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 welclass="underline" 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.”