Yorkshire, England 1805

Mercy stood in the dining room of the abbey, patiently waiting by the window. She had been at the house a week and Mr. Norrell had yet to dine with her. Trying not to take the insult too gravely, she had been pleasant on the rare occasion they crossed paths. He always seemed distracted though, barely acknowledging her presence, and when they spoke his tone was dismissive.

Several times he had been holding a book under his arm. She wondered if they were her father's books, her property by rights. Though they had never held any interest for her in the past, her curiosity was now piqued. Both Norrell and Edward Savage had guarded those tomes like they were made of gold. Though her father had always been affectionate towards her, Mercy had grown up wondering if he valued his library over her own person. She laughed off the doubt when she had gotten older, concluding that her dear papa was only an eccentric scholar. But this Norrell, he was even more emphatic in his studies.

Once, she had tried to catch the title of a book Norrell held and saw The Language of Birds. Perhaps he was a naturalist. Such an occupation had become popular of late and they were in country where his studies could be conducted in the wild. But she had rarely seen him step outside the abbey and he was forever complaining of a cold or other ailment. Mr. Norrell hardly seemed the hardy type to wander the moors in search of bird's nests.

She lit a candle in the late afternoon gloom and rubbed her hands over the small flame to ward off the chill. Some rooms, like her own chambers, were welcoming and warm, almost unnaturally so. And yet, in the rest of the abbey, the stones emanated a chill of their own like lingering winter in old bones.

A shift of light left the room darker than before and the walls creaked with age. The candle light flared and Mercy's eye was drawn to the hearth that had been cold. Flames leaped behind the grate as a figure tossed kindling into the red heart of the fire. The shadowy apparition rose to his feet and Mercy's heart skipped into her throat.

"Hello?" she breathed, expecting she was in the presence of a ghost. Hurtfew would make the perfect haunt for spirits.

The figure turned, the light catching the pale yellow in his long hair. He wore a smart dinner coat in the high fashion of the men she'd seen in London, nothing like the dated dress of Mr. Norrell and Childermass. It was oxblood in color and jogged a memory for her.

"Oh, it's you," she said as though seeing him there was the most natural thing in the world. She let out a relieved chuckle. "You will think me foolish, I thought you were a ghost."

The oxblood prince gave her an obliging smile and sauntered forward, his hands folded at his back. "I did not mean to frighten you, I only wanted to start a fire. I didn't want you to catch a chill in this tomb of a house. I assure you, my home is much more inviting than this pile of stone. I am sure you will agree when you visit."

Mercy regarded the handsome young man, gripping the candle in her hand. "Thank you for your courtesy but you are still being presumptuous. I have no formal acquaintance with you, you cannot expect me to visit."

"What if I were to hold a ball this very evening? I could invite you as the guest of honor."

The prince perched on the edge of the dining table across from her, a feral grin tugging at his bloodless lips. His dark eyes hooked her with their persistent gaze and Mercy felt as though she were falling into a mirror. A reflection of night winter woods and frozen peaks enveloped her in their harsh grasp. A pack of wolves hunted a white stag, the pursued animal wounded and weak. Splashes of blood burned in the snow. Mercy blinked and the vision passed, the blood melting into the rich, red brown of the gentleman's coat.

"No, thank you." Mercy retreated an inch from him. "I would need the permission of my guardian."

The prince chuckled ruefully with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Permission from your guardian? But you are a grown woman. The social mores of your world are quite vexing, I must say. Why a perfectly capable young person of sound mind, regardless of their sex, cannot make decisions for themselves is beyond me. But I respect your choice."

Footsteps out in the hall pulled her attention away, her breath coming out quickly and snuffing the candle. Once again she was alone but the fire still burned in the large hearth. Mr. Norrell and Childermass entered the room, a book cracked open in Norrell's hands.

"Oh! Miss Savage. I thought I heard voices. Were you alone?" Norrell asked, shutting the book and tucking it under his arm. "Miss Savage? Are you well?"

Mercy set the candle down on the dining room table and passed a hand over the curls on the left side of her head, dazed by a dizzy spell. Childermass stepped forward, his hands held out as though he expected her to swoon. Mercy steadied herself on the back of a chair and gave a weak smile.

"Yes, of course. I think I am tired, I have not slept well since arriving."

"Oh no, I am sorry for that, Miss Savage." Norrell moved next to Childermass, his forehead creased in concern. "I am often troubled by sleeplessness, I find a good book and a cup of warm milk help immensely."

Mercy nodded. "Thank you, Mr. Norrell. I was actually waiting to speak with you. I guessed you were in your library but the halls are so confusing, I did not want to get lost trying to find you."

Childermass had moved towards the hearth and leaned against the mantle, his dark gaze soaking in the details of the room as though it were a mystery to be solved. Ironically, Mercy felt Childermass was the greatest intrigue Hurtfew Abbey had to offer.

"How can I help you?" Norrell asked, his eyes drifting back towards the door leading to his study.

"I should like to see my father's books, perhaps assist in organizing them."

Norrell jolted and cocked his head to the side. "Why is that?"

Mercy let out a breathy laugh. "Well, because they belonged to him and they are all I have left of my father."

He wet his lips as his mouth turned down into a perplexed frown. Before he could make further argument, Childermass approached him. He stood in front of his master, his voice too low for Mercy to hear his words. Whatever he said, Norrell had changed entirely when Childermass moved away. The little man seemed to see her completely for the first time with that same searching stare Childermass gave her. Mercy shifted uncomfortably under the drill of his small blue eyes.

"Well, I suppose I could use an extra pair of hands to help, there is still much to do and the servants only know so much of these things. I've never had a young lady in my library before, but you don't seem like the type to cause trouble."

Though pleased by his invitation, Mercy was confused by his guarded tone. Suspicion froze his forced smile. Mercy made herself smile back.

"Thank you, shall we start tomorrow?"

"Very well."

The pained smile still on her face, her eyes flickered towards Childermass where he stood behind his master. He only glared back.