November 5, 1888
Dearest Ivy,
I have much to say to you, but there is so little space in a parchment that can hold all the words. Perhaps it fairs for you to know that I am well.
Today is two hundred and seventy-five days since the day you died, and I had lived. I would not have survived if it were not for he, the man whom most called the 'Collector'. He is like what the common folk babble about—eccentric and dark, and certainly cunning. But he is also kind, Ivy. He does not admit it, but he is indeed, very kind—perhaps more benevolent than the hypocritical saints of this time.
He collects the oddest of things. He once demanded the ugly coat you painstakingly sewed for me, just because he could. He would do such odd favors in exchange for things that were of value. Not in a monetary way, per say. He demanded what others treasured the most, expensive or not. He was very odd indeed. I have always wondered why.
Perhaps it is because he did not treasure anything. Not until today, that is. Earlier this year, this man had acquired something both new and strange to his collection. It might have been the first object he held close to his heart.
The way he treasured it reminded me very much of how we treasured our Hailey and Jerome.
I have more to say, but for now this shall suffice.
All my love to you and our children in heaven.
Sincerely,
Allen Matthews
... ... ...
Weeping. It was a sound Allen had grown accustomed to since he began serving the Earl of Aster.
Ah, there the peasant woman was on the lord's parlor, staining his carpet with her tears. Allen squared his shoulders and heaved a sigh, knowing he'd receive an earful later about how the woman's snot and muddy boots ruined his Indian carpet. The butler shook his head and fought another sigh, tactfully guiding the lady to the door.
"This way madam," he smiled sweetly albeit fake. Jolly good thing he was starting to get used to doing it, smiling fake that is.
The woman raised her head. Her expression very well mirrored her age—old, tired, broken. The creases on her forehead and the laugh lines that dipped into her frown contrasted against the bright shimmer in her eyes. How she hunched on her shoulders as she clasped against a pendant that was no longer there, how her lip quivered in an obvious attempt to beg for it back...
Allen couldn't stand to look, but he did. He had to.
"'Twas my ma's last mem'ry, milord!" She sobbed. "But I had ta givit awee..."
As sincerely as he could muster, Allen replied, "your mother will forgive you, madam." He held her hand, gently prompting her up on her feet.
The woman let Allen guide her to the door, seeming grateful that he matched her pace.
"Ah know she will," she sniffed. "But ta me, tha' necklace meant the world."
Yes, Allen knew it did. He could see how she furiously kept wiping away fresh tears. Her words were often caught in a stammer, but she persisted.
That necklace meant everything to her, and his lord took it away as payment for a favor only the Earl of Aster could do.
Allen led her to the yard, watched as Marcel guided her up the coach and Froilan drove her to the west gate. He watched them disappear within the last shades of the afternoon as gold and ink blended in the everlasting sky. Breathing in the pine-scented air, he let out the sigh he'd been holding and let his damned shoulders relax—finally. He could use some wine.
Unfortunately, with an uncharacteristically loud groan, he had further stewarding duties to attend to. Attending to his insensitive prick of a lord for example.
He headed to the Earl's office, finding the lord at his desk. The earl's face rested on his palm, his dark, unkempt waves tickling over his shoulders. The bastard had an obnoxious smirk on his face while regarding Allen with his sharp, ruby eyes.
The lord spun the woman's necklace round and round with his finger until the pendant came to a stop at his palm. He threw the chain across the room towards Allen, the links jingling softly against each other.
Allen rolled his eyes, catching the piece of jewelry with ease. "My lord, if I may—"
"You may not—"
"I presume this necklace barely cost half a shilling, yet you snatched it from the old woman's grasp. What use have you for a cheap silver chain?" Allen gingerly bit the edge of a chain link and frowned. "It's not even real silver."
The lord tutted, rising from his seat. "Monetary value does not measure the worth of an item, my good friend." He stepped away from his desk, a slight wobble in his steps. Was the man dressed in just his drawers?! "I acquired this simply because it mattered to her. It's a satisfying thing when you watch them weep over such a small thing..."
The lord glared at him.
"You look as if you've shat on a slice of cake and ate it," the lord accused.
"You are in your bedroom wear, Lord Mircea," Allen said dryly. "An earl should be dressed appropriately when communing with his people."
The earl snorted, lazily shooing him away as he rounded his table. "I've no need for propriety when addressing the common folk, Mr. Matthews. Now fetch me a gin and put that thing away with the others."
What a prick, this Lord Lucian Mircea was. Yet Allen bowed in obedience anyway. "As you wish, sir."
... ... ...
It was past eight in the evening when Marcel and Froilan returned. Allen had been waiting along with Mrs. Jen Ashfield, the Housekeeper, by the yard. It had become an evening routine where either he or the housekeeper would wait for the footmen outside when the weather was clear, or at the front parlor when it rained or snowed. Since most of Lucian's correspondents came in the late afternoon in secret, it was the servants' duty to send them off as discretely and as safely as they had come. Usually Mr. Rhodes was the only one to perform such a duty, but Marcel was new, and Allen sought to it that he was properly trained.
The March air was cold with the vestiges of winter, and it carried with it the songs of crows. From the corner of his eye, Allen could see the frown on the missus' face. Trouble, he presumed. Froilan never used his magic when it was safe.
The crows descended, feathers exploding into a torrent of black smoke until they revealed two men, spent from long hours of flying.
Mrs. Ashfield stepped up, regarding them with an accusing stare. Allen dreaded being on the receiving end of the missus' ire.
"And why are ye both in crow form?" She asked, crossing her arms sternly.
"I felt a very dark presence when we reached London, ma'am," Froilan replied in between huffs. "I could feel it watching us... had to... fly home lest we be discovered."
Mrs. Ashfield nodded in understanding. "Aye, good on you lad. Ye did right to use some magic to go home. Have ye made sure ye weren't spotted?"
"Yes ma'am," Froilan replied, popping up his collar with a smug expression. "They didn't call me Froilan the Smooth for nothing!"
Mrs. Ashfield shook her head in amusement.
"I'll notify the lord after you both retire," Allen said. "Did you stay with Mrs. Ewing to see if the elixir worked?"
"Yes, sir." Marcel replied. There was a child-like wonder in his eyes that Allen knew all too well. "It was amazing! Just a drop of Lord Mircea's potion and Mr. Ewing was up on 'is tippy toes. He looked like he 'adn't aged above fifty!"
Allen let out a relieved sigh. Ah, the good for nothing lord delivered yet again. Perhaps it was worth the precious heirloom Lucian took away from her. "Good Marcel. You and Froilan retire to your rooms. I shall attend to our lord shortly."
When they had disbanded, Allen went straight to the Earl's room. He found him across the floor, bangs matted to his forehead, arms spread with one reaching for a half-emptied bottle of absinthe. Remnants of breakfast, lunch and ale stained the front of his sleeping robes, and the carpets reeked of vomit, sweat, and dust.
Allen tutted. The imbecile was drunk. Again.
"My lord," Allen sighed. "Must we have our eleven-hundredth talk about the dangers of overdrinking at nine o' clock in the evening?"
He heard a muffled chuckle, "you keep count of something as ridiculous as that?"
"I find it amazing how my lord is content to sleep on his bile-stained carpet like an Irish hooligan." Allen shook his head ruefully. He took three wide steps and gently pulled at the lord's arm. "Please get up sir. I'll have Ms. Bartholomew and Ms. Vincent clean your room and have you stay at one of the guest rooms temporarily."
Allen groaned, disapproving, as he pulled Lucian upright. He wrinkled his nose in disgust. The man reeked of piss and ale!
"Are you going to complain about me smelling like piss and ale, you little shit?" Lucian smirked. Was the damned earl a mind reader too?
"You stink." Allen said, adjusting his hold on Lucian as they made for the door. "It is not an amusing thing, my lord."
"It is when your life is miserable because of it, Mr. Matthews." Lucian chuckled drunkenly. After a hiccup he added, "is Mrs. Ewing's husband all well now?"
Allen smiled for real this time, "Yes. Thanks to you."
Lucian's head lolled to the side, indicating that he was asleep. Allen shook his head in amusement. Truly the lord was an odd personality.
Allen had known many kings, princes, dukes, marquees, counts and barons in his time. None were as uncouth and as unrefined as the sad sack of potatoes known as Lucian Mircea of the Faelore, Earl of Aster. He was expensive... perhaps pricier than the Queen Victoria herself, who decked his household with collections of items that sparkled and items that rotted. What he did with those items, Allen never knew. When he bothered asking, he never received a reply.
Perhaps it was because Lucian was the son of a hoarder, or perhaps it was because he was birthed by a demon who fed fantasies to men's dreams. Perhaps it was the earl's unhealthy obsession with dragonlore that made him a hoarder of other people's happiness. Lucian loved to take. Anything that was precious, anything that was of value... whether he had use for them or not was irrelevant. Allen knew he just had the sick satisfaction of watching people's precious things get snatched away.
Yet here he was, draped over his butler like a common drunk. What a waste of good looks and social standing!
But the lord was kind. He was gracious enough to help a woman several classes beneath him. He was good enough to make the time for producing a healing potion. He was merciful enough to take in scoundrels like Allen Matthews under his wing and make them his servants.
Yet with everything Lucian had, Allen thought sadly, the earl was still a pathetic little son of a bitch.
... ... ...
Unsurprisingly, the earl was in tip-top shape when Allen assisted him with his morning routine. Lucian barely needed help with dressing himself, as if his drunken stupor was some sick and twisted joke on Allen's already exhausted psyche.
Lucian in his morning clothes was always a welcome sight—especially for the female company in the house. His normally unkempt hair was tied to a low ponytail, and a dapper coat over matching black vest and trousers hugged his body. A bejeweled pin decorated the lapel of his dress shirt, the gem matching the color of his eyes. He certainly looked like he was dressed to impress.
It looked like the man was set to leave the manor. Allen realized that he was as the earl went over to the guest room's door, peering at him with an expectant look.
"Are you coming?" The lord asked him.
Allen spluttered. "But sir, what about breakfast?"
"I'll have it in the city," Lucian remarked flippantly. Taking his walking cane, he gestured to the hall in exaggerated fashion. "Now come along!"
Allen shook his head. "And what reason have you for wanting to go to the city at this hour, my lord?"
Lucian regarded him for a while and smirked. "Were you not planning on telling me that Froilan sensed a dark presence in the heart of London?"
"How did—"
"I know the language of crows, Mr. Matthews." Lucian remarked as he sauntered out the door and into the halls. "I could hear Froilan's squawk last night from a mile away."
Allen sighed. Five o' clock in the morning and it was already a stressful day.
... ... ...
March 3, 1888
Dearest Ivy,
This is the first of many letters that I should have written. I had not found the courage to speak or to pen my thoughts and feelings down... but now I am. I am because you once said that if I was very afraid, I should tell you. I have rarely been afraid, Ivy. And right now, since the day I had been reawakened, I am.
I am afraid, not for myself, but for the man who rescued me.
I do not know how to say this, but the bastard has strung himself a very suspicious deal.
I should have stopped him Ivy. I have always known that he loved to collect things... things that were of value to other people. Things that meant the world to them.
He had unwisely demanded one thing that clearly meant the world to another. And because of this... something dark has awakened in the heart of London.
I shall tell you more but... someone is coming.
I will write to you soon.
Sincerely,
Allen Matthews