It is January 1805, just before the beginning of Lent Term, and the streets, roofs and lawns of Cambridge are laid deep with snow. A terrible chill is in the air: the sky is milky white with snow-cloud, so that this night is less dark than it would otherwise have been. Not far away from our scene, a crust of ice has formed over the top of the river: families of ducks and swans stare bewildered at its surface and huddle together for protection against the cold.
Strange, then, that such a figure as this should emerge around the corner of the University's Senate House: a figure, slight and feminine in build, dressed only in a white dress that falls only to her knees, and leaves her arms bare. Her skin is white as the dress, white as the snow, but there is no other sign that she feels the cold. A romantic mind might say she was warmed by the flame that crowns her head: a cascade of dark red hair, slightly wavy, that falls beyond her shoulders. But this is not so, for it is something else that warms her: a power known to few, and decried as devilish by many that do know of it: an ancient magic, that lingers on in the spirits of a special elect, though forgotten by most men and women in this modern world.
Our heroine – for heroine to us she is – grasps in her hand a slender stick of yew, but otherwise carries no tool or armament on her person: she has no need of any! She is frightened; she looks hastily from left to right and back and back again like a hunted beast: hunted indeed she is. Then, seeing no sign of any of creature – for it is, as we have seen, a dreadful cold night, and midnight is now two or three hours past – she sets off down the Parade, light and nimble on her bare feet that seem unconscious of the chilly blanket smothering them, toward the gothic grandeur of King's College, from which a few lights – fellows working late, or fallen asleep at their desks without extinguishing their candles – yet shine.
"Susannah!" calls a voice from a side alley; Susannah looks, and sees standing between two shops a man, dressed so as not to attract attention in the mundane world, in a red velvet jacket, black silk waistcoat and frilly white cravat. He, too, carries a wand in his white-gloved hand. The man's aspect is dark: his skin has a Mediterranean colour, and his mid-length hair is glossy black. So, too, are his eyes; they meet Susannah's grey orbs with a fearful look.
"Francesco!" Susannah replies, scurrying over to her friend; "I did not expect to see you here."
"I had to come," Francesco says. "You are in danger – I fear he is here."
"He?" Susannah says, incredulous. "He himself? I am constantly on the look-out for followers, but for he himself to come here would be a thing unheard of."
"Nevertheless, I fear it has come to pass," Francesco says. "Only hope that it is not so! But for now we must seek a hiding place –"
Yet it is too late, for there is a noise like a cannon: he is flung back, his head smashing against a wall, and blood pouring from it, staining the snow. He is unconscious; Susannah pauses, not knowing whether to go to him, or to run – but then she sees her friend's attacker, a figure in long black robes, his face as pale as her own, approaching out of the darkness at the far end of the alley.
He does not speak; he raises his wand. A flash of light, icy blue, illuminates the narrow space: Susannah, too, is flung back, with a cry, and hits the ground insensible.
Her attacker kneels to inspect his handiwork, and smiles to himself. She has frozen, not from the cold of the night – though it would have done that work itself in time – but from the spell cast upon her by her assailant: ice covers her face and her still open eyes; even her fiery hair is laced now with white crystals. The man draws out a knife, and takes her arm – it, too, is frozen, but not utterly immobile – he cuts her wrist, and a few drops of blood, still just warm, spurt out; he gathers them in a vial, and then leaves, silent but for the rustling of his cloak.
Two hundred years later, Susannah awakes …