With many thanks for the lovely reviews. :) This chapter includes flashbacks and again it is all supposition and make believe. All errors are my own and unintentions. Love to hear your thoughts.

Chapter Fourteen:

"Get up! Hal for God's sake you must get up. If you don't then you'll never leave here!"

Hal's eyes spring open as her voice echoes through his head and for a brief chilling moment he thinks he's back there again. He waits and he listens but it's quiet. He slowly rolls onto his back as a knock sounds on his door. He bids his visitor enter as he begins to sit up. His head still feels a little bit cloudy, he'd slept soundly upon his return and the fact that he has woken in his bed and not on the floor or with his hands around an unsuspecting victim's throat bodes well too. He turns his head as his door squeaks open and he frowns when he sees Maria enter.

"Ah…you're awake…" she flashes a smile at him.

"And in my room…" he reminds her and she rolls her eyes.

"I can't imagine why you're so offended about that, there's nothing of you that I haven't already seen before."

Hal sighs roughly. "At my invitation previously which this is not. What do you want?"

She glares at him with narrowed eyes.

"I had forgotten how…contrary you can be first thing in the morning or in this case, almost noon." She snips back and his eyes widen.

"I am supposed to meeting with Wyndam at noon, am I late?" He shuffles to the side of his bed and his eyes seek out his clothing which is draped across a chair across from him. Maria turns, sees them and goes to them. She picks them up and brings them to him, dropping them down beside him on the mattress.

"He's been busy this morning so I do not think he will mind if you are a little bit late but no…not late yet."

"But I will be. Maria, please state your business or be on your way." He stands up but is careful to keep the sheet around his waist. The look he flicks her way is heavy with irritation.

"I saw Frederick last night…" she begins delicately and Hal's answering frown is distracted as he struggles into his clothing.

"Who?"

"Wyndam's steward…the chap you attempted to strangle yesterday," She clarifies and she watches as he slowly straightens.

"What of him?" He asks.

"You were in the midst of another dream Hal," She reminds him. He looks away and instead goes to his travelling chest where he extracts a clean white chemise which he shrugs on.

"I already told Louis that I don't remember," He begins.

"You may be able to pull the wool over his eyes and you may be able to keep Wyndam at arm's length with your stories but I've known you a little bit longer, allow me to have just a little bit more intelligence," She interrupts and he looks at her, goes absolutely still.

"Your point being?" He asks, his voice becoming like ice. Maria sighs and drops onto the mattress; she arranges the skirts of her gown around her legs.

"My point being…these nightmares that you suffer from are violent and they seem to be becoming more frequent the closer we get to England's shores." She watches him.

"They're connected to your human life aren't they?" Her voice is gentle. Hal stares at her and for a moment he's unable to think or even breathe.

"I've already told you, I do not remember."

"I think you do and for whatever reason, fear or shame, you do not want to share them with us." Her expression becomes steadfast. "You think we will judge you, blame you perhaps…"

"Blame me?" he retorts, his tone turning sharp.

Maria gets to her feet.

"Never mind, perhaps I have overstepped my boundaries. If either myself or Edgar can help you with whatever troubles you, come talk to us."

She goes to leave the room but Hal darts into her way and wraps his hands around her upper arms.

"What do you know?" he hisses at her. She sees how his eyes darken.

"Nothing Hal…I know nothing now please, unhand me, you are being most ungentlemanly."

Hal stares at her for a moment longer. Maria sighs.

"Hal…I shall not ask you again. Let go of me," She enunciates and eventually he does just that. She moves around him and leaves.

Hal is aware that he is late for their appointment as he taps on the heavy wooden door and waits for admittance. He straightens the sleeves of his doublet and he wonders what Wyndam could want with him. He hears footsteps on the other side of the door and unconsciously straightens as eventually the door opens. Wyndam stands on the other side.

"Hal…please come in." There is no mention of his lateness and Hal blinks but he enters anyway. It's then that he sees the second man seated in a chair across from Wyndam's laden desk.

He experiences a strange feeling of déjà vu. The man slowly gets to his feet. He's tall; spare looking with fair hair, bright blue eyes and a neatly trimmed beard. He regards Hal with a keenness that sends warning prickles down his spine.

"Take a seat," Wyndam invites and indicates the second empty chair. Hal approaches it and sits down. He keeps the visitor in the corner of his eye as he turns his attention to his patron.

"Well…you're probably wondering why I've requested this meeting with you considering we've spent the last few days travelling together."

"The thought has crossed my mind." Hal answers cautiously. Wyndam regards him and a very slight smile tilts the corners of his mouth.

"First of all, weather conditions at this moment in time do not favour a trip across the sea to England for perhaps the next couple of days or so which may or may not please you in itself Hal but as you can imagine it is of great inconvenience to me. The longer I am away from my home then the greater the business that needs my attention becomes." He indicates the books and parchments that already cover the surface of his desk. "As if my work isn't busy enough…" he glances at their visitor with that same tight smile before he turns his attention back to Hal.

"So…rather than wait until we arrived in England to begin your…book learning and education I thought, why not now… Why not begin today…so Hal I would like you to meet Bartholomew West. He shall be your tutor." he indicates their visitor. Hal turns his head and regards him. Bartholomew's skin is white pale and it makes his eyes stand out more in depth of colour.

"Mr Yorke…pleased to make your acquaintance." the man replies and Hal just nods.

"Mr West is the best at what he does and you will benefit from his expertise. I've set aside the room next door where over time, your writing and reading skills especially will be vastly improved."

"With respect sir, I am not a child." Hal answers, once he's torn his eyes from Bartholomew's face.

"I know that but to get ahead in this world Hal means that you must improve in every way. I know you've had some basic schooling here and there but imagine being able to pick up a book, any book and being able to read the text within with ease and complete understanding. Letter writing is in itself an art form…wouldn't you like to learn how to do that?" Wyndam sits forward and he regards Hal sharply.

"You will thank me for it one day."

The room adjoins Wyndam's office and is of medium size. One wall is lined with a variety of books; Hal doesn't think that he's seen so many before. He approaches them, deliberately ignoring the desk that has been set up across from it. He pauses and examines the tomes, his hands behind his back.

Bartholomew watches him. To all outward purposes the younger vampire exudes an aura of calmness but he isn't fooled. Hal's spine is stiff and his shoulders are squared and he ignored the desk set up for him quite purposely. He waits a moment.

"He's right you know." Bartholomew's voice is quiet but Hal hears him clearly.

"Who is…and about what?" His answering tone is deliberately dismissive.

"Mr Wyndam and your education," Bartholomew answers and when nothing more is forthcoming, Hal slowly turns to look at him.

"So you say."

The tutor smiles.

"I saw the frown on your face, the expression on your face at his pronouncement. You think that you're too old for this, that you've missed your opportunity and that you just want to exist in your new world, to create fear and mayhem and shed blood, oceans upon oceans of blood."

Hal doesn't answer as he watches him slowly approach him.

"You must have more than just a shred of intelligence Hal; otherwise Mr Wyndam wouldn't have summoned me here in the first place. Perhaps you could be difficult and waste my time but something tells me you won't do that. Why don't we take a seat and we can talk about what you already know and maybe we can improve on what needs to be improved upon?" he suggests, indicating the desk and chair with the sweep of one hand. Hal regards it and then looks to him once again.

He lowers himself down behind the desk with a feeling of trepidation. His eyes take everything in.

"Hal, do not worry, you will not be judged, least of all by me," Bartholomew reassures him calmly and Hal looks up at him across the desk. "I remember being in your shoes, though in my case I had no shoes to wear. Mr Wyndam was the one who gave me the same opportunity. I could not read or write at all but in time and with a lot of patience he helped me, taught me and enabled me to go further and teach others in the same situation." He smiles very slightly and it succeeds in warming his startlingly blue eyes.

"How long ago was that?" Hal enquires.

"A long time ago, perhaps two centuries, I don't really remember. When you're a vampire you tend to realise that the days blend into one another and that time doesn't really hold the same appeal as it used to any more. One day perhaps you'll understand for yourself."

"I don't appreciate being patronised." Hal responds icily and Bartholomew regards him calmly.

"Mr Wyndam did say you were a prickly fellow to get to know…I meant no insult Hal…may I call you Hal?" he waits. The younger vampire doesn't respond.

"Mr Wyndam also tells me that you are able to read and write passably…but that it needs improvement…Are you willing to tell me how this came about?" Hal looks at him.

"Excuse me?"

"Did you go to school at all in England?" Bartholomew asks. Hal stares at him. After a moment he shakes his head.

"Then how?"

Hal drops his gaze and stares at a spot on the desk.

"Lizzie taught me." he whispers.

"And who is Lizzie?" Hal glances back up at him and he looks…startled.

"She was…someone…important. I would rather not talk about her if you don't mind." His voice is barely above a whisper, his eyes wide as if horrified at giving away a slice of his former life to someone he does not know.

He can hear her voice in his head as if he had just heard it yesterday, can feel her arm around him, holding him close against her as she traces the letters in the sandy dirt.

"This is your name Hal…H…A….L, see how they go together? Your proper name is Henry but I think Hal suits you more." He turns his head and he smiles into her eyes.

Those eyes are as blue as the summer sky. He is six years old. Lizzie smiles at him and squeezes him to her for a brief moment before she straightens up and disappears in a swish of skirts and perfume.

Hal blinks; he looks up at Bartholomew and sees the mild frown upon his face.

"I'm…sorry." he whispers and he takes a deep breath and he closes his eyes. A moment or two pass before they open again and Bartholomew West sees a different person when those eyes fix upon his face once again.

"If we may begin?"

Wyndam stands in the doorway and watches Bartholomew pack away papers and books for a moment. He's the only occupant in the room.

"How was our Mr Yorke?" he asks and Bartholomew turns his head and glances at him over his shoulder.

"You were not mistaken; he certainly is a prickly fellow isn't he?"

Wyndam walks further into the room.

"I did warn you. How did it go?"

"Well I think. He does indeed write and read passably but not well enough to get by, I think a lot of it is down to guesswork, especially the reading." He pauses and looks to Wyndam again.

"And especially since he confessed to having no formal schooling at all prior to his recruitment. He says he was taught by someone by the name of Lizzie. He would not say more after that, rather he deliberately changed the subject." He frowns.

"But she was important to him."

"Was?"

Bartholomew nods.

"Yes, was…I'm under the impression that the mysterious Lizzie is dead."

Hal scrubs ink from his fingers and he frowns as he does it. He hadn't meant to mention Lizzie. She's kept firmly locked away and he does not talk about her to anyone, not to Maria and certainly not to Wyndam. She's not up for public discussion and he wonders whether Bartholomew West will report his discovery to him. He frowns even harder as the knot in his throat grows and tightens. His new tutor didn't push the matter further and respected his request not to talk about her but he isn't stupid, he'll be curious and so will Edgar Wyndam. Edgar Wyndam and his extensive network of informants. He stops scrubbing and stares out of the window. The low cloud from yesterday still hangs over the town like a shroud. Lizzie is dead and the name is common enough. He huffs out a loud sigh and moves away from the bowl of water, drying his hands on the linen square beside it. As he turns he sees his travelling chest at the bottom of his bed and he goes to it and opens it.

He sorts through its contents. It is mostly clothing but at the bottom and carefully hidden is what he's looking for. He carefully lifts the square of rough dark cloth from its hiding place. He gets to his feet and sits on the side of his bed. He places it on his lap and he looks down at it for a moment or two before he picks it up again and unfastens the crude bindings that hold it together. Once that is done then he unwraps it and he looks down at what it reveals.

He observes her as she crouches down by his feet and reaches beneath the bed. She hauls out a rough looking wooden box and opens it. He watches as she sorts through the meagre belongings, searching for something and eventually she finds what it is she is looking for. She straightens up and looks at him.

"You need to take this, for protection." She pushes it into his hands and as he looks down at it, his eyes widen.

"For protection Hal, do not be afraid to use it if you have to." She looks down at the knife that she's just given to him. "The blade is sharp but I doubt it will do any true harm, depending on where you stick it of course. Just the sight of it will scare away any troublemakers." She carefully places a hand over his, over the weapon.

"It belongs to you now." she tells him.

Hal stares at the knife. He has no idea where Lizzie had got the weapon from and he hadn't asked at the time. The handle is white bone, the blade long and silver. He hasn't used it in a very long time; it has spent its existence in his travelling chest, ignored up until now. He picks it up and holds it in his hand and he remembers the last time that he used it.

He stands in the doorway of the small room and ignores the traitorous surge of fear. His entire body is telling him to turn away and run, to get out of there as fast as possible. He sees him standing beside the poor excuse of a bed, just a mattress really. He watches as he turns and looks at him, smiles at him. Hal takes a slow, deliberate step into the room.

Edmund had told him that his visitor was here, that he mustn't tarry. He still remembers feeling his hand clamp tightly around his upper arm, that hard deliberate squeeze. He expected him to show some kind of emotion, fear perhaps or even pain. He had just looked at him, looked straight through him and then kept on walking.

Up the stairs to this room.

He thinks of all of the years he has spent here, of being beaten and abused. He thinks of all the names that have been shrieked at him. He stays still as he watches the man slowly walk towards him and it occurs to him that he doesn't even know his name, his generous benefactor, his special guest. He makes himself stand still, to not back away. He isn't here to make friends, names do not matter.

The man touches him, a single grimy finger that traces along his cheekbone, still painful from that last beating he suffered and it takes all of his strength not to cringe back away as that finger slides down to his chin and to his bottom lip. The man draws him close in a parody of a lover's embrace.

He looks at the man, into his rheumy aged eyes. He can smell the acrid unwashed scent of him. His fingers curl around the knife's hilt and he tests the weight of it hidden behind his back, hidden down the back of his breeches.

It's time for him to assume control, it has to begin now.

The man's hand slides down the side of Hal's neck, down to his shoulder. Hal sees the desire in his expression, the want. It will not last for long, this wooing. Any moment now it will be replaced by something more savage, more brutal. His heart thunders in his chest, his breathing becomes more rapid. Fear threatens to engulf him.

The man begins to murmur in his thin whispery voice…

"I haven't seen that before."

Hal starts violently and the knife clatters to the ground. He gets to his feet but Maria is there in an instant and she's picking it up off the floor and she holds it, testing its weight in the palm of one hand. She looks up at him. Her smile quickly fades.

"Hal… You are as pale as a ghost."

"That's mine. I want it back." he tells her and without waiting, he all but snatches it out of her hand. He retrieves the cloth and hurriedly re-wraps the weapon back into it. He goes to his chest and then pauses. He raises his eyes and he looks at her.

"The door was closed Maria." he reminds her.

"I thought you may be sleeping again…I haven't seen you all day." she shrugs and watches as he opens his travelling chest and replaces the weapon inside of it. He closes it and secures it. He straightens up and once more he looks at her.

"As you saw, I wasn't. What do you want?" he demands. She frowns.

"There is no need to be so testy with me young man. Wyndam has a social…thing this evening, some fusty Old One meeting that will be indeterminable and dull and I'm bored."

"And?"

"I would like to go out this evening. I would also like for you to accompany me." she replies.

"And what would we do?" he enquires, his equilibrium quickly returning. Maria smiles at him.

"I'm in the mood for mischief Hal. Aren't you?"