Two things woke Jack from his sleep: the buzzing of a mosquito in his ear, and a tall blade of grass tickling his cheek. Am I sleeping in a park? He swatted at the bug, rolling over and shielding his eyes from the harsh glare of the sun. He still gripped the sapling in one hand. He must have slept on it. Nearby, a crow called out over the gentle sounds of waves lapping at a shore.
His muscles aching, he sat up to look around. He was on the bank of the James, and its cool waters flowed just feet from his resting spot. Through the felled trees and shrubs along the bank, he could see the river’s wide expanse, maybe two hundred feet across. He glanced in the other direction, at a sprawling brick mansion on a hill. The house stood three stories high, crowned with white windows. Percy Plantation.
He grabbed his bag and stood, brushing the grass and dirt off his black clothes.
Papillon delivered the welcome news that Fiona was nearby—very close, in fact. But he couldn’t see her until he’d regained control of his appetite. Otherwise he risked picking her bones clean, and he’d never be able to forgive himself for that.
He trudged up the hill, rubbing at a cramped muscle in the back of his neck. He didn’t relish the idea of speaking to George. “The Earl,” he styled himself, though it wasn’t an official title. His older brother had been an earl during his natural lifetime. In fact, as one of the wealthiest members of the Elizabethan court, he’d been known as “the Wizard Earl” for his vast collection of Angelic texts. Little brother George argued that the title should have passed to him after a great-grandnephew had died without an heir. He’d stolen the wizard’s texts for himself, and he might be the greatest philosopher alive today.
The only problem was that George was insane. He’d never recovered from his years in Jamestown, still haunted by his time as governor of the troubled colony. It was over four hundred years ago, and the man was still traumatized. Then again, Jack reminded himself, George was the reason that he was alive at all. He’d sought out the Earl hundreds of years ago to learn the secrets of immortality.
He strolled up to the large white door—the river entrance—and rang the front doorbell. George had more than enough money for servants, though they never stayed around long. Jack was never sure if they quit, or if he ate them.
Songbirds trilled from a nearby ash tree, and Jack smoothed his rumpled clothes. Hunger speared his gut, and he was desperate for fresh meat to replenish himself.
After a long wait, George pulled open the door. A slight man with a large nose, he scrunched up his small eyes whenever he encountered sunlight. Since he never left his house, it seemed to blind him. He smiled, exposing stubby white teeth. “Jack. Please come in. The scrying mirror told me you’d be coming, of course,” he guffawed.
Everyone Jack had ever met who’d studied at Eton College had the same nasal laugh. It must have resulted from several centuries of passing along the irritating mannerism from one generation of black-suited schoolboys to the next.
Jack smiled. “Of course. I never need to announce my visits with you.” George’s alchemical expertise extended far beyond his own.
George pulled the door open wider, motioning for Jack to enter. “It’s always good to have a fellow philosopher here. Come with me to the drawing room.”
Jack followed him through a Georgian hallway, large enough that it could double as a ballroom. Portraits of Percy ancestors hung on the walls.
George’s black shoes clacked across the floor as he led Jack into a vast living room. Blood red walls reached twenty feet high, and alcoves held busts of great philosophers from the past. A bearded John Dee gazed pensively heavenward, and the Wizard Earl himself glowered at tall windows on the opposite side.
“Admiring my brother, are you?” George sat on a crimson loveseat. “I was the lucky recipient of all of his spell books, you know, after King James locked him in the Tower.” Another chuckle forced itself through his nose. “Please, sit.” He motioned to an antique white sofa across from him.
Jack sat, steeling himself for the inevitable barrage of pointless stories. “Percy Plantation looks beautiful, as always.”
George licked his teeth, looking around thoughtfully. “I did have servants. But what’s the point? Spells can do the cleaning for me.” He squinted at his fingernails, chewed to stubs. “Sometimes I think I should get a wife. A pretty little thing to amuse me.” He’d been saying that for hundreds of years, but women terrified him.
Jack arched an eyebrow. Humor him. “A wife would suit you.”
George widened his beady eyes. “You’re good with women. Women love you. You must teach me how you charm them.” He swallowed, his body suddenly rigid. “I just don’t know if women understand what I’ve been through. Do you know what it was like in Jamestown?”