“Sounds good. Any luck?”
“Zero,” she said with a sigh. “So where’s Sir Give‑Me‑the‑Keystone‑Now‑Or‑Else?”
“Beltan? He’s in the parlor taking a lie‑down. I actually convinced him to leave the keystone scheme alone for today.”
Deirdre sat up straight. “How did you manage that?”
“I used my preternatural powers of persuasion,” he said, then winked. “All right, the truth is I managed to get a large number of bloody Marys into him at breakfast. He’s conked out at the moment.”
Anders got Beltan drunk? Maybe it wasn’t the subtlest way to derail Beltan’s enthusiasm for tracking down those who possessed the arch, but Deirdre had to admit it was effective. And she was glad Anders had managed the feat. The nameless Philosopher had said it wasn’t time to go after the arch, that if they did they would perish. Besides, there was somewhere else she needed to go.
“He’s going to be angry when he wakes up,” she said.
“And he’s going to have one bugger of a hangover to boot. I had the bartender double the vodka in each of his drinks.”
Deirdre gave her partner a sharp look. Why exactly had he gotten Beltan drunk? Was he trying to prevent them from going after the arch?
“I’m going to put on a pot of coffee,” he said, taking off his coat. “Want some, mate?” He turned his broad back as he worked at the counter.
“Sure,” she said. She couldn’t stand doubting him. She couldn’t stand believing he was a traitor. But did she really know for certain he was? He wasn’t telling her the truth about the gun, yes. But she had no hard proof that he–
Her gaze locked on the corner of a manila envelope sticking out from underneath her computer. It was the envelope Eustace had brought earlier, the one from Sasha. Deirdre pulled it free, opened the flap, and slid the contents into her hand.
It was a photograph. The photo was pixilated, and slightly blurred, but clear enough to make out the scene. It had been shot through a door that was cracked open an inch. The room beyond was this one, her office. Half of Deirdre’s desk was in view. A figure bent over it, going through the papers on her desk.
It was Anders.
“Here we go,” Anders said.
Deirdre wadded up the photo and tucked it into the pocket of her jacket, which hung on the back of her chair. Anders turned around, smiling, two cups in hand. She took one. It was blistering hot, but she squeezed her hands around it, letting the pain clear her head.
“So, now that our good sir knight is sleeping it off,” Anders said, “what are you going to do with the rest of the day?”
Deirdre gave him her cheeriest grin. “I’m going to go home and take the afternoon off.”
32.
Two hours later Deirdre sat on a train, watching as the English countryside blurred past the window. She glanced down at the note in her hands. To find an answer, don’t forget that it is always best to go directly to the source. . . .
She had taken that advice. To learn about Marius Lucius Albrecht, she was going to the source–to Scotland, where he had spent his first nineteen years before joining the Seekers. There was a manor house in Midlothian, not far from Edinburgh, where–according to the history she had read–he had spent many formative years as the adopted ward of a nobleman. The manor was now some sort of private museum.
This is ridiculous, Deirdre. You can’t believe you’re actually going to find something at the manor. And what will Anders and Beltan do when they discover you’re not really relaxing at your flat like you said?
Only she did expect to find something. The nameless Philosopher’s clues had never led her astray before.
Well, there’s a first time for everything. Why has he been helping you, Deirdre? What if he’s just using you for some purpose of his own?
She was certain he was. Surely he had not been helping her out of charity, or to advance her career. He wanted her to find something, only he couldn’t tell her directly what it was; for some reason it wasn’t safe, or he wasn’t able to do so. And as for Anders and Beltan–well, she could worry about what to tell them when she got back to London. If she ever spoke to Anders again, that was.
She stuffed the note into her jacket pocket and pulled out the photograph. Sasha had said not to trust Anders, and she was right. She must have snapped the photo with her digital camera, catching Anders in the act of riffling through Deirdre’s desk. What had he been hoping to find among her papers?
It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that he had been spying on her. Later, she would thank Sasha for sending her the photo. At the moment she had to get to Scotland before Anders discovered she was gone. Because whatever it was the mysterious Philosopher wanted her to discover, she was certain the people Anders worked for wanted just as much to keep it secret.
It was still light out when she exited the train station in Edinburgh. In the summer, so far north in the world, the sun lingered late. The castle loomed on its crag above her, stark against the silver sky. Carrying her satchel, she walked down Princes Street to her hotel.
She checked in, leaving orders for an early wake‑up call and a taxi. If she could have, she would have gone to the manor directly, but according to the scant information she had found about it, it was unlikely anyone would be there at such a late hour.
The night passed slowly. Deirdre didn’t sleep, and she kept expecting to hear a knock at the door and Anders’s angry voice. She heard nothing until the phone rang, causing her to leap out of bed. Trembling, she picked up the phone. A computerized voice wished her a pleasant morning. It was time to go.
Deirdre dressed, choked down half a pastry from the tray that had been left outside her door, then went downstairs to find the taxi waiting for her. She gave directions to the manor, and agreed to the exorbitant fee the driver promised to charge her for taking her so far outside the city. As the taxi sped down Princes Street, she leaned back against the seat and willed herself not to glance out the rear window, to see if anyone was following.
It took less than an hour of winding along narrow roads to reach the manor. After traveling half a mile down a single‑track lane, the taxi stopped in front of a set of iron gates. Deirdre got out. The gray sky hung low, and it was misting; moisture beaded on her leather jacket.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to wait for you, miss?” the taxi driver said, leaning out the window.
“No, thank you. You can go.”
“Suit yourself.”
The taxi turned around, then rolled away down the lane and out of sight. Deirdre approached the gate. Beyond, two stately rows of elms bordered a driveway that curved away into the mist. The manor was not in view. Nor were any other people.
Deirdre looked around and saw a sign on the gate, as well as a black box that bore a speaker and a red button with the word CALL stenciled above it. The sign read: MADSTONE HALL. And below that, in smaller type: PRIVATE MUSEUM–VIEWINGS BY APPOINTMENT ONLY.
Maybe she shouldn’t have sent the taxi away after all. She hesitated, then pushed the button on the box.
“Hello?” she said, leaning forward.
Silence. Then, just when she was about to push the button again, a woman’s voice crackled out of the speaker. “Yes?”
Deirdre pressed the button again. “I’m sorry to bother you. My name is Deirdre Falling Hawk, and I–”