It still seems like a dream! At any moment I expect that I might wake to find myself wrapped in my bed covers, the ball fast approaching. When I awoke this afternoon I was certain it had merely been the wild imaginings of an excited mind, carrying on as normal until Sarah offered her congratulations and wishes for a "blessed" future with Mr. Martin. Today I am no longer Miss Philomena Moore but the future Mrs. Nicholas Martin. I can scarcely contain myself for all my happiness. It is such a strange thing, for I feel a traitor to myself for so easily abandoning my independence yet I cannot force myself to regard it a loss for he treasures those things about myself no man or woman has ever before valued. I should be free to pursue those things which form the core of my being without having to live the life of an outcast for he has sworn to ever be my greatest supporter. I traced the straight line of the nose with my pencil again and again, defining it. In times of great agitation I had always found some peculiar peace in drawing. The act itself required such a great amount of immediate attention as to render those things beyond it a fog of vague shapes and emotions. Time vanished within the dark lines, the paler shades, and order imposed itself upon the nothingness. Years of solitary practice had rendered me well skilled in the art; yet the knowledge that I possessed such a talent was mine and mine alone. Those things which flowed from my mind were never to be culled into what might be most valued by my peers and exploited by my parents - I would never show for the delight of others tables, landscapes, fine little portraits to be exhibited in some country gallery holding no soul nor substance beyond that they might procure the smiles of the observer. To obfuscate my true works I had, in the front of every book I had ever filled, crude attempts at trees, misshapen people and animals, landscapes that might very well be the sea for how well they were detailed. My personal favorite was a castle with windows of every possible four-sided shape but a square and not a proper straight line to be seen. I daresay my feints might actually require more of my talent than my truths! This particular portrait was quite my favorite type to indulge in - the fitting of flesh and feature onto bone. Before they had taken my Cheselden away I had occupied hours at this pastime; piecing together animals and humans only from drawings of their barest elements.

It struck me that perhaps this portrait should be dark of feature, as a southern Italian, though the features did not bear out that lineage. The nose was narrow, straight, heroic in form. The jaw had proven strong and square, the chin pronounced though not greatly so, with no hint of Italian roundness about either. I traced the eyebrows. The way they sat, straight, with little curvature lent the sketch a striking appearance. I darkened them, filling in the hairs only hinted in the earlier portrait of her neighbor. There was an intensity in the manner those brows just brushed over the inner corners of the eyes, abandoning their covering halfway across. And those eyes! So perfectly shaped in their orbits! Neither too close nor too far from the bridge, nor too wide or round. I brushed the tip of the pencil across the top lid rapidly, darkening it. The brow, too, different from its companion. The latter had been tall, embossed near the center with two slightly protruding lobes, but this one was far more regular, sloping properly away from the eyes. Holding the portrait at an arms length I could scarce believe the face to be that of a female - no! It was a handsome man who stared at me from the thick parchment. The shape was too distinct, too squared in the jaw, with nothing to suggest the fairness - sharp and yet rounded - of the female form. I did not doubt my translation, I had been about such diversions from my youth, the countenance was accurate to its model. More likely it was a mere case of mistaken identity, or else an intentional fraud upon my Uncle - the romance of a married couple separated in life but reunited in death was far more enticing to the collector than that of two men who at best might be sold as brothers-at-arms. To be entirely fair, turning the page from one to the other and back again, I doubted the two to be of the same race at all for there was little the pair held in common beyond their masculine form. Perhaps one might be an ancient Etruscan but the other clearly was not! Closing my sketch book, I lay it on the table and took to the shelves in the hopes of locating a book containing pictures of Etruscan statues I might use for comparison to determine which, if any, was the impostor. It was quite a while before I was (at last!) able to find an ancient looking book on the subject of size large enough as to promise copious illustrations. I flipped through the pages eagerly but found inside little encouragement that what I sought was contained within. The heavy sound of the door knob turning caused me to look from my studies to that portal.

"Lord Norbert!" I cried upon recognizing the tall dark haired man who slipped in. Despite his prior abuse I was glad to see him, eager to reveal what I had uncovered thus far.

"Hush girl!" was his harshly whispered reply. "I have no desire that we should be chaperoned today." I colored. I had not even thought of the appearance of our meeting - a lone woman speaking with a single man appeared more an assignation than innocent coincidence.

"I am sorry. I have so much to tell-" He held up his hand to signal that I was to cease speaking. He scanned the hall quickly before closing the door behind,

"Have you found a way into the Study yet?"

"That is what I was about to tell you before you shushed me." I retorted.

"Then I recommend you learn some proper discretion - anyone could have been passing and overheard." I shot him a sour glance. "Well?" he probed irritably, unfazed. "I have little time to mince words, you are fortunate your Uncle requested a visit from Quentin today and I was able to accompany."

"I have not found a way into the Study yet, perse..." I hemmed. "But I have learned where I might procure a key to the room."

"But you haven't yet procured it, am I correct in that assumption?"

"Not as such, no." I hung my head.

"Good God! What have you been doing this whole time! It has been a month since you begged me to allow you to prove your worth! I give you one simple task and you squander your time on being called upon and attending balls like any of those dewy eyed frivolous flirts. You are one in a kind with them and utterly worthless to me!"

"Oh how terrible that I might have other pressing matters in my life beyond acquiring a key! What must you think of me?" I shot back.

"I think you're 18 and you're an idiot. This is a missing man we are discussing, not a misplaced book! There may be more lives at stake than just his and you concern yourself with gaining the favors of men? I should wash my hands of you here and now!"

"But then you would never know what else I have discovered."

"And what mere trifle of interest is that? That your beau better in the saddle than on the dance floor?" The salacious tone he spoke this with caused my rage to boil over. He turned his back towards me,

"I have found out how Lord Bond gained access to the house." I fumed, pleased I at least had some clue to prove myself not a total imbecile.

"Mhmm, and how is that?" he replied absently, seemingly distracted by something on the table. I heard pages turning.

"He deceived one of the maids into believing he was in love with her in order that she might allow him to enter the house through the garden gate."

"Hmm. Not a bad plan." he mumbled, still turning the pages.

"It is despicable that he would use a woman in such a way." I protested.

"She allowed herself to be used - it really is her own fault."

"But he is engaged to be married!"

"That is beside the point; he required access to the house and he procured it - Dinah would understand."

"I would not be so forgiving were it I in her position." he turned his head towards me for a moment,

"Then it is fortunate that it is not you in her position." he quipped as he returned to whatever book he was flipping through.

"But it is wrong to trick a young lady in such a cruel way!"

"Ugh!" he groaned. "You women are far too tender-hearted to see anything beyond your emotions. Now tell me, when did this affair begin?" I was taken aback by his rudeness - he was certainly far more a brute than a gentleman! It is no small wonder why he had not wed for I could not imagine a woman tolerating him in either of his forms.

"Seven months ago, I believe."

"And when did she last see Lord Bond?

"Three months from June - so four in total, by her own testimony. She said he had left a signal that they should meet that night but he never came."

"Was he in the habit of failing to appear at their assignations?"

"I did not ask specifically, however, she gave the impression that this was quite the aberration."

"That is very troubling. It means that whatever happened to him occurred between the time he left the signal and when she was scheduled to meet him - unless, of course, she is attempting to cover for him or herself if something untoward occurred between the two."

"I know the girl and she is quite incapable of guile." I vouched.

"I shall take you at your word for that as I know few maids to have the capacity to organize such a deception. So we must then assume that he was not anticipating whatever it was that prevented him from attending his encounter with the maid and that it was of such a serious magnitude that he was unable to return. He would not easily abandon three months of work without cause."

"Perhaps he found what he was searching for." I suggested, hopefully, though there was sinking sensation in my heart that only fell deeper with every passing moment.

"It is reasonable that he might have, were the thing of a particularly urgent nature he may not have had the luxury of time to contact anyone before he left. But that does not account for his continued silence. By now he would know we were searching for him." Lord Norbert was still having his conversation with the book rather than the person behind him to my great chagrin. "It would be quite simple to-" he stopped short. "Is this your sketchbook?" My sketchbook! He was looking through my sketchbook! In his rudeness I had forgotten that I had left it unguarded on the table. I suddenly felt more exposed than if I had instantly been made naked in front of him for he must be well past the false drawings by now and into my private works. My whole body was ablaze in the deepest crimson. "Well, is it?" his question was terse though I could not guess as to why.

"Y-yes." I stuttered, far too humiliated for any attempt at something greater than a monosyllable.

"Have you seen this man then?" he pointed to the portrait of the dark haired man. "When?"

"I-I-I-" I floundered.

"Answer me!" he barked.

"N-no. I have never seen him before." I answered.

"You're certain, not even in passing at a ball or on the street?" still holding the picture, his eyes burning with that same intensity as when I had revealed his true identity, he stepped towards me.

"No, never." I answered shakily, instinctively backing up until my legs hit the seat of a chair. My hands searched behind me for the firm back to brace myself against. What was he on about?

"Think hard!" he ordered.

"No, I am certain I have never seen the man before. It is only a sketch of one of the skulls!" I pleaded.

"One of the skulls?" he stared, bewildered.

"Yes! Well at least how it might appear in the flesh. It is a hobby of mine, albeit a strange one I admit." Lord Norbert's entire body seemed to slacken at this revelation.

"And you believe the likeness to be accurate."

"Yes, as far as my abilities allow. Why?"

"Because, my dear, this drawing is a near exact likeness to Lord Bond." My hands flew to cover a gasp.

"Did he - did he ever have a bad injury to his neck or right shoulder?" I asked.

"Yes, when he was on call in Bombay he tore the muscle so severely in a fight with a rather shady businessman's Niar bodyguards. He had to leave the field for the remainder of the year. I know it still bothers him when the weather is foul. But how did you know to ask that?"

"My God." I cursed softly. Unbidden, a scene from my childhood played out in front of me:

I had consigned myself to the kitchen for the afternoon in the hope that my mere presence might merit me a tasty morsel of food from Gretchen, our old cook, who, despite her often scolding tongue, was secretly fond of me. She had just received an order of soup bones from the butcher and had taken one out for inspection. Her aspect changed entirely as she examined the bone. "Charlie, you tell that no account cheat of a butcher that he can take these bones and put 'em back in the tomb whence he got 'em! If he thinks he can pull a fast one on Ol' Gretchen he has another thing comin' I swear to you on all that is holy!" She shoved the crate back in poor Charlie O'Dell's arms with force enough to push him out the door. "Dirty cheat. Who does he think he's dealing with?" she grumbled, bustling about the stove top, pots clattering, victims of her ire.

"Miss Gretchen?" I offered.

"Yes, love?" she spoke as sweetly as one deeply peeved might.

"What was wrong with the soup bones?" I had inquired innocently.

"They were too old! Good for nothin' but to be fed to the dogs." she griped. I stared at her as though she were some form of wizard -

"How can you tell? They only looked like bones to me."

"They were dry as a desert! A good soup bone is so slick with grease you can scarce hold it in your hand without it threatnin' to slide away. That's how you know it's fresh."

I unconsciously began wiping my palms on my dress again and again desperate to remove what was already long washed away. "That's how you know it's fresh." My stomach lurched. "Oh God." I repeated, rushing to the window. My palms hit the glass, slamming the window open just in time for my dinner to decorate the rose bushes below.

"What is it?" Lord Norbert sounded truly concerned for once in his life - though whether that concern was for me or for the meaning of my sudden display as it might pertain to Lord Bond I could only guess.

"The skull-" my stomach lurched again; I fought it back down. "The skull is Lord Bond." I choked before rushing back to my post at the windowsill.

"No." I heard Lord Norbert whisper from somewhere behind me. "No, it can't be." but I knew from the defeat, the sorrow of resignation in his voice he knew it to be the truth. "Are you certain?" the question was less one of investigation and more the final death plea of hope before it was smote for all time.

"Yes." I managed before going over the edge again. Finally, after a few minutes I was able to bring my heaving under control enough to speak, "Yes, I am certain. Beyond the sketch he has healed damage to the back of his skull that was most likely the result of a very serious injury. It matches what you say. And then there is the gr- the gr-" the grease! No, I could not even pronounce it for its horrors. "It's been plastered and painted to make it appear older than it is; but there is no mistake - it is Lord Bond."

"My God, James! What have they done to you?" Lord Norbert whispered staring desperately into those sockets that would never again stare back. "What kind of monster could do this!" he turned to me, his visage now one comparable only to a demon from hell, such was his fury. "It is beyond the comprehension of humanity! And then to display him for all to see as though some sort of secret conquest! To set him to gaze upon his unwitting fiance and friends as they indulge in a game of whist all the while the villain laughs at his monstrous joke!" He returned his gaze to his friend, a tear traced the inside of his cheek, leaving a glistening path where it had crossed. I knew not how to comfort him - what comfort could be offered? Finally, taking a place at his side I lay my hand on his shoulder. The tips of his fingers found mine and squeezed them. "Go home." he murmured, his tone as black as his expression.

"But I am home."

"No, go home to N-shire."

"But-"

"No, no excuses!" his voice had taken on an edge. "Go home! I don't care how you do it - feign illness, an ill turn of the mind, run away - but go home now!"

"But you may need me-"

"I have no use for you any further. Now GO HOME MISS MOORE!" he shouted, no longer seeming to care who might overhear. I fled from the library and his ragings as quickly as I could.