His action had the opposite effect; Farris was stripped of his rank as master and banished from the order. He hanged himself by the neck in a filthy shack in Cheapside a week later. Unfortunately, his death could not undo the damage he had caused, for now Sarsin was alerted to the Seekers, and he would have no conversations with any of us, myself included. The Sarsin case was closed, and all associated documents sealed in the vaults of the Seekers. There they were forgotten—though I did retain a copy of Sarsin’s song for my personal collection. It captured my fancy for a reason I couldn’t quite name, particularly the final verse:
We live our lives a circle,
And wander where we can.
Then after fire and wonder,
We end where we began.
Though Farris’s meddling bungled the case beyond repair, my work in discovering the Sarsin matter did not go unnoticed, and in the summer I was elevated to the rank of master—the same rank as Rebecca, and ahead of Byron, who was still a journeyman, though the good-natured fellow seemed to hold nothing but genuine satisfaction for me. We celebrated with much ale, and everything in my world was good beyond my dreams. Then, on that dull autumn day in 1679, though I had no way of knowing at the time, the seeds for my undoing were sown.
“I believe you’ll enjoy this particular assignment,” Rebecca said as she tossed me a folded square of parchment. It was the first of October, a thick layer of mist cloaked London, and we had retreated into the warm, crowded interior of a coffeehouse in Covent Garden to escape the chill.
“What is it?” I asked, catching the paper and turning it over. It was sealed with a circle of red wax. Imprinted in the wax was a picture of a hand holding three flames.
“How should I know?” she said, arching an eyebrow. “It’s from the Philosophers themselves.”
Byron leaned over the table, his blue eyes bright. “Go on, Marius. Open it.”
Although I was every bit as eager as Byron, I forced myself to break the seal slowly. I unfolded the letter, then scanned the contents. They were written in a thin, elegant hand.
“What a dreadful burden,” Rebecca crooned in a tragic voice. “You’re to follow a noble lady about town and keep an eye on her. I’ve heard she’s quite lovely. Poor Marius.”
I glared at her over the letter. “Prevaricator. You knew all along what my new assignment was to be.”
Rebecca smirked and sipped her chocolate.
“Following a lovely lady?” Byron said in a wounded voice, reaching for the letter. “Why did I not get this assignment?”
“Because I’m the master,” I said with a laugh and tucked the letter inside my velvet waistcoat before he could snatch it away. I rose. “Now, if you’ll both excuse me, it seems I have work to do.”
Despite my nonchalant air, my heart pounded as I walked from the coffeehouse and turned down a narrow lane. This was my first assignment since being elevated to the level of master in the Seekers, and my first to come directly from the Philosophers themselves. I had expected something interesting, even remarkable, but this surpassed anything I had imagined. And despite her arch manner, I doubted Rebecca knew everything that was contained in the letter.
I was to keep watch on a fairy.
Or a half-fairy, at least. I ducked into a green, quiet space protected by stone walls: the courtyard of St. Paul’s Church. This was not Christopher Wren’s grand cathedral, which was still under construction. Rather, it was a small church built by Inigo Jones, and to me looked more like a forgotten Greek temple than a Christian holy house. I sat on a bench beneath a drooping wisteria tree to read the letter again.
According to the information the Philosophers had given me, fairies were not mystical creatures that inhabited children’s stories and Shakespearean comedies; instead, they were unearthly beings, born of another world. And while the Philosophers knew of no true fairies on this Earth, they had encountered a few individuals who bore some fraction of fairy blood in their veins.
Who these otherworldly people were and where they could be found, the letter did not say. If the Philosophers knew, they had not deemed it necessary to relate this information. What the letter did say was that there was a young noble lady—one Alis Faraday—who, unbeknownst to herself or her parents, was descended from one of these half fairies. How it could be that the young lady and her parents were unaware of her fantastical heritage was also not explained. All the letter told me was to observe this lady, keeping notes on everything I saw and heard, while adhering to the Desiderata, especially the first:
A Seeker
shall not interfere with the actions of those of otherwordly nature.
At all costs
, the letter closed,
this young lady must never
learn from you or any Seeker her true nature. For it is the purpose of this study to determine if one of otherwordly nature,
who is unaware of this fact about herself, will—through her own
volition, intuition, and power— come to learn of her unique her
itage, or if she can be content to live as any other denizen of this
Earth, with no knowledge of her inherent strangeness.
I drew a breath to steady myself, then tucked the letter into my coat and stood up from the bench.
“Be careful, Marius.”
I turned as Rebecca descended several stone steps, into the courtyard. Her gown was a gray so dark it was nearly black; she looked like a mourner, headed to church to weep for one lost.
“Rebecca,” I said, and left it there, for I could think of nothing to say to her. The words of the letter burned in my brain, as if writ there with fire.
She moved under the canopy of the wisteria; the mist had turned to rain. “An assignment from the Philosophers should not be taken lightly. You are no journeyman now. A master may be placed at far more risk. There is peril before you.”
“What risk is there in watching a young lady, Rebecca?”
“I’m not certain.” Her lips formed a sharp smile. “No, Marius, I don’t know all that is contained in that letter—only what the Philosophers relayed to me themselves, and that is little. I have no particular reason to worry for your safety. But guard yourself all the same.”
There was genuine concern in her eyes. However, I was too excited to listen to her words. There was a person in this city with true otherworldly connections, and I was going to observe her. Perhaps, as she discovered her own heritage, I would learn as well—learn things that would help me find a way to another world. For by then I had already determined that I was going to be the first to accomplish what the Seekers had set out to do: to journey to a world other than this Earth. Master Albrecht had warned me not to trust these people, but I knew how I could be certain they would never rule me; I would rule them instead. I was going to be the greatest Seeker the order had ever known.
“Good-bye, Rebecca,” I said, and hurried from the courtyard.
I began my work that afternoon, examining public records and making inquires about the city—though I was never too direct in my questioning, so as not to draw attention. With little effort I learned that the Faradays were an old, wealthy, and respectable family, if not particularly remarkable in London society. They dwelled in a fine but not opulent house a half mile beyond Nottingham Hall, and less than two miles from the Houses of Parliament. There the current Lord Faraday, William, sat in the House of Lords, the third in his line to do so.
Lady Beatrice Faraday had been born to a less wealthy, but still well-regarded, family from York. Young Lady Alis, who was in her twenty-third year, was their only daughter, and was rumored to be quite beautiful, as Rebecca had said, though it seemed she was seldom seen outside the family’s home.
That was going to make things difficult. How was I to observe her if she never left her home? As I sat in a tavern that night, letting the ale I had ordered languish, I unfolded the letter from the Philosophers. However, despite much rereading, the letter contained no more clues, and I was not going to go to the Philosophers to beg for help on my first assignment as a master.
With nothing else I could do, I rose the next morning and put on my finest clothes, gathering my blond hair into a ribbon in the current fashion so that I might pass for one of London’s many fine young lords. Of course, that would not be a complete fraud, for I
was
a lord. Madstone Hall was mine, though I thought of it seldom, and while I had not been born a noble, by Master Albrecht’s dying hand I had been made one, and in truth the look suited me.
I hired the finest stallion I could find, though the beast was nothing compared to my old horse Hermes, and rode out past Whitehall, trading the gray air of the city for sun and blue sky.
After asking directions of a band of workmen, I found my way to the Faraday estate, which lay down a lane bordered by tall hedgerows. It was not so grand as Madstone Hall, being rather squat and square in the Tudor style, but it looked comfortable, nestled between a grove of ash and beech on one side and a pond on the other.
I dismounted and approached the iron gate, which was closed, refining my story in my head: how I was a young lord from Scotland visiting family in London, and while out riding I had lost my way, and so required directions for the way back to Whitehall. I hoped the steward of the house would be polite enough to invite me in for a refreshment, and I would gain a glimpse, perhaps in a portrait, of young Lady Alis. I reached up to ring the bell hanging on the gate.
“Good day, my lord.”
I nearly leaped out of my boots. Seldom could a person come upon me unawares, but so intent had I been on my plan that I had not heard as someone approached me from behind. I turned on a heel, and at once my apprehension vanished. It was simply an old woman, clad in a servant’s frock. There was nothing remarkable about her, save that her green eyes were bright and her wrinkled cheeks as red as apples.
“Is there something I can do for you, my lord?” She drew closer, holding a covered basket.
I gave her a simplified version of my story; there was no need to explain myself to a servant. She nodded, listening to my tale, then smiled.
“I can give you directions back to Whitehall easily enough, my lord.”
A coldness descended in my chest. This would not do. I needed to gain entrance to the manor, in hopes of seeing a painting of Alis Faraday. I had to know what she looked like. Before I could speak, she went on.
“But are you certain it is not directions to Westminster Abbey you would rather have, my lord?”
“Westminster Abbey?” I said. “Why should I ride there?”
“Why, to gain a look at young Lady Alis, of course.”
I felt my face blanch, and a sickness filled me. How could this old woman know of my true purpose there? It seemed impossible, but if she did, then I was already ruined.
She clucked her tongue. “Now there, my lord, no need to fear. You’re hardly the first young man who’s ridden to the gate hoping for a glimpse of Lord Faraday’s daughter. Surely you didn’t dress so finely simply for a ride in the country! But you’ll not find Lady Alis here this morning.”
What a fool I was. Of course this old woman knew nothing of my purpose there. She had simply assumed, and not so far from the truth. However, I saw no reason to correct her.
“And where might one find Lady Alis on a morning such as this?”
“I’ve already told you, my lord, and more than I should have. But I daresay you have a different look about you than the other young men who come to call.” Her green eyes grew sharp. “Quite different indeed.”
I had no notion what her words meant, but I realized the woman had indeed told me where to go.
“How shall I know her?”
The old servingwoman laughed. “A beautiful young noble-woman should not be difficult to pick out from the crowd, my lord. Then again, one cannot always trust one’s eyes.” She opened the gate a fraction, slipped through, and shut it behind her.
“Please,” I said, gripping the bars, not knowing what else to say.
Again the old woman’s gaze grew sharp, and after a moment she nodded. “She favors the sun in the Cloisters.”
It was midday when I reached Westminster Abbey.
I straightened my coat as I passed through the western doors, into the long hall of the nave. Columns soared to the arched ceiling high above, and despite the urgency of my quest I was forced to pause and gaze upward. It is the purpose of grand churches to inspire awe, to make one believe there is something beyond the world of men.
Indeed there was something beyond it, and that was why I was here. I lowered my gaze and moved on. Although a hush was on the air, the nave was a busy place, filled with clergymen, sightseers just in from the country, and city folk who lingered in niches and alcoves, beneath some marble saint or king, to light a candle and speak a silent prayer.
There were many ladies about the nave; so many, in fact, that the swish of their gowns murmured off the stone walls like the whispered chants of monks. I watched them surreptitiously as I moved past, paying attention to those ladies whose gowns and refined air indicated a noble heritage. Some of them were pretty enough, but none seemed out of the ordinary, and all were more interested in showing off their clothes and flirting with their male companions than in paying reverence at the shrine of any ancient ruler or goodly martyr.
I moved through the sanctuary, and the Henry VII Chapel, and the quiet solitude of the Chapter House, where rays of light—infused with color by stained glass—scattered the floor like a ransom of jewels. It was only when I caught a glimpse of green through a doorway that I recalled the old servingwoman’s words. I hurried out the door, into the open courtyard in the midst of the Cloisters.
The Cloisters were neither so grand nor so crowded as the nave. I prowled along the covered walkways that surrounded the square lawn, but the only women I saw whose mode of dress marked them as noble were a group of gray-haired ladies who appeared to be on a tour of the crypts, and I wondered if they were perhaps shopping for a future abode. Weary of walking, I halted and leaned against a column.