But perhaps there was no great purpose in his actions. As I paced before the window, I became more and more certain this was the case. I was simply a thing to him: a pretty object like those he had collected for the mantelpiece in his library.

I glanced at my reflection in the mirror. All traces of the scabs and bruises from my days on the street were gone. My golden hair framed my face, pale and delicate almost as a woman’s, but with the first hints of a man’s hard, square lines, and I knew with calm detachment that I was beautiful.

“If I am a thing to him,” I murmured to the mirror, “then it is past time that he used me.”

I would not have minded. While the master was not handsome—his face was too grim, too rough and angular—he was tall and strong, and I had sold myself to far worse on the street. I crept into his room and slipped naked into his bed, letting his rich smell encapsulate me. A warmth kindled inside my body, and I drifted into sleep.

“No, James, this is not what I wish from you,” a voice, deep and soft said, awakening me.

I felt a weight beside me. Half in a dream, I reached for him, slipping my hand inside his robe. Gently, but firmly, he took my hand and pushed it away. I was too weary, too full of sadness, to resist. I wanted to lie on a fire, like Queen Dido, and let the beautiful flames burn away my sorrow. For the first time I could remember in my life, I wept.

I did not resist as he clothed me in a robe and carried me like a small child—lanky though I was getting—to my own bed. He pulled the covers over me, then laid a hand on my brow.

“You have more worth than this, James. More worth than you can possibly know.”

I didn’t know what to say. His words made me feel strange inside, as if a fish wriggled in me, lovely and silvery and sparkling, but much too slippery to grasp.

“Who were they?” I said instead. “The ones who came to the manor yesterday?” I thought of the golden eyes I had glimpsed beneath her veil. “They are the same as you.”

He was silent for a long moment. “Yes,” he said. “In the beginning at least. But now? I think we are no longer the same. Just as you are no longer the same as you were.” He smoothed my hair back from my brow. “I think it is time we said farewell to James. He served you well on the streets of the city. He was strong and clever and brave, but you need him no longer.”

My weeping ceased, and wonder crept into my chest. “If he is gone, who shall I be, then?”

“I believe you shall be Marius.” He smiled. “Yes, that’s a fine name. Marius Lucius Albrecht.”

Sorrow faded away into the dark. A peace came over me. I was so tired, but it was a good feeling.

“Marius,” I murmured, and fell asleep.

Though there is little I need tell of them now, those next five years were the richest and happiest of my life, both since and ever.

The majority of my time each day was spent in the comfortable confines of the manor’s drawing room, learning of the marvels of language and mathematics, history, music, poetry, and philosophy, and the study of the heavens. At first Pietro was my constant and patient teacher, but after that first year I worked with other teachers as well: learned men and professors whom the master invited to Madstone Hall. They came from Edinburgh and Glasgow, or sometimes even from York or London.

Then, one spring morning, I entered the drawing room to discover neither Pietro nor some black-robed scholar waiting for me, but rather the master himself, his right hand—laden with rings—resting upon a book. The tome was thick, covered in worn leather decorated with tarnished symbols whose meanings I could not fathom, but which filled me all the same with anticipation.

The hint of a smile touched the master’s usually stern mouth. My excitement had not gone unnoticed. “Pietro tells me you have made excellent progress in your studies, Marius. I am pleased. And I believe you are ready to begin a new subject— one I think you shall find of great interest.”

Bees swarmed in my stomach. I did not know what was going to happen next, only that I was sure it would be wonderful. He gestured to an empty chair at the table, and I hurried to it and sat. As I held my breath the master opened the cover of the book, and that was when my education in the arcane arts began.

The book—which had no name other than the mysterious gold symbols on its cover—contained many chapters. We began that morning with the first, which concerned the art of astrology, then in time moved on to divination, runic lore, numerology, and other occult sciences. Fascinated as I was with each of these topics, always my eyes seemed to skip ahead, gauging the thickness of the book, and wondering what lore was contained in the yellowed pages of its final chapter.

It was some time before I found out. Far more often than not, when I entered the drawing room in the morning, I found Pietro or one of the black-robed scholars sitting at the table rather than the master. Doing my best to hide my disappointment, I would force myself to focus on the lesson at hand, and would try, though often without great success, not to wonder about the big leather-bound book with the gold symbols.

“Where is the master today?” I would ask if it was Pietro who was my teacher.

Always the answer was the same. Business had called the master out to one of the villages on his lands, or to Edinburgh, or sometimes even all the way to London. That last news always filled me with melancholy, for I knew it would be many days before the master returned, and that when he did he would be weary. Always he seemed pallid when he came back from London, and grimmer than usual, and he would have neither time nor energy for our studies together for many days.

Eventually, I learned the master kept the book of the occult in his library, for I saw it on the shelf one evening when he called me in to speak with him. However, even if I might have been tempted, I knew it would be folly to attempt to steal a glance at its pages. Certainly the master would know if I entered his library unbidden, and while his wrath had never been directed at me, I remembered the way he had, with a look, frozen the two men who had tried to harm me in Advocate’s Close.

Fortunately, I had other activities to occupy me. On my sixteenth birthday—an anniversary that we had come to celebrate on the summer solstice, for we could only guess at my true age—the master gifted me with a horse. It was a handsome roan gelding, full of spirit, but gentle and forgiving with its young and inexperienced rider. I named the horse Hermes, for I imagined he would run very swiftly.

At the master’s bidding, his stableman, Gerald, gave me lessons in riding, and while he was neither as patient nor gentle as Hermes, before the summer was out I had skill enough that he left me to my own devices. Once released from my studies for the day, if the weather was even remotely fair, I would go out riding.

Sometimes I visited one of the villages that were beholden to the manor, but most often I kept to the bridle paths that led past field and croft, through copse and heather, over bridges and near standing stones, out to the open spaces. There Hermes and I would race across the moors, the wild wind whipping our manes—his of rusty red, mine of bright gold—and my blood would rush with a sensation I could not name. All I knew was that it made me feel strong, and bold, and pure.

One day Gerald saw me riding Hermes from a distance, and that night he swore to the master he had never seen a horse run so fast. I felt a childish pleasure, thinking simply that my horse was special, and that I was lucky to have him, and perhaps even deserving. The master gave me a sharp look, but I thought nothing of it—though I might have, if I could have seen the way my eyes sparked with green fire when I leaned over Hermes’ neck, urging him swiftly over heath and down.