Текст книги "The First Stone"

Автор книги: Mark Anthony

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“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.

“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 whatyou 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.

Our affection was limited to such innocent physical gestures as this. Always when we met it was in a public place, and one of her father’s men was nearby, so no impropriety could be claimed on any part. Apparently the reports that reached the Faraday estate were favorable, for I was soon invited to dine with the family.

“My agents tell me Madstone Hall is a fine manor in the county of Midlothian,” Lord Faraday said as we gathered in the hall after dinner. He was a handsome, white-haired man, hale throughout most of his life, but lately troubled by gout. He sat with his bandaged foot propped up on a stool. “The estate is not overly large, I am told, but well situated, and yielding a good income.”

So he had made some inquiries. I could hardly blame him. From her chair across the hall, Alis gave me a pained look, obviously embarrassed by her father’s scrutiny, but I smiled.

“It is a good estate,” I said.

“And why have you come to London?” Lady Faraday said, looking up from her embroidery.

“I can tell you that,” Lord Faraday interjected. “These days, what young northern lord would not wish to better his connections in the south by a visit to London? Am I right, Mr. Albrecht?”

In a way, he was—I had indeed come seeking connections, though not any he could imagine—so I simply nodded.

“Miss Faraday has two brothers, one studying to be a barrister, and the other at sea. The eldest shall inherit everything. I fear there will be nothing for her after I am gone, excepting a small dowry. She will have little to offer save her good name.”

“I would say she has much more to offer than that.” I gazed across the hall, and my smile vanished. Alis sagged in her chair, her hand to her brow. I hurried over to her.

“It is nothing,” she said in protest. “A headache, that’s all.”

“Go fetch Sadie at once,” Lady Faraday said to one of the servants. “Tell her Miss Faraday needs her tea.”

I took my leave of the family, and despite her pain Alis managed a smile, while Lord Faraday shook my hand firmly and insisted upon my swift return to dine with them again.

Thus began my fall in earnest. I need not go into great length over my descent. Know only that as snow blanketed the countryside and Christmas neared, I loved her. I loved her truly, with all my being. While sometimes at night, alone in my bed, I would lie awake, thinking of the Desiderata and dreading the wrath of the Seekers, when I was with her such thoughts were driven from my mind. I could think only of her finespun beauty, her angelic voice, and her peculiar variety of humor and liveliness, which never failed to brighten my spirits on the darkest winter days.

“So who is she?” Rebecca said on one of the rare occasions when we dined together. Of late I had seen her little, for she had been absorbed in her own investigations for the Seekers.

“I beg your pardon?” I said, looking up from my wine.

“Who is she?” Rebecca repeated. “The woman you’re in love with.”

I stared, and she laughed.

“Come, now, Marius, don’t deny that you’re in love. I know what it looks like on you. I saw it once myself, though not so dewy-eyed as this, I must say. She’s absolutely turned your head. Who is she?”

“No one,” I said. “It’s a passing thing. I have no time for such fancies.”

Rebecca coiled a hand beneath her chin. “If you say so, Marius,” though she appeared anything but convinced. “Now tell me, how is your current research going?”

I spoke briefly, in a detached manner, and I offered no particulars. Everything would be in my reports, and if the Philosophers wished Rebecca to know the details, then she would have read them. Despite being madly in love, I had managed to write regular missives to the Philosophers, describing how Alis suspected nothing of her heritage, how she was usually intelligent and sensitive, as well as bold and inquisitive, though of a fragile constitution, which prevented her from engaging in travel and other activities that might have helped reveal her nature.

As for replies and further directives from the Philosophers, I received none. I was on my own. Thus there was no one to catch me as I fell.

I saw her most days, and if a day did pass when I failed to walk with her in Westminster Abbey, or ride out to the Faraday estate, then my mood was bleak and oppressive, and so it would remain until next I saw her.

For her part, Alis seemed to enjoy all my attentions, which only encouraged me further, as did the apparent approval of Lord Faraday, who found my position and respectable manner more than acceptable. And Lady Faraday—propelled, perhaps, by a bit too much wine—proclaimed at dinner one night that surely I was the most handsome and agreeable young man she had ever met.

Alis, of course, was duly embarrassed by her mother’s outburst, though the blush that touched her cheeks made her all the more lovely—like a rose so near to white that the palest tincture of its petals, once detected, rendered it more striking than the most vivid flower.

“What’s the matter?” I murmured, when we were gathered in the hall after supper, bending over the back of her chair where she sat with a book. “Do you not agree with your mother that I am the most handsome and agreeable young man she ever met?”

“Without doubt,” Alis said crisply. “But Lady Faraday is already spoken for, so I’m afraid you’re quite out of luck in that regard.”

“Then I’ll just have to make do with her fair daughter.”

Alis bent back over her book, but not before she could conceal the smile on her lips.

As weeks passed, the Seekers seemed content to leave me to my own devices, even as the length and frequency of my reports to the Philosophers dwindled. Every day I become further ensconced in the Faraday household. My life on the streets of Edinburgh seemed more than a lifetime away, and I felt a deep certainty that Master Albrecht would be pleased for me—that this was what he had meant when he said he wished for me to live my life.

There was only one thing that marred my happiness: As my feelings for Alis grew stronger, she herself was growing weaker.

One day in February, when the unusually balmy weather emboldened us to stroll in the little wilderness outside the Faraday manor, Alis suddenly slumped against me, and when I lifted her into my arms she was as light and trembling as a bird.

“It’s nothing,” she protested. “All I need is to rest for a moment. You may put me down, Lord Albrecht.”

“I will not,” I said, and carried her into the house.

By the time we reached the hall, her protests had ceased, and her trembling had become a violent spasm. She was cold, and her eyes hazed with pain. I set her on a couch and duly retreated to the far end of the hall as Lady Faraday and a swarm of servants descended upon her. It was best for me to stay out of the way, though I wanted nothing more than to be at her side, to hold her hand, and to take away her pain—as if I actually had some power to do so.

She let out a moan, and I clenched my hands into fists. Words escaped me. “I cannot bear this.”

“ ’Tis she who cannot bear it,” a soft voice said.

I turned and found I was not alone in the shadows at the end of the hall. An old woman dressed all in gray stood in a doorway, a weary look on her face. It was Sadie, Alis’s beloved servant.

“You’re right, of course,” I said, cheeks afire with shame. “I should be stronger, for her sake.”

The old woman laughed. “You help her more than you know.”

“Not as you do. They tell me you brew teas that ease her pain.”

“And love eases pain that teas help not.”

I sighed. “Would that I knew what afflicted her. If I did, then I would take it away. I would make her as strong in body as she is in spirit.”

The old woman’s gaze moved across the hall. “It runs more truly in some. ’Tis their blessing, and their curse, for they feel all things more keenly.” Her green eyes turned to me. “Yet in the end, all such folk will feel the same burden.”

These words sent a chill through me, though I did not understand them. Or did I?

“You know something,” I said, moving closer to her. “That’s how you can help her as you do. Tell me, please, what’s wrong with her?”

“Nothing is wrong with her. ’Tis the world that’s wrong. This Earth. ’Tis harming her as it harms all like her. In the end it shall be too great. It cannot be defeated.”

I staggered. These words were a knife to my heart. At last I managed to speak. “That day I first came to the gates, you said she favored sun. But I found her in fog.”

“Favors it, yes. But bears it? Not well, I fear. Not well at all. It burns her, the sun of this world. She is like a figment born of the night mists, one that can only vanish in the light of dawn.”

A sickness filled me. I had taken her outside because the day was fine. What a fool I was! What a miserable fool. Yet despite my agitation I felt a spark of curiosity, and for the first time in many days I remembered I was a Seeker. Who was this old woman? How did she know such things?

“I must go make Miss Faraday’s tea,” Sadie said, and before I could speak she turned and vanished through the doorway.

Alis was soon resting comfortably, and I made my farewell, which she was too weary to protest. When I returned the next morning she was sitting up in bed, and the day after that I found her wrapped in a blanket in a chair in the hall. She continued to grow stronger, even as outside the weather turned chill and gloomy, wet with the rains of March.

All the while, I could not forget the words spoken by Sadie. Did she know something of Alis’s true nature? I had not gained another opportunity to speak to the old servingwoman, but all the same I was sure of it.

This world. It’s harming her, as it harms all like her. . . .

Were there others in London like Alis? If so, perhaps they would know a way to help her.

A scheme came to me. I knew it was an utter violation of the Desiderata to do what I intended, but I hardly cared. Damn the Seekers to hell, and damn the Philosophers with them. Alis was not a thing to be watched: an insect to be caught in a jar and observed as it perished. I would find others like her, and I would make them help her.

Except, even as I began my search, I said nothing of it to Alis; I gave no hint that might reveal her true nature to her. Was this some concession to the Seekers still? Or perhaps I only wished to protect her from knowledge that would trouble her already frail health.

Even I did not know the reason, for by then a madness had begun to come over me. I could not eat, I could not sleep. I could do nothing but think of Alis and search for those like her, those who could help her.

I passed my days with Alis as before, but now by night I descended into the vaults beneath the Seeker Charterhouse, as though I were a ghoul again—just like in Edinburgh as a boy, when I slept in the family crypt of the Gilroys. Only I did not come to these vaults to rest, but instead to work, and I did so feverishly, poring over old books, sifting through stacks of crackling parchments whose faded words I strained to read even in the light of a dozen candles. As a master, nothing in the library of the Seekers was forbidden to me; surely I would find some answers there. After all, the Philosophers had to know something about those of fairy heritage, else they would never have given me the assignment to observe Alis.

I was right. After many nights of searching I came upon a missive. It was addressed to the Philosophers, though it was unsigned. But no doubt they had known who it came from, and the information in it fascinated me even as it chilled my blood.

The missive spoke of a tavern—though it gave neither name nor location for this establishment– describing it as a place where those with “most peculiar and unearthly heritage” often gathered in secret. How the author of the missive came to know of this place, he did not write, but it became plain as I read that the patrons of this tavern were like Alis: people with the blood of fairies in their veins.

The missive was maddening in its brevity, but after many nights of searching I discovered a box lost in a corner, and in it found many more letters, all unsigned, but written in the same slanted hand as the first. I read them all, and by the time the candles were burned to stumps I knew not everything I wished to, but much all the same.

To be a fairy on this mundane Earth was an agony that could not long be borne; such an ethereal creature would soon perish here. Those who possessed some measure of fairy heritage also inherited this affliction, though to a lesser degree. To dwell on this world for such a person was often painful, though not always fatal, and the folk of the tavern had created various remedies that eased their suffering.

That was it—that was the knowledge I needed—though I was still frustrated by the anonymous author’s lack of detail as to the name and location of this tavern. The final missive began to glow in my hands as a shaft of gold light fell upon it. I looked up at a window, high in the wall of the vault; it was bright with the dawn. A new day had come, and hope with it. I spirited the letters back into their hiding place, then ascended the stone steps that led from the vaults, back to the world of the living.