Fifteen minutes later, a sweaty Mayberry schlepped through the front doors, still angry at her double but at least calmer in her display of it.
"That damn Treat! Good thing Marco didn't have me doing laps in my French maid's outfit," she fumed on the way to her room to change. "That's not punishment; that's hazing."
She started to climb the staircase when she noticed Marchosias descending it.
Stepping aside respectfully, she said, "I'm done, sir."
The marquis didn't answer. Instead, he headed off in the direction of the dining room, then angled off to a thin door nearest its archway, a portal to some auxiliary room that may have served the chamber in some capacity.
He opened the door, strode through, then closed it.
Concerned about his mood and why he didn't respond to her, Mayberry trotted over to the door. "Sir?" she called again after giving the door a polite knock. "Your Lordship?"
Resisting the propriety to step away for fear of rekindling his ire, Mayberry meekly opened the door and looked into a small, dark room walled with occupied wine racks and nothing else.
Wheels in her already suspicious mind began turning. Where did he go? Why did he ignore her? Did he teleport? If so, then why from here?
The sound of movement from behind sidetracked her.
"What are you doing, young lady?" came an English voice, weathered with age but precise in its brusqueness.
Twisting around, she stood face to suspicious face with the head butler, a scowling, elderly Imp who locked a gaze on her as uncompromising as a graveyard.
"What are you doing in there?" he asked again, world-weary eyes searching May's for any falsehood.
"I'm sorry. I was just...curious about this room."
"The wine closet, if you must know," he said stiffly. "Please inform Lord Marchocias if you'd like a supervised tour of the mansion in the future."
"Will do. Sorry, again."
May stepped past the butler and hurried up the broad staircase while her mind resumed working out the things she had seen...and hadn't seen so far.
Watching her hasty ascent, the old Imp stood, like a sentinel, in the closet's dark, narrow threshold.
"Marco may be the target, but what do I really know about him?" Mayberry said to herself, walking alone through the corridor with her heart in her stomach. "Wolves have good hearing, too, so why did he ignore me and then disappear into that room? What's going on?"
Coming up to her destination, her guts were so twisted, she felt like she could vomit butterflies.
"This is too important. It has to be done."
Mayberry took a shaky breath and stepped into the inner sanctum of Marchosias' master bedroom.
Expansive and tastefully appointed, its decor reflected its owner well, with dusky furniture carved from the heartiest antique woods. Opened, equally dark curtains added an umbral heaviness to the room's ambiance, as did the sable weaves of the expensive rugs that tied it all together. It felt more like a wolf's den than a bedroom.
But not a secure one, May hoped, as she crept deeper into the room, straining her ears for anything that hinted that someone was outside and coming in.
She went to the mirrored dresser. No letters from him or to him from others there, just colognes, hair and fur care products, and the odd bottle of medicine for staving off fleas and heartworms.
Nothing on the broad bed, or under it, except assorted chew toys and a worn rubber ball. Nothing behind the large, potted plants by the windows or, after poking around, in their soil.
She lifted the edges of the rug. Nothing was there. She checked behind the curtains. Nothing.
A quick scan of a bookshelf's contents held no secrets for her, nor did the DVDs in his entertainment center other than the fact that the marquis was a fan of "Fake It 'Til You Make It," a women's comedy show concerning a prostitute who works to pay for law school.
"Hmm, who knew?" May said before moving on.
The last place May knew she didn't cover, the closet, was a spacious walk-in type that parted for her with folding doors.
Full suits and wardrobe sets hung neatly on racks suspended on walls on either side, creating a central traffic space leading to a dressing desk against the back wall.
She ran her fingers along the clothing, looking for bumps or bulges that could give away the hidden. Nothing.
Mayberry decided to leave when she remembered the back desk and went to it.
Other than it looking like a larger, more expensive version of the desk she used for her make-up and disguises in Seir's class, it looked innocent enough. On its top sat what looked like two arranged objects of veneration.
The first was long and flat, covered with a wide square of black silk, and was placed next to the second object, a small wooden box.
May lifted the silk away and saw a silver spearhead still attached to its handle's short, broken length.
'A personal weapon?' she pondered. 'A trophy?'
The box beside it beckoned to her next. More souvenirs? 'Maybe,' she gulped, 'A gun?'
She opened the hinged lid and saw the truly unexpected. A tiny demonic ballerina.
The figure stood on her pointed hooves, then slowly began to rotate in the center of the container to the tinny sounds of a plucked melody starting up.
"A music box? You're losing your street cred, Marco," she jested with a wan smile.
Strange mementos, she decided, but they didn't look like they incriminated Marchosias. Maybe he was innocent, after all.
"Nice song, though," she said, closing the box and placing the silk cloth back over the blade.
Curiosity sated, she stood and turned to leave, not noticing, in all of her time there, a shadow that darkened every corner of the closet and her.
She went bloodless and numb at the sight of Marchosias filling the threshold, teeth bared, eyes and muzzle alight, and wings spread in dread reaction to her presence; a lupine angel of death.
'The music box,' May deduced fatalistically. 'Now, he hears me. Figures.'
"Why?" he whispered in a voice edged with iron.
The motivations she told herself on the way to the bedroom fled from her like smoke. What could she say? That she was so obsessed that she trashed any sense of trust he had for her? If ever she felt more like an impulsive child caught under his fiery gaze, it was right then.
No excuses, she knew. But, no walking back, either.
"I'm sorry. I just wanted to find the leak as soon as possible," she confessed. "I was...afraid things were going too slow."
"So you took it upon yourself to betray me?"
The words cut deeper than she was ready for. "No! No! I would have checked on everyone, too, I swear, and God, that didn't sound right!"
As a response, Mayberry felt his spiritual presence bear down on her like atmospheric pressure. Yet, he spoke calmly. "I told you all I knew. I never lie. So, you can believe me when I say that the grace I gave you will now be tested. The gym. Fifteen minutes. Prepare yourself."
Under the weight of his pronouncement, Mayberry could do nothing but obey under his imperious shadow.
"Yes, sir," she quietly said.