As she spoke, Eleanor had opened a stainless-steel thermos, filled a chipped teacup, and handed it to Deirdre. The tea was sweet and fragrant with lemon.

“Thank you,” Deirdre said, trying to take all of this in.

“You’re quite welcome.” Eleanor took an overcoat from the coatrack and pulled it on. “Now, I’m sure you have a great deal of research to do, so I’ll leave you alone. Do try not to disturb anything as you work. But of course, the consortium told you all about that, so you know what to do. I live just a half mile away, in the white house at the start of the lane—you would have passed it on your way in. If you need anything, my telephone number is by the phone in the carriage house. You’ll find tin lanterns and matches on the table by the stairs. Do be careful with them. And please be sure to shut the door if you leave. And watch the fifth step—it’s loose. Good day, Miss Falling Hawk.”

Eleanor whisked herself out the door, shutting it behind her. Deirdre stood, staring, as she heard a car door open and shut. The sound of an engine roared to life, then faded. She was alone. Alone in the manor where Marius Lucius Albrecht had lived before he joined the Seekers, and where nothing had been altered since.

How was it she had never heard of this place? The history of Albrecht she had read had mentioned Madstone Hall only in passing. Yet surely this manor was a treasure trove of information about the famous Seeker. And clearly the Philosophers knew about it. It had to be hisdoing that she had been granted entrance. All of this had the mark of her unnamed helper on it.

“So what is it you want me to find here?” she said, looking around.

Dim faces gazed at her out of the shadows: portraits adorning the walls. She moved to the table by the stairs and, with some effort, lit one of the lanterns. Gold light seeped out, not so much pushing back the dimness as making it deeper, more mysterious.

She ascended the stairs—careful to avoid the fifth step— holding the lantern up to each of the portraits. Nameless men, women, and children—all dressed in the finery of lords and ladies—gazed back at her.

At the top of the stairs was a full-length portrait. It showed a man dressed in black. His dark hair tumbled over his shoulders, framing a bearded face that was grim rather than handsome, yet compelling. She raised the lantern higher. The figure’s eyes seemed to reflect the gold light; they had been painted with gilt rather than pigment of blue or brown.

Deirdre explored the upper levels, though she did little besides peek into each room. They were mostly bedchambers and sitting rooms, places where the manor’s noble residents and guests would have spent their private time. The top floor contained more austere accommodations—for the manor’s servants, no doubt.

She headed back downstairs and one by one explored the grand front hall, the dining room, the cavernous kitchen, and a large parlor that offered spectacular views of a distant ridge, now mantled in clouds. Everywhere she went she saw tarnished candelabras, Louis XIV chairs, and Chinese porcelain.

This place is remarkable, Deirdre. Museums or collectors would pay a fortune for some of these pieces.

Only they had rested there for centuries, just where they had been left. According to the history she had read, Marius Lucius Albrecht had lived in Madstone Hall until about 1674, and Eleanor had said nothing had been altered here since the late seventeenth century.

Which means everything is as it was about the time Albrecht left.Deirdre felt a spark of growing excitement. In fact, it’s possible that no one else lived in this manor after he left it.

Again she wondered why the Seekers seemed not to know about this place. Surely this manor held vast amounts of information that could shed light on Albrecht, the greatest Seeker in the history of the order. Why wouldn’t the Philosophers want the Seekers to know about it?

Maybe for the same reason someone deleted that file when you found it, Deirdre.

She opened a door at the end of the front hall, then stared in wonder at the room beyond. Shelves lined the walls, filled with leather-bound books. A sword hung above the fireplace, gleaming dully in the lanternlight. There was a large globe in one corner, and a claw-footed desk dominated the center of the room.

Deirdre moved to the desk, then drew in a breath. Ink stained the felt blotter—the ghosts of letters written long ago. Something near one corner of the blotter attracted her eye: a symbol drawn in dark lines.

It was a hand holding three flames.

Gripping the lantern to keep from dropping it, Deirdre circled around the desk. Unlike the faded ink stains, the symbol was crisp and black; it had been made recently. But by whom? By Eleanor? She didn’t seem the type to go about the manor idly doodling on furniture. And what would she know about the Seekers?

Deirdre bent down. On the right side of the desk, just beneath the sigil, was a drawer. She reached out, then hesitated. She wasn’t supposed to disturb anything. Or was she? Maybe it was precisely to disturb things that she had been brought there. She opened the drawer.

It was empty. At least she thought so. She couldn’t see the back of it; there wasn’t enough light. She stuck a hand in the drawer, groping toward the back.

Her fingers closed around something hard and cool. She pulled her hand out. On her palm was a silver key, blackened by tarnish.

Deirdre’s neck tingled. She walked around the library, searching. It didn’t take long. Tucked in a corner near the globe was a small cabinet of dark wood. The cabinet had two doors. One bore a keyhole. Deirdre set down the lantern. Her hand was trembling so hard it took her several tries to fit the key in the lock. She turned it, expecting it not to work. But there was a click, and the cabinet door swung open.

She crouched. In the cabinet were two shelves. One was lined with books. Deirdre ran a finger over their well-worn spines, certain it would be fascinating to read them, but also certain that was not why she was there. On the other shelf was a wooden box. She took it, carried it to the desk, and set it down. Dust swirled up. She held her breath a moment, letting the dust settle, then opened the lid.

There were three things in the box. One was a glass vial, empty. Its stopper was made of gold wrought into the delicate shape of a spider. The other two objects were books. One was small, its leather cover battered, its pages so dry they started to crumble when she tried to open the book. Hastily, she set it down.

The other book was larger. Its cover was smooth and new, and its pages white, cut into a clean, mass-manufactured edge. This was no antique book. It was a journal such as could be bought in any present-day stationery shop. Deirdre opened it to the first page.

A wave of dizziness came over her, forcing her to sit in the desk chair. In the dim light of the lantern, her eyes scanned the first lines.

You should not read this. Because if you do—if you learn the secrets contained within this journal, if you come to see the Philosophers for what they truly are—then I will have doomed you just as surely as I doomed her over three hundred years ago. They will condemn you, they will hunt you with all their powers, and they will destroy you.

Yet I beg of you, in the name of Hermes, keep reading.

“Great Spirit,” Deirdre murmured, her hands shaking so badly she had to set the journal down.

It was not just the words themselves that stunned her. It was the smooth, elegant hand they were written in. She didn’t need to reach into her pocket, to pull out the handwritten note she had received from him yesterday, to know that the handwriting was identical. He had written this journal—and just recently, by the look of it—this nameless Philosopher who had been helping her.