves, and which surely had been meant for their private library, but which had, by some mistake, been forgotten in a corner of the vaults. A corner in which Atwater would one day hide some of his own writings.

The papers were fragmentary; they did not tell Atwater everything, but they told him enough.

The Philosophers had indeed sought to open a doorway using the keystone in the tavern. However, the keystone was not the only discovery they made beneath the ruined palace at Knossos. They had found other things as well–things that changed them, and convinced them there was another world they might journey to, a world other than this Earth, where the true secret of transmutation would be revealed.

The Sleeping Ones have shown us that a state of true perfection is possible. But their blood, while a powerful catalyst for transmutation itself, is not by itself enough. It provides life, but not immortality, and must be drunk again and again for the effects to be maintained. Surely the Sleeping Ones knew of this true catalyst, what we would call the Philosopher’s Stone, for their golden bodies do not age. And if the gate could be made to open, we might travel to their world and find it there. . . .

Their words had been lies. The Philosophers had not found the true secret of perfection, of transmutation, on Crete. They sought it still, and they had used those with fairy blood to try to gain it. Only when they failed, they had abandoned the tavern folk to poverty and suffering.

Rage filled Atwater at this betrayal, and despair. The last hastily written pages of the journal told how Atwater had hidden some of his papers in the vaults, hoping to retrieve them later. Then he intended to defy the order of the Philosophers and return to Greenfellow’s, to take the journal to his people, that they might know the truth.

They did not wish for their own Seekers to know about us, Atwater wrote on the final page. They feared the Seekers might learn too much about their true nature. That was why the Philosophers forbade me to return to the tavern. They did not want me to lead the Seekers there.

That they will destroy me for what I intend to do, I have no doubt. It will not come at once–they will not wish to call attention to my defiance of their order, for fear it will lead the Seekers to the tavern–but it will come. And one day it will be my blood that will stain the keystone. That is why I leave this journal, as a record of the truth, of the cruelty and lies of the Philosophers. May it one day come into the hands of one who can seek vengeance for all of us.

There the journal ended. I closed the book, gripping it to keep my hands from trembling.

It was not my fault alone that Alis had perished. The Philosophers had known of the tavern all along. They had caused Alis to be sent out into the world, and had made me watch her–one more experiment just like those they had performed on the tavern folk.

“I am the one, Thomas,” I murmured. “I am the one who can seek vengeance for you.”

And thus began my plot to destroy the Philosophers.

My thirst for whiskey was forgotten; my mind was as clear and sharp as a knife made of glass. To ruin the founders of the Seekers, my first task would be to become, once again, the perfect Seeker myself. There was no other way to remain close to the Philosophers, to gain the knowledge I would need. With this in mind, I took my love for Alis, as well as my sorrow and pain, and put them away like precious things in a box, hiding them for a future when my revenge would be complete. That very day, I set out to become what I had once before resolved to be: the greatest Seeker the order had ever known.

The events of those next years are beyond the bounds of this tale. You can read of them easily enough–indeed, I’m sure you have done so already–in the annals of the Seekers.

It took several months and many acts of contrition to convince Rebecca and the rest of the Seekers that I was over my madness, that I had understood the error of my ways, that I had learned well from my mistakes. As a boy in Edinburgh, I had deceived many fair ladies into thinking me a pitiable waif in need of aid, and those skills served me now. Such was the apparent sincerity of my claims that in time the Seekers could not resist them, and I was readmitted to the order–under Rebecca’s supervision, of course, and as a journeyman again.

However, these limitations were temporary. By the end of that first year I had achieved several major breakthroughs, and it seemed even the Philosophers had forgotten my past transgressions, for I was elevated again to the rank of master, and given free rein in conducting my investigations. And if I was grimmer than before, more likely to spend late nights poring over manuscripts and records than drinking with the younger Seekers at pub, then it was seen simply as an indication of my maturity and the important lessons I had learned so hard.

By the end of four years I was the Seeker you heard legends about upon first joining the order. I devised the Encounter Class system still used today, and I had achieved numerous otherworldly encounters myself, including several Class One Encounters. James Sarsin was only the first otherworldly traveler I met, but none of those events are important now. All that matters is that by the summer of 1684, I had achieved my goals. All regarded me as the finest specimen of Seekerhood ever to exist.

All that is, perhaps, save Rebecca. Her manner was ever cool and courteous to me. Indeed, we had worked on several cases together. Yet I knew she remained suspicious. She had never learned the truth of Byron’s death, and it gnawed at her. I did not care; she would not stop me. And that summer I knew it was time at last to set my plan in motion.

Never, since that day they came to Madstone Hall, had I seen the Philosophers. Yet I knew they were ever present, observing what the Seekers were doing, and issuing their orders by written missives that mysteriously appeared inside a locked chest in a room in the Charterhouse.

By order of the Philosophers, no Seeker was to enter the room that contained the chest between sunset and dawn. It was during that time the missives were delivered, and I was determined to find out how it was done. If I could see who delivered the letters from the Philosophers, then I could follow him back to their hiding place. And once there, I believed I could learn what I needed to make my plan complete.

After leaving the Charterhouse for the day–making certain several Seekers saw me depart–I waited until dusk, then employed one of my oldest tricks, gathering the night shadows around myself, and slipped back into the Charterhouse. I crept into the room with the locked chest. Moments later I heard footsteps, and the door opened.

It was Rebecca. I froze as she scanned the chamber, but her eyes passed over the corner where I hid. She nodded, then shut the door, and I heard a key turning. I was locked inside the room; there were no windows by which I might escape.

I waited long hours, until I was certain midnight had passed. A headache came over me, as they still often did, and I began to drift. Then I heard a noise that at once made me alert: a scraping sound. In the gloom, I watched as one of the stone slabs that paved the floor lifted up. Gold light spilled through the opening.

A figure draped in black climbed through the trapdoor, then approached the chest, unlocked it, and placed a sealed parchment inside. The figure locked the chest again and retreated through the trapdoor, shutting it behind.

I forced myself to count a hundred heartbeats, though these were rapid enough, then crept forward, groping the floor with my hands. The trapdoor was so skillfully made that no trace of it could be detected even as I ran my fingers over it. Yet I had other senses, honed in my years in the dark labyrinth beneath Edinburgh. Now that I knew to seek it, I could detect the hollowness beneath one piece of slate. However, I could find no way to lift it. I tried to wedge my knife into the crack, but the blade broke. It was useless; the trapdoor could only be opened from within. I laid my head down on the floor in despair.

And heard voices.

“I’ve delivered the missive,” said a man’s voice I did not recognize.

A woman answered. “Very good. I believe it is past time he had new orders.”

The stone beneath my ear hummed, bringing their voices to me, as if by some trick of echoes and angles like that in the Whispering Gallery. There must have been a passage below where the two stood. I pressed my ear closer to the floor, straining to hear their words.

“. . . and he has redeemed himself,” the woman was saying. “It seems Adalbrecht’s ill influence has not ruined him after all, for we have made a fine Seeker of him at last.”

I tensed, and not only because I knew they were speaking of me, as well as of my former master, but because I recognized her voice. Years ago I had crouched in the shadows outside my master’s study and had listened to this very same voice tell him, We have come.

I had been a fool. The Philosophers employed no messengers who might lead me to them; they would never risk their secrecy in that way. They delivered the missives themselves. Only they believed no one was in the room above, and my hearing, always sharp, had been made preternaturally keen by my excitement and dread.

“Adalbrecht,” the man said, his voice thick with disgust. “We must go to Knossos next month, else we shall end up as he did.”

“You need not tell me.” The woman’s voice was sharp; I could imagine her gold eyes flashing.

“I still wonder why he chose as he did,” the man said. His voice was beginning to fade; they were moving away. “Why he chose death.”

“Adalbrecht was always the weakest of us. Remember, he was the last to drink of the Sleeping Ones and be . . .” I lost her voice, and I thought them gone. Then the stone whispered once more in my ear. “. . . and he always had strange notions. Yet we never discovered anything of his writings. I suppose we shall never know what his thoughts were, and nor does it matter. He is dead now.”

“Something we shall never be.”

The man’s laughter was the last thing I heard. Then the stone ceased its humming.

I rose to me knees, and I knew what I had to do.

Crete. I had to go to Crete, to the ruins of Knossos. They would be traveling there soon, they had said so; I could get close to them there. But I needed to know more. I needed to find the secret way beneath the ruins, to the tomb of those they called the Sleeping Ones, so I could lay in wait for them. But how could I discover it?

We shall never know what his thoughts were. . . .

Yes, that was it. I wished to get close to the Philosophers, that I might learn how to destroy them. But had I not lived for years with a Philosopher? Master Albrecht had been one of their kind. After his death, I had searched his library and had found his old journal, from the years when he was still mortal. But surely he had left other records behind–records that would help me find the tomb beneath Knossos.

I waited until the room was unlocked and, concealing myself in shadows once again, slipped outside. I appeared at the Charterhouse later that morning, feigning surprise when Rebecca informed me I had new orders from the Philosophers themselves. I opened the missive and could not help but smile.

“Is it an assignment you favor, then?” Rebecca said, arching an eyebrow.

“Very much so,” I said, tucking the missive inside my coat. The Philosophers wished me to go to Scotland, to investigate legends of a magical portal in a cave in the Highlands. It would be just the excuse I needed; no one would question my leaving London and going north.

I departed that very morning, and after several days of jostling in carriages down muddy roads, I reached Madstone Hall. As I stepped out of the carriage, I laid eyes on my manor for the first time in nearly ten years. Despite all that had happened to me, I smiled at the familiar sight. I was received in the front hall with great deference–and equal trepidation–by several servants I vaguely recognized. I looked around, then asked them where I could find Pietro.

An older man blinked watery eyes. “But did you not receive the letters, sir?”

“Letters?” It had been long since I had received a missive from Madstone. I could not remember the last.

“It was some years ago, sir. It was a fever that took him. Your solicitors mind the affairs of the manor now, and we keep the house in good order.” He swallowed. “For your return, of course, sir.”

His words were like a blow to me. The letters must have come four years ago, in the months of my madness after Alis died. I suppose I had thrown them in the fire without ever opening them. Thus I had never heard the news of Pietro’s death, and it struck me now as if it had just occurred. There was nothing left to connect me to him, to Master Albrecht.

Only that wasn’t true. There had to be something there, something more.

“Unpack my things,” I told the servants. “I shall be staying at Madstone Hall for a time.”

They stared at me with wide eyes, then did as I bid them.

I began my search that day, beginning with the library. The silver key was in the desk drawer where I had left it, and I used it to unlock the cabinet of arcane books. Inside was the small wooden box with the diary and the vial of dark fluid. I had no doubt that the reason Rebecca and Byron came to Madstone after Master Albrecht died was to search for these things by order of the Philosophers. Only I had found them first. Then, before we departed for London, I had spirited them back into the cabinet. And here they were, just as I had left them.