“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.