“Excuse me, but you’re standing on Sir Talbot.”
It took me a moment to see her, for she was quite plain. Her gray dress blended with the stone wall against which she sat, and I could barely see her face for the shadow of a serviceable— but far from fashionable—bonnet. Several sheaves of parchment rested on her lap, and her hands were smudged with charcoal. I took her for one of the abbey’s servants, though why she was resting there, and why she would so boldly speak to one who was clearly her better, astonished me.
“I said you’re standing on Sir Talbot. He doesn’t like that at all. It would be kind if you moved at once.”
I glanced down. Beneath my boots was a slab of marble covering a crypt. The floor of the abbey was so thick with grave-stones that one thought nothing of walking over them. Like many, this stone was worn by the passage of countless feet, and I could not make out the name carved upon it. However, in deference to the peculiar request, I moved a step to the next crypt over.
“Very well.” The young woman in gray nodded. “Lady Ackroyd believes you have a decent look about you. She does not mind if you linger a while on her stone.”
“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.
I clapped Byron on the shoulder. “Bless you, Byron. You’ve saved me.”
“Then the least you can do is buy me an ale,” he said, and I did.
I rode to Westminster Abbey on the next foggy day and found her, again in a gray dress, sitting in the Cloisters.
“There you are,” she said, looking up from a lapful of papers. “I confess, I doubted the veracity of her admonitions. However, Lady Ackroyd warranted you’d be back.”
“Proving herself a most wise old dame,” I said with a bow, and to my delight she laughed, a sound as high and pure as church bells on a winter’s night.
“Would you like to make a rubbing?” she asked, holding up a piece of paper and a lump of charcoal.
“You’ll have to show me how.” I took her hand—so tiny it was all but lost inside my own—as she rose from the bench.
We spent the afternoon in the abbey’s nave, choosing the most interesting and obscure crypts. I would press the paper over the crypt stone, and Alis would scrub the charcoal over the paper, and carved words and drawings that had been too timeworn to make out appeared on the paper as if by magic. Alis laughed often, and each time the sound was every bit as enchanting as the first time I heard it. Passing clergymen would stare at us, kneeling together on the floor, but I would clasp my hands as they went by, mimicking a prayerful pose. How could they argue with piousness?
“Who’s next?” I would say once they had passed, and Alis would lead us to another crypt stone.
Soon enough, however, even that simple activity fatigued her. Her skin seemed to grow translucent, and her hand shook as she made the last rubbing. When she was done, I carefully folded the paper, helped her to her feet, and led her to a bench near Chaucer’s tomb.
“I am fine,” she said when I inquired after her well-being. “Truly. I’ve laughed so much today, I simply need to catch my breath, that’s all.”
I nodded, and could not help notice that the shadows beneath her blue eyes only accentuated their brightness.
“I was weaker as a girl,” she said, “before my family moved out to the country beyond Whitehall.”
“Perhaps it’s the city air that troubles you,” I said. “To be certain, it’s thick with soot and other foul humors.”
“Perhaps,” she said, though she shook her head. “The city is very great, and very loud, and filled with new contraptions. Wheels and gears and pulleys, all grinding away. I feel as if they’re all pressing in on me sometimes. Were it not for the abbey, I doubt I would come to London at all.” She smiled at me. “But I am glad I did so today.”
“There,” I said. “You look better already.”
“The rest has restored me greatly. And no doubt Sadie will brew me one of her teas this evening.”
I inquired politely and soon ascertained this Sadie was a servant, and one with the old woman I had met at the gates of the Faraday estate. She seemed to be something of an herbalist, and had given Alis teas to ease her discomfort and lend her strength since she was a child.
The bells tolled again, and it was time for her to go. I was pleased when she leaned on my arm instead of the iron railing as we descended the steps before the abbey. Below, her family’s carriage waited. She started toward it, then paused to look at me.
“What are you, Mr. Albrecht?”
The directness of her words, and of her blue eyes, startled me. Had she suspected something of my true nature? “As I’ve said, Miss Faraday, I am visiting from Scotland, and—”
“Yes, Mr. Albrecht, you’ve told me your story.” She smiled. “And I daresay you know all about me already, for there’s little worth investigating there—one more silly nobleman’s daughter in a country full of them. In our meetings I have divined that you are kind and generous, that your wit, for all its gentle courtesy, has teeth, and that you have a goodly face. But I still have no idea
what
you are.”
Her expression was beguiled, not accusing; she did not suspect. With a deep bow I said, “I am, my lady, your servant.”
That response won me a bright laugh, and I stood on the steps, gazing at the street, long after the carriage had disappeared.
We met often after that, and not always at the abbey. Despite her delicate constitution, her spirit was strong, and she was always ready for an adventure. We went boating on the river, and strolled around the Tower of London as she told tales of kings and queens who had met ill ends within, and sat for hours watching as the builders worked on Christopher Wren’s new cathedral.
“It shall be finer than Westminster when it is done,” I said.
She shook her head. “The crypts will not be old. There will be nothing to make rubbings of. How shall we bother the priests?”
“I’ve heard Wren’s made a gallery, high inside the new dome, where one’s whispers run along the curve of the wall to a listener’s ear clear on the other side, over a hundred feet away.”
She clapped her hands. “I should like to see that very much.”
“Then you shall.”
“But only if I—” She turned away. “How long do you think it will be before the cathedral is completed?”
I could see the blue lines of veins tracing down her slender neck, toward a shadow at the hollow of her throat. “You shall see the Whispering Gallery, Miss Faraday. I promise you.”
She turned back, smiling now. “Well, if Lord Albrecht promises it, then it will be so.” She laid her hand over mine, and I smiled as well, and all thoughts of shadows were forgotten.