i·de·a·mat·ter

11:30 AM, Friday, November 8

There was nothing particularly noteworthy about No. 7 Cherry Wood Avenue, at least when it was viewed from the street. It was merely one of innumerable townhouses, anonymous in its commonplace regality.

I use “regality” very intentionally, as, in a sense, a king did live there, but I’ll get to that momentarily.

Cherry Wood Avenue was located in the west end of Langstaff, a small town in the greater metropolitan area of London. Apparently, Langstaff was something of a cultural center decades ago. I could still sense a bit of this past, like the echo of a vibrant melody that lingered beneath a monotone drone. Now, it was hard to see it as anything other than a collection of low-rent flats, semi-reputable clubs, bargain shops, and student housing for the University of Langstaff. That was the school I attended, having settled for my fifth choice after all my other applications were summarily rejected. Relocating from the countryside to the city was, at the time, the most exciting thing that had ever happened to me. The city held an irresistible allure that, to my teenage imagination, felt in a way magnetic. While I was never one to follow a trend, branching out from my roots and becoming more “worldly” seemed like the proper thing to do at my age, so I was glad that at least one of my more metropolitan college aspirations was successful.

The student housing I could afford was far enough away from campus that, while I could walk, the rainy autumn weather spurred me to use public transportation whenever possible, and I enjoyed the reliability of the underground. It allowed me to see a side of city life that I would have otherwise missed had I walked huddled under an umbrella, or tucked away in the backseat of a taxi. Why I preferred it over the bus, I’m not entirely sure, but I am certain that had I not made the train my primary source of transportation, I would not have eventually ended up at No. 7 Cherry Wood Avenue.

As I stated before, this address was home to a king of a sort. She was elegant, sharp-tongued, and frightening enough, living separately from those who would be considered her “subjects,” but commanding their respect as if a part of her occupied a space within their very souls. The only daughter of the Kingstone family was as close to royalty as one could get without possessing a drop of royal blood.

Of course, I was aware of Kingstone Manufacturing, touted as “Keeping Britain Airborne Since 1939,” long before I met Evette Kingstone. I had also heard of Evette, knowing about as much of her as anyone else—that is to say, very little. Her fame seemed to be of little substance, in the same way that a royal baby was fawned over by tabloids for no other reason than the status of its parents, and not a quality of its own. I knew she was about the same age as me, that she was quite beautiful, and that she was blind. That particular detail was often mentioned alongside her name on the magazine covers her photo would sometimes appear on, as if that added to her mystique. As far as I was concerned, it was a little tasteless to harp on something like that, but as someone on the opposite end of the social ladder, getting offended on her behalf seemed like a foolish waste of energy. Of the research I did after making her acquaintance, it struck me that, despite fairly frequent mentions in gossip rags, most of the information was either purely speculative or dressed-up statements that had no real journalistic merit. In the wider context of society, she wasn’t so much a person as an idea of what a person like her could be.

As it turned out, the real Evette Kingstone shared little in common with this idea of a person. Where one expected grace, one found precision. Where one expected impersonal kindness, one found cold disinterest. Where one expected eloquence, one found curtness. Within minutes of our first meeting, I was left with the distinct impression that not only did she dislike me, she disliked most everyone. Whether this was her natural disposition or simply a defense mechanism honed from a lifetime of voyeuristic media, the fact remained that she bristled at my voice, flinched away if I ever got too close, and addressed me as if I was a flea-bitten stray rather than hired help.

Exactly how I entered her service as an errand boy is still something of a mystery. The sequence of events was as clear as anything, but how this particular arrangement came to be was anything but, mainly because I wasn’t really part of the conversation. Anyhow, I didn’t feel like it was my place to question it. If someone in the Kingstone family had decided that I should be the one to buy groceries and other necessities for their heiress, and to pay me for it, who was I to turn down such an opportunity? It was a job that I could easily work into my normal routine, and the pay was better than most other jobs that required far more commitment that would cut into my attendance. Add to the fact the job offered some protection, I could stand to be around a girl who wanted nothing to do with me if it meant I didn’t have to worry as much about the dangers that might be lurking in each alley I passed.

Today, Miss Kingstone had requested I stop by the Indian market in Parkley Circus to pick up some spices. It didn’t take me too far out of my way, and I’d actually been meaning to go myself, as it was the only place I knew of that sold a certain brand of soft drink I’d taken a liking to. Regardless, I bought the requested spices with the money given to me for my job, the drink with my own money, and sipped it as I walked from Parkley Circus to Cherry Wood Avenue. November had come without fanfare, and the impending winter still felt distant even as I trode over fallen leaves which painted the black pavement in splotches of soggy orange and brown.

As indicated by the name, Cherry Wood Avenue was lined with cherry trees, which still burned with autumnal fire, even as grayness overtook the world around them. No. 7 stood innocuously near the corner, staffed by the usual doorman, a tall, almost statuesque gentleman with a face that betrayed neither emotion nor basic awareness of the world around him until he was addressed. I was told his name was Mr. Grey. If that was indeed his real name, I didn’t ask. I wasn’t sure if anyone had told him my name, but I had the strangest feeling he knew it, so I never bothered to tell him myself.

“Good morning. Miss Kingstone called for me. Just some groceries.”

His eyes methodically scanned my face as if searching for any possible hint of treachery. Without so much as a grunt in response, he held out a stone-like hand to take the grocery bags from me for inspection. It took no shorter than the first time as he examined each item, paying special attention to make sure the seals were unbroken. When he was finally satisfied, he handed the bag back to me and stepped aside, opening the door and ushering me through.

My knowledge of London architecture is limited, but I felt confident that very little about the building had changed since its construction. The front door opened into a wide-open hall, a sitting room to the left, a study to the right, a kitchen straight ahead, and a spiral staircase that led upstairs to rooms I wasn’t privy to. It smelled old, in that way things do when they’re well maintained but not ashamed to show their history. Society’s second-to-third highest had lived here for generations.

I found Miss Kingstone in the sitting room, reading in her favorite armchair. A dainty hand glided across the page, sometimes returning to an earlier point to re-read a section, but always moving ahead once she had found what she was looking for. Perhaps the epitome of “looks can be deceiving,” she appeared helpless and gentle, dressed in a black turtleneck sweater and—true to her Scottish roots—a tartan skirt over black tights and perfectly polished Mary Jane shoes. Her lithe frame was postured so as to give the impression that she was relaxed, in that way one does when sitting for a portrait. Maybe it was just because she was expecting me, but I couldn’t help entertaining the idea that she never really relaxed. Though she didn’t react to my presence, I knew that she knew I was there.

The curtains were partially, shrouding her in an embrace of warm darkness and framed by shafts of shimmering morning light. I had been told to draw the curtains for her, should I ever be in a room she was expected to enter, on account of her light sensitivity, although most of the time that was handled by someone in the household.

“Miss Kingstone—”

“You may leave the groceries in the kitchen. Joanne will see to it that they’re put away.”

“Of course.”

As far as conversation went, that was about the most I expected from her. I did as I was told, leaving the bag on the kitchen counter to become someone else’s responsibility. I hadn’t met Joanne, but I hoped she was treated a little more respectfully than I was.

Returning to the sitting room, the heiress was just the same as I left her. Although by now I should have learned my lesson not to speak to her unless spoken to, I pushed my luck as far as I dared and asked her a question.

“Have you seen Miss Jarwal today? She’s usually here.”

Miss Kingstone acted for a moment as if she hadn’t heard me, but repeating myself felt like a dangerous risk to take. One thing I had been instructed to do was to “go at her pace or God help you.”

Once she had finished the page she was on, she replied, “Miss Jarwal is attending to some important business for my father, today. She isn’t expected back until this evening, and when she does return, I expect she won’t be in any mood for idle chit-chat.”

“It doesn’t have anything to do with the New Moon Abductions, does it?”

Her fingers twitched slightly, but otherwise hung frozen above the page. I had overstepped my station, and immediately moved to correct the error.

“Oh. Well, if you could tell her I said hello—”

“Mr. Pierce, please do not take me as disrespectful, but I believe your position is not one to make such requests. That will be all.”

I had reached the limit of her patience. The conversation was over, and I was no longer welcome in her little world.

Once more outside No. 7, with Mr. Grey’s gaze piercing the back of my skull, I began to make my way back to campus. Twice a week on average I would go on these excursions for the heiress, sometimes more if it pleased her, but the one thing that made it enjoyable rather than just tolerable was that more often than not, Mahnoor would be there. Today hadn’t been one of those days, however, and my mood took a downward turn because of it. I knew some details of her position as a contractor for the Kingstone family, but the specifics were mysterious and vague to me. I had, however, seen firsthand what she could do, and understood that when Miss Kingstone said “important business for my father,” that meant something far different than what most anyone else would mean. Prior experiences with her told me that whatever she was doing, the New Moon Abductions were involved in some way.

I had known all my life there were corners of the world that were overlooked, although my experience lay in a more rural setting. As it turned out, cities may well have been even better at obscuring secrets. In the noise and the lights, so much could be hidden without much effort. Strange sights could be chalked up to the inherently larger-than-life nature of the city, or the ravings of those society had left behind. As long as you weren’t brazen about it, you could get away with a fair amount that many would consider “out of the ordinary.”

Case in point, the night I met Mahnoor.