“Oh, yes,” the tinny voice came from the speaker. “We’ve been expecting you. Please come up to the manor directly. You can use the front door.”
There was a buzzing noise, then with a metallic grating one of the gates swung open. Deirdre gazed around, then slipped through the gate and walked up the driveway.
Once she rounded the corner she saw the manor. It was beautifuclass="underline" a long, three‑story structure of gray stone, with tall windows, and handsome columns framing the entryway. Gardens surrounded the manor on all sides, wild and vivid green against the gray air.
There was a single car next to the carriage house. Deirdre passed it and walked up stone steps, to the front door of the manor. It opened before she could knock. On the other side was an older woman, past sixty, and quite small. Her white hair was short and neatly coiffed, and she wore a well‑tailored skirt suit of gray wool.
“You must be Miss Falling Hawk,” she said with a warm smile. Her eyes were bright blue behind moon‑shaped spectacles.
Deirdre was too dumbfounded to do anything but nod.
“Well, then, come out of the mist,” the woman said, gesturing for Deirdre to enter. “I’m Eleanor Tate. I’m one of the docents here at Madstone Hall. Would you like a cup of tea? It’s a chilly day out there.”
Deirdre followed her into the front hall. It was grand and dim, obviously well kept but shabby from age. A sweeping staircase rose up to the second floor, while halls led off to either side.
“Thank you,” Deirdre said. “Tea would be wonderful.”
“I thought you might like some,” Eleanor said, taking Deirdre’s jacket and hanging it on a rack, “So I brought a thermos with me. I can’t brew it here, as Madstone Hall itself isn’t wired for electricity, though we do have power in the carriage house.”
No electricity. That explained why it was so dim.
“I’m surprised you’ve come today,” Eleanor went on, apparently content to carry on the conversation without any help from Deirdre. “Usually historians stay away on dreary days like this, as it’s hard to see anything. But then, we haven’t had many researchers at all lately. I don’t think the consortium likes having them poking about. You’re quite lucky to be allowed in. And they tell me you’re to have the run of the place, which is quite unheard of. You must stand very high in their regard.”
Deirdre shook her head. “In whose regard?”
“Why the consortium, of course. They own Madstone Hall, and they’ve kept it private all these years, rather than turning it into a public museum. Their goal is to preserve it just as it was in the late seventeenth century. As you’ll see, very little has been changed since then. There’s no plumbing, so if you need to use the loo, you’ll have to go out back to the portable. All the furniture is original, and the paintings on the walls, and everything else you’ll see. The only work we’ve done over the years is what we must: repairing the roof, and replacing broken windows, and airing the place out, of course, so everything doesn’t mold. It’s marvelous to see something as it was so long ago. I’m the third in my family to be a docent here, and so it is for the other caretakers. It’s as though Madstone Hall belongs to our families. Or rather, I should say, as if our families belong to it.”
As she spoke, Eleanor had opened a stainless‑steel thermos, filled a chipped teacup, and handed it to Deirdre. The tea was sweet and fragrant with lemon.
“Thank you,” Deirdre said, trying to take all of this in.
“You’re quite welcome.” Eleanor took an overcoat from the coatrack and pulled it on. “Now, I’m sure you have a great deal of research to do, so I’ll leave you alone. Do try not to disturb anything as you work. But of course, the consortium told you all about that, so you know what to do. I live just a half mile away, in the white house at the start of the lane–you would have passed it on your way in. If you need anything, my telephone number is by the phone in the carriage house. You’ll find tin lanterns and matches on the table by the stairs. Do be careful with them. And please be sure to shut the door if you leave. And watch the fifth step–it’s loose. Good day, Miss Falling Hawk.”
Eleanor whisked herself out the door, shutting it behind her. Deirdre stood, staring, as she heard a car door open and shut. The sound of an engine roared to life, then faded. She was alone. Alone in the manor where Marius Lucius Albrecht had lived before he joined the Seekers, and where nothing had been altered since.
How was it she had never heard of this place? The history of Albrecht she had read had mentioned Madstone Hall only in passing. Yet surely this manor was a treasure trove of information about the famous Seeker. And clearly the Philosophers knew about it. It had to be hisdoing that she had been granted entrance. All of this had the mark of her unnamed helper on it.
“So what is it you want me to find here?” she said, looking around.
Dim faces gazed at her out of the shadows: portraits adorning the walls. She moved to the table by the stairs and, with some effort, lit one of the lanterns. Gold light seeped out, not so much pushing back the dimness as making it deeper, more mysterious.
She ascended the stairs–careful to avoid the fifth step– holding the lantern up to each of the portraits. Nameless men, women, and children–all dressed in the finery of lords and ladies–gazed back at her.
At the top of the stairs was a full‑length portrait. It showed a man dressed in black. His dark hair tumbled over his shoulders, framing a bearded face that was grim rather than handsome, yet compelling. She raised the lantern higher. The figure’s eyes seemed to reflect the gold light; they had been painted with gilt rather than pigment of blue or brown.
Deirdre explored the upper levels, though she did little besides peek into each room. They were mostly bedchambers and sitting rooms, places where the manor’s noble residents and guests would have spent their private time. The top floor contained more austere accommodations–for the manor’s servants, no doubt.
She headed back downstairs and one by one explored the grand front hall, the dining room, the cavernous kitchen, and a large parlor that offered spectacular views of a distant ridge, now mantled in clouds. Everywhere she went she saw tarnished candelabras, Louis XIV chairs, and Chinese porcelain.
This place is remarkable, Deirdre. Museums or collectors would pay a fortune for some of these pieces.
Only they had rested there for centuries, just where they had been left. According to the history she had read, Marius Lucius Albrecht had lived in Madstone Hall until about 1674, and Eleanor had said nothing had been altered here since the late seventeenth century.
Which means everything is as it was about the time Albrecht left.Deirdre felt a spark of growing excitement. In fact, it’s possible that no one else lived in this manor after he left it.
Again she wondered why the Seekers seemed not to know about this place. Surely this manor held vast amounts of information that could shed light on Albrecht, the greatest Seeker in the history of the order. Why wouldn’t the Philosophers want the Seekers to know about it?
Maybe for the same reason someone deleted that file when you found it, Deirdre.
She opened a door at the end of the front hall, then stared in wonder at the room beyond. Shelves lined the walls, filled with leather‑bound books. A sword hung above the fireplace, gleaming dully in the lanternlight. There was a large globe in one corner, and a claw‑footed desk dominated the center of the room.