The moon rose high over the rooftops of London. It was a clear night, rare for that time of year, and the city seemed beautiful and mysterious bathed in the silver light. Far below the gaze of the celestial orb, ignorant of its power, a great mass of people stepped out from the Royal Theater.

Men and women gathered on the steps of the famous building as they waited for their carriages to take them home. They were England's cultured class and as such, they took pride in their knowledge of fine arts. They were also harsh critics and would have been reluctant to admit that any art form from across the ocean could hold up against their standards. However, this belief was put to the test by the American Theater Company and its triumphant debut performance.

Hailed as one of New York's greatest sensations, the ATC had traveled across the ocean to capture European hearts with a six-month tour. The first stop on their journey was England and the company's director had selected Hamlet for their inaugural performance. It was a bold move to strike at British sensibilities on their own turf, but the response from the critics was ecstatic. The Courier newspaper ran an elaborate piece about the play and soon word spread out that the ATC's Hamlet was something to behold, especially at the hands of its compelling leading man.

The article ran thus: "America has at length vindicated her capability of producing a dramatist of the highest order. Lawrence Talbot's acting goes above and beyond anything seen before. He does not play at being Hamlet, but instead one would believe him to be the Danish King in the flesh. There is such an emotional charge in each delivered line that one can't help but wonder the source from where Mr. Talbot draws the power to give such a moving performance."

"Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio, a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy."

From one of the high boxes of the Royal Theater, Gwen watched the play with close attention, clinging to every word. It had been difficult to get tickets, but her father had managed to procure her a seat in one of the boxes nearest to the stage, courtesy of one of his business contacts. He had innocently believed her interest was sparked by the constant talk about the play, and Gwen had let him believe that. She, however, cared about one thing and one thing only: Lawrence Talbot.

When he'd made his first appearance on-stage, the audience clapped and cheered and he took a moment to acknowledge them with a modest bow of the head. Gwen had discreetly leaned forward and studied him with care. Lawrence Talbot wasn't exactly handsome, but there was something attractive about his dark features and enigmatic air. This, however, did not help her in finding the link between

"But he isn't Ben," she thought, lowering her opera glasses, and worrying her lip.

As the play progressed, Gwen constantly argued with herself. "Surely, if anyone could know the whereabouts of her fiance, it would be his brother." She reminded herself as she went over her plan for the hundredth time. "But what if he doesn't know? What if it's a dead-end?" Gwen let out a sigh. She felt no more certain of her mission than when she'd first arrived at the theater.

However, there was a moment in the play, Lawrence strode across the stage towards the side nearest to her box. "There's a divinity that shapes our ends, rough-hew them how we will," he proclaimed, lifting his gaze and raising a hand towards her.

A shiver ran down Gwen's spine. She couldn't be certain how, but for a brief moment, she had seen her beloved Ben. It was such a vivid image of him, superimposed over his brother's features that she had nearly cried out in surprise.

No one seemed to notice her discomfort, as she placed a trembling hand over her heart as it beat wildly against her chest. In a single moment, her doubts vanished and she resolved to ask, beg if need be, for his help.

After the play ended, Gwen made her way to the backstage door and begged the theater manager for an interview with Lawrence Talbot. The man had assessed her conscientiously, unsure if she was one of those women who often made their way into dressing rooms and under the sheets of celebrated actors. She certainly wouldn't have been the first lady to ask, but there was something about the sober air she bore that indicated she was seeking Lawrence for a different reason.

"Down the hallway and to your right," he said, waving her in. "It'll be the only room at that end. Can't miss it."

The young woman walked hesitantly down the long corridor. It was dark, with only a couple of lamps to light her way, and the place smelled of dust, wood, and grease. From above, the ghostly voices of the stagehands called out to each other as pulleys cranked up and down. She also passed a group of performers, who stopped their conversation and stared curiously as she neared the end of the hall.

Gwen would not have minded if she hadn't thought her actions too forward. "But you can't go back now," she murmured to herself. "Think of Ben. You have to find him and this may be your last hope."

She descended a set of wooden stairs and found herself facing the last door in the corridor. The paint on it had cracked and peeled off in some places and a tarnished cardholder held a piece of paper that announced "Lawrence Talbot" in cramped handwriting.

Behind it, Gwen could hear voices, laughter, and music. She hesitated, her hand hovering above the door. She had counted on being alone with Lawrence, and the thought of having to wade through a crowd to find him made her uncomfortable. Nevertheless, this was something she had to do. She took a deep breath and rapped the door loudly.

There was no pause in the celebration, but she only had to wait a few moments before she made out the sound of footsteps. The door opened and a bald man dressed only in a striped pair of tights, and a white undershirt greeted her. Beyond him, Gwen could see a sea of people in various states of undress milling about, drinking wine directly from the bottle. In a corner, someone played a fiddle, though no one seemed to pay attention to the tune.

"Well?" The man demanded impatiently.

"I am here to speak with Mr. Talbot if you please," Gwen said with more confidence than she felt.

"Talbot, eh?" He smirked. "That's what they always say. Though in the end, most don't do much talking."

Gwen's cheeks turned crimson, but she met the man's gaze with her own. "It is not a personal matter, sir. I come on behalf of Mr. Talbot's family and I demand you let me speak with him."

The man stared at her in shock and then began to utter something when he was interrupted. "I'll handle this, Francis."

A figure had detached itself from the crowd and swaggered up to them with a glass of champagne in his hand. The man who'd opened the door drew back inside, giving her a sideways glance.

"What can I do for you, miss…?"

Upclose, she could see that he had jet black hair and that his eyes were of a hazel tone. He was of a regular build, a little taller than the average man, and his broad shoulders gave him an imposing presence. In many ways, he was similar to Ben, but the vapid smile he offered sat unwell on his face and made her feel all the more uncomfortable.

"I'm Gwen Conliffe," she murmured, clenching her hands together. "I do apologize for approaching you in this manner, but I must speak with you in private, Mr. Talbot. It is an important matter."

"I'm sure it is, but as you see," he motioned to the room. "I'm entertaining at the moment and I find myself a little tired after tonight's performance. Perhaps another time?"

"There might not be another time, Mr. Talbot!" She exclaimed. "I've come to see you about your brother. I am his fiance."

Lawrence grew still and something flashed across his features, too quick for her to catch. "Is Ben here?" He asked, glancing over her shoulder as though he might find him there.

"No, he's missing. From Blackmoor, he is gone." The words exploded from her mouth with such vehemence that Lawrence's eyes widened with evident surprise.

He turned to Francis, who'd remained nearby, and whispered something in his ear. The man looked askance at Gwen and then lifted his voice above the din. "Ladies and gentlemen, shall we move our little party to another venue? Master Talbot is engaged at the moment."

The crowd moved out of the room, giggles, and murmurs washing over Gwen as they passed by. The last to leave was a blond woman in a red corset and petticoat. She sidled up to Lawrence, giving Gwen a hard look, and then took the champagne glass he still held. She emptied the contents in one long draught and then handed it back to him before breezing out the room. Lawrence was unfazed. He patiently waited until the door had closed and then led Gwen to a small sitting area.

Despite herself, the young woman glanced around curiously. She had never envisioned what entailed the life of an actor, but she guessed it didn't amount to much. In the farthest corner were two trunks, one of which stood open, revealing colorful clothes trimmed in sequins and gold. Beside them were a washstand with a small mirror, and a dressing-table, which held a mess of jars and brushes. Last, the coat and shirt that Lawrence had worn that evening, hung from a hook on the wall, waiting for the next performance. It was such a different lifestyle than her own, that Gwen felt suddenly embarrassed. She quickly went to the seat that Lawrence offered and sat down, smoothing her down her dress to hide her discomfort.

"You may speak freely now, Miss Conliffe," he said, sitting across from her. "Though I can't imagine how I can be of any help."

Gwen took a deep breath. "A month or so ago, Ben read in the paper that your theater company was coming to the Isles. In the article, they mentioned you by name and he was immediately interested in contacting you. We made plans to attend one of the performances as soon as he was able to make the trip from Talbot Hall, but that was the last time I heard of him. Two weeks later, I received a telegram from Sir John saying he'd disappeared."

"Talbot Hall," Lawrence murmured almost to himself. "Is that where you plan to live after you are wed?"

Gwen was taken aback by the question; it seemed rude and impertinent when there were more important things at hand. "Not at all," she said after a moment. "We intend to live in London."

"At your insistence?"

Gwen reddened. She didn't feel comfortable discussing their private plans with Lawrence, not when their future was so uncertain. "It was Ben's idea. He always wanted to live in the city."

Lawrence scoffed. "I bet my father loved that."

"Forgive me, Mr. Talbot, but what has any of this to do with your brother's disappearance?" She demanded, frustration bleeding into her tone.

"Nothing, of course, but I am afraid I can't help you," he said in an offhand manner, as though they were discussing the weather. "I haven't seen my brother in many years and know nothing of his whereabouts. It might be foolish to ask, but have you tried the police yet? They are more qualified for this type of situation."

"Sir John has seen to that," Gwen replied, even as her heart plummeted down. "He alerted the police in Blackmoor village and the surrounding towns, but no one knows anything."

Lawrence gave a bitter chuckle. "The old hunter's no longer up to the chase, is he?"

"I'm sure I don't understand your meaning. Sir John has shown great concern for Ben and has done everything in his power to find him."

"Then why did he send you in his stead, Miss Conliffe?"

Though his face had not shown any emotion other than faint interest, Lawrence tone had an edge to it that surprised Gwen. What had Sir John to do with any of this? Was Lawrence simply behaving in this way towards her because he thought his father had sent her?

All at once, her sorrow evaporated and she grew angry. "I came of my own free will to ask for help from the only other person Ben can call family. I think that whatever differences you have with your father, these can be put aside in this most difficult hour."

Lawrence's features hardened at her evident reproach. "Your invitation would be most appealing, Miss Conliffe, but the fact is that I am engaged under a contract for the next three months." He replied coldly. "I am sure that a lady such as yourself can understand the value of a man keeping his commitments."

At last, Gwen was overwhelmed and she felt a knot form in her throat. She realized now how absurd it had been to approach Lawrence Talbot for help. He had proved to be a difficult, arrogant man and she was unwilling to waste any more of her time.

Gathering her dignity, she rose to her feet like a veritable queen. "It must be a great fortune to do battle with imaginary demons, Mr. Talbot, because right now mine are very real." Then, without waiting for another word from him, she went to the door and left.

The cab ride back home was a blur of tears for Gwen. She had hardly stepped into the carriage when the dam of her sorrow burst forth. Since she'd first received the terrible news, she had managed to keep herself strong by thinking Ben had simply gone off without bothering to tell anyone. It wasn't common for him to do so, but she couldn't think of any other reason. She thought back to Lawrence's words about the honor of a man's word and she thought of the possibility of her fiance leaving her for another woman. It was cruel of him to say so, though it was always a possibility. Nevertheless, Gwen knew in her heart that Benjamin Talbot was a loyal, faithful man, who would have never done anything to hurt her.

The clock was striking half-past ten when Gwen arrived home, feeling sad, defeated, and more worried than ever. She was still in the process of removing her coat and hat when her father came out of the sitting room with an envelope in his hand.

She took one look at his face and knew that bad news awaited her. He handed her the missive that had arrived from Talbot Hall at about the same time she'd left the theater. It contained only two short sentences: Ben found dead. Stop. Funeral next week. Stop.

Shakespeare quotes on this chapter:

"Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio, a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy." — Hamlet, "Hamlet", Act 5, Scene 1