A knock at the door startled George, snapping him out of his trance-like daze of light sleep.
"Mr. Trevor, Lord Spencer has requested your company." It was the voice of Roger, the old man whom George met upon entering the mansion.
He hurriedly put on his coat and answered the call, "Just a moment." Surely it must have been early morning by now, a welcome sight after a night plagued by shallow rests and cold sweats.
Roger had insisted George make his way to Spencer's private study on the east wing of the second floor. Referring to his mental map, George made his way up the stairs, cutting through the balcony of the dining room for efficient travel. All the while he could not shake the imprinted image of the white-robed man he saw at dusk. Perhaps his limitless imagination got the better of him. After all, compared to some of the buildings he concocted, a ghost from a dream wasn't exactly far-fetched.
He pushed these thoughts aside as he found his way into the preceding U-shaped hallway outside of the small library. An elegant mirror hanging on the wall returned an image of a tired, middle-aged man sporting dark bags underneath bloodshot eyes.
Voices resonated from inside Spencer's study, at least two, one of which George was unfamiliar with. Pressing the door open, George silently stepped in, not wanting to interrupt Spencer's conversation. Much to his surprise, Spencer and an older man with white hair were fixated on him even as he walked into the room.
"Mr. Trevor, so nice of you to join us on such a joyous occasion." Spencer had a grin plastered on his face stretching from cheek to cheek. He motioned towards the third man, "I'd like you to meet my…business associate, Sir Edward Ashford."
Ashford was leaning against a desk furnished with an antique lamp and several leather-bound books. It wasn't until he stepped forward that George recognized him, a former client that contracted him some years ago to design a manor way below the equator, somewhere in the Antarctic. A mansion very similar to the one they currently stood in.
"Trevor, I believe we met before." Ashford nodded towards George, one hand buried in his inner coat pocket.
George remembered their negotiation at the café. "Paris, to discuss your establishment in Antarctica."
Ashford stroked his thick mustache. "Yes, I learned of your fascinating work after taking a cruise across the Mediterranean. Le reine Zenobia was the name of that elegant ship. I had to inquire about the construction and the captain told me of George Trevor."
"He arrived this morning," Spencer piped in. "We had a very enlightening talk in regards to a partnership."
George raised an eyebrow. Same homes, both English blue bloods, now a partnership? Something seemed way too coordinated and the arrival of Edward Ashford at this time superseded a mere coincidence.
Spencer continued, "It has been my intention to start a pharmaceutical business for a while now. What do you think of the name Umbrella?" He picked up a thick green book from his desk with gold letters engraved into the cover. It was a volume from a pathology series; the type professors would lecture from in their seminars. Spencer flipped through the worn pages, stopping at one section in particular with a microscopic image of human celluloid's. "The Ebola virus is an incredibly deadly agent that we discovered on an expedition to North Africa," he explained. "Nine out of ten people who contract a strain of Ebola will, without exception, die." He shut the book and placed it back on his desk. "Our goal is to provide an umbrella that will shield the masses from all this illness and disease."
Spencer smirked and clasped his hands under his chin. "And that's why I've brought Sir Ashford along. He's somewhat of a genius in biochemistry."
Ashford chuckled then added very matter-of-factly, "I finished first in my class back in Oxford." George felt his shoulders sag as he heard Ashford ramble about his accolades. It wasn't typical for the famous architect to feel intimidated by men of high entitlement, after all those were his usual employers, but these two exuded such an imposing stature of self-confidence that could make even the nobles humble.
Ashford walked behind a bookshelf and looked down at a chessboard crafted from refined ivory. "Oh, the intense matches we used to have…though I could never manage to trump you."
This seemed to bring great pride to Spencer, whose eyes suddenly widened at the mention of their games. "George, perhaps one day you and I will have a game of chess. I could definitely dust off my skills." Spencer's grin widened, exposing his sparkling white teeth. George ran his finger across the chessboard, inexplicably feeling a cold chill running up his spine.
Hulking medieval knights stood tall in two rows, swords erect as if they were ready to head into battle. They were certainly authentic, George learned as he cursed the rusty, razor sharp edges of the swords. Their iron plates glimmered underneath kerosene lanterns hanging from the walls. He was sure nobody was inside but still felt uneasy standing next to the suits of armor.
Apparently this was the last stop on Spencer's grand tour, which covered the luxurious areas of the mansion. Spencer's wealth knew no bounds; Caravaggio paintings, Raphael sculptures, and ebony shelves furnished the array of rooms situated within each hallway.
"Another shipment of statues should be on their way." Spencer pointed out two grated ventilation holes on the floor. "I specifically want two over these nuisances."
From what George could recall, most of the rooms were laid out identically to his floor plans, except for the secluded living room on the first floor. George had gone back to New York before that section was completed and wasn't informed that a decorative golden antechamber was built between the living room and the hallway.
Even with the blueprints of the house etched into his mind, George decided that he would be best not wandering too far off, afraid that he would lose his way and never return to the outer world. Now that he thought about it, he wasn't sure Spencer had all of his sanity intact. Who the hell would want to live in a house like this?
"I want to show you something George, one of my prized possessions." Spencer gave the heavyset door a hefty shove and it creaked open. George felt a wave of relief wash over him, eager to leave that room. They were in there for no longer than five minutes, probably less, but to George it seemed like he was trapped in another world.
The host led his guest back through the dining room balcony and into a windowless room upstairs. In the darkness, George made out the shadowy form of some sort of head mounted on the wall and although he couldn't see it, he sensed it gazing over them. With the flip of a switch, the beast came to life, only momentarily, its fierce red eyes signaled an impending charge at some helpless prey with its great big horns. But it wasn't alive; it had been stuffed and was now confined to hang there for the rest of its days.
"Isn't it beautiful?" asked Spencer. Chest protruding into the air, Spencer walked over to the mounted Moose head and caressed its fur. "Nothing beats the rush of the hunt, when you're face to face with one of God's mightiest creatures, knowing that only one of you will be walking away with your life intact." Perhaps it was out of sheer astonishment, or possibly to cover up his own fear, that George let out a chuckle. Feeling weak and powerless, he backed up against the wall and instinctively made his way to the door.
Spencer pulled down one of the Model 700 bolt-action Remington rifles from a rack on the wall and aimed at the dead animal. "This one put up an admirable fight. Took me six rounds to finally put it down."
A bead of sweat rushed down George's forehead and it certainly wasn't from the heat.
"Do you like to hunt George?" Spencer asked him.
"No, I'm not so fond of taking another creature's life," responded George defensively.
"After you've felt the sensation, you won't think twice about it." Spencer laughed inwardly. Suddenly, George felt the urge to bail and return to his room, but he didn't want to come off as being frightened by his host. Seeing the rifle in Spencer's hand alarmed him until he remembered the present his wife offered Spencer for his birthday.
"Is that the one Jessica gave you?" George pointed at the gun in Spencer's hand. His inquiry seemed to bring a hint of anguish to Spencer as he frowned in response.
"I'm afraid not. It was knocked out of my hands by a bear and the barrel collapsed. Give her my apologies if you get the chance. It was such a great gift." Then, as to accommodate, he added with a smirk, "but the bear is in much worse shape than the twelve gauge." Not surprisingly, it didn't do much to comfort George considering the shotgun once belonged to Jessica's father.
"I wish she were here right now." George leaned back, inhaling deeply, unaware that a pole holding up a stuffed eagle was right behind him. The collision shook the stand, knocking something loose. Clang. Whatever hit the carpet was extremely dense as it resonated loudly through the room.
George scrambled to the floor and picked up a heavy, blood red jewel that sparkled in the light. "I'm terribly sorry, I didn't see that…"
Spencer cut him off, "Ah, don't worry about it, its replaceable. Just be more observant next time." He didn't seem angry, but he wasn't too thrilled either. Instead he casually grabbed the jewel from George, wiping it down with his coat before slipping it into his pocket.
