It was Anders.

“Here we go,” Anders said.

Deirdre wadded up the photo and tucked it into the pocket of her jacket, which hung on the back of her chair. Anders turned around, smiling, two cups in hand. She took one. It was blistering hot, but she squeezed her hands around it, letting the pain clear her head.

“So, now that our good sir knight is sleeping it off,” Anders said, “what are you going to do with the rest of the day?”

Deirdre gave him her cheeriest grin. “I’m going to go home and take the afternoon off.”

32.

Two hours later Deirdre sat on a train, watching as the English countryside blurred past the window. She glanced down at the note in her hands. To find an answer, don’t forget that it is always best to go directly to the source. . . .

She had taken that advice. To learn about Marius Lucius Albrecht, she was going to the source—to Scotland, where he had spent his first nineteen years before joining the Seekers. There was a manor house in Midlothian, not far from Edinburgh, where—according to the history she had read—he had spent many formative years as the adopted ward of a nobleman. The manor was now some sort of private museum.

This is ridiculous, Deirdre. You can’t believe you’re actually going to find something at the manor. And what will Anders and Beltan do when they discover you’re not really relaxing at your flat like you said?

Only she did expect to find something. The nameless Philosopher’s clues had never led her astray before.

Well, there’s a first time for everything. Why has he been helping you, Deirdre? What if he’s just using you for some purpose of his own?

She was certain he was. Surely he had not been helping her out of charity, or to advance her career. He wanted her to find something, only he couldn’t tell her directly what it was; for some reason it wasn’t safe, or he wasn’t able to do so. And as for Anders and Beltan—well, she could worry about what to tell them when she got back to London. If she ever spoke to Anders again, that was.

She stuffed the note into her jacket pocket and pulled out the photograph. Sasha had said not to trust Anders, and she was right. She must have snapped the photo with her digital camera, catching Anders in the act of riffling through Deirdre’s desk. What had he been hoping to find among her papers?

It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that he had been spying on her. Later, she would thank Sasha for sending her the photo. At the moment she had to get to Scotland before Anders discovered she was gone. Because whatever it was the mysterious Philosopher wanted her to discover, she was certain the people Anders worked for wanted just as much to keep it secret.

It was still light out when she exited the train station in Edinburgh. In the summer, so far north in the world, the sun lingered late. The castle loomed on its crag above her, stark against the silver sky. Carrying her satchel, she walked down Princes Street to her hotel.

She checked in, leaving orders for an early wake-up call and a taxi. If she could have, she would have gone to the manor directly, but according to the scant information she had found about it, it was unlikely anyone would be there at such a late hour.

The night passed slowly. Deirdre didn’t sleep, and she kept expecting to hear a knock at the door and Anders’s angry voice. She heard nothing until the phone rang, causing her to leap out of bed. Trembling, she picked up the phone. A computerized voice wished her a pleasant morning. It was time to go.

Deirdre dressed, choked down half a pastry from the tray that had been left outside her door, then went downstairs to find the taxi waiting for her. She gave directions to the manor, and agreed to the exorbitant fee the driver promised to charge her for taking her so far outside the city. As the taxi sped down Princes Street, she leaned back against the seat and willed herself not to glance out the rear window, to see if anyone was following.

It took less than an hour of winding along narrow roads to reach the manor. After traveling half a mile down a single-track lane, the taxi stopped in front of a set of iron gates. Deirdre got out. The gray sky hung low, and it was misting; moisture beaded on her leather jacket.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to wait for you, miss?” the taxi driver said, leaning out the window.

“No, thank you. You can go.”

“Suit yourself.”

The taxi turned around, then rolled away down the lane and out of sight. Deirdre approached the gate. Beyond, two stately rows of elms bordered a driveway that curved away into the mist. The manor was not in view. Nor were any other people.

Deirdre looked around and saw a sign on the gate, as well as a black box that bore a speaker and a red button with the word CALL stenciled above it. The sign read: MADSTONE HALL. And below that, in smaller type: PRIVATE MUSEUM—VIEWINGS BY APPOINTMENT ONLY.

Maybe she shouldn’t have sent the taxi away after all. She hesitated, then pushed the button on the box.

“Hello?” she said, leaning forward.

Silence. Then, just when she was about to push the button again, a woman’s voice crackled out of the speaker. “Yes?”

Deirdre pressed the button again. “I’m sorry to bother you. My name is Deirdre Falling Hawk, and I—”

“Oh, yes,” the tinny voice came from the speaker. “We’ve been expecting you. Please come up to the manor directly. You can use the front door.”

There was a buzzing noise, then with a metallic grating one of the gates swung open. Deirdre gazed around, then slipped through the gate and walked up the driveway.

Once she rounded the corner she saw the manor. It was beautiful: a long, three-story structure of gray stone, with tall windows, and handsome columns framing the entryway. Gardens surrounded the manor on all sides, wild and vivid green against the gray air.

There was a single car next to the carriage house. Deirdre passed it and walked up stone steps, to the front door of the manor. It opened before she could knock. On the other side was an older woman, past sixty, and quite small. Her white hair was short and neatly coiffed, and she wore a well-tailored skirt suit of gray wool.

“You must be Miss Falling Hawk,” she said with a warm smile. Her eyes were bright blue behind moon-shaped spectacles.

Deirdre was too dumbfounded to do anything but nod.

“Well, then, come out of the mist,” the woman said, gesturing for Deirdre to enter. “I’m Eleanor Tate. I’m one of the docents here at Madstone Hall. Would you like a cup of tea? It’s a chilly day out there.”

Deirdre followed her into the front hall. It was grand and dim, obviously well kept but shabby from age. A sweeping staircase rose up to the second floor, while halls led off to either side.

“Thank you,” Deirdre said. “Tea would be wonderful.”

“I thought you might like some,” Eleanor said, taking Deirdre’s jacket and hanging it on a rack, “So I brought a thermos with me. I can’t brew it here, as Madstone Hall itself isn’t wired for electricity, though we do have power in the carriage house.”

No electricity. That explained why it was so dim.

“I’m surprised you’ve come today,” Eleanor went on, apparently content to carry on the conversation without any help from Deirdre. “Usually historians stay away on dreary days like this, as it’s hard to see anything. But then, we haven’t had many researchers at all lately. I don’t think the consortium likes having them poking about. You’re quite lucky to be allowed in. And they tell me you’re to have the run of the place, which is quite unheard of. You must stand very high in their regard.”

Deirdre shook her head. “In whose regard?”

“Why the consortium, of course. They own Madstone Hall, and they’ve kept it private all these years, rather than turning it into a public museum. Their goal is to preserve it just as it was in the late seventeenth century. As you’ll see, very little has been changed since then. There’s no plumbing, so if you need to use the loo, you’ll have to go out back to the portable. All the furniture is original, and the paintings on the walls, and everything else you’ll see. The only work we’ve done over the years is what we must: repairing the roof, and replacing broken windows, and airing the place out, of course, so everything doesn’t mold. It’s marvelous to see something as it was so long ago. I’m the third in my family to be a docent here, and so it is for the other caretakers. It’s as though Madstone Hall belongs to our families. Or rather, I should say, as if our families belong to it.”