“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.