In Memories We Fear

Maxim Patrick Carey was born in Hastings, England, in 1805. Hastings was a fishing town then, and there was nothing Maxim hated more than fish.

Until reaching the age of ten, he was fully convinced that someone had slipped into his parents’ home the night he was born, taken their baby, and replaced it with him. He believed he was a displaced spirit. He did not belong.

There was much evidence to support this theory. His papa was wide and muscular with dark blond, curly hair. His mama was stocky with dark blond straight hair. His two brothers and three sisters were all stout, with dark blond hair and gray eyes.

Maxim was small and wiry, with thick blue-black hair. His eyes were so dark brown they often appeared black, especially at night. His hands were slender, and his skin was pale. By the time he was ten, the local boys called him “pretty,” and sometimes they hit or kicked him. Seeing the cruelty in their faces, he was afraid, but he tried to keep his fear hidden and to take the pain they inflicted. He had no other defense against them.

His papa existed in a state of almost-constant, seething anger. Papa did not shout or beat his family, but rather he looked at the lot of them, including Maxim’s mama, with a kind of disappointed disgust. In his youth, he’d wished to be the captain of a sea vessel; however, he’d then been “trapped”—due to the impending birth of Maxim’s eldest brother—and forced into life as a fisherman to support a family.

However, some of his sentiments were not unjustified. Mama was neither a cook nor a housekeeper. She preferred to sit with other women and visit much of the time. As a result, Maxim’s home was a cluttered, untended place; his clothes were dirty, and he often had to fend for himself when it came to meals.

Papa complained about being surrounded by “filthy” children, and Mama pretended not to hear him. She pretended that nothing was wrong and that all was right in their household. Maxim’s brothers and sisters accepted her premise.

He found his family dull and witless. He was like a dark pebble thrown among a pile of tan stones. But for as much of a stranger as he felt among these people, they certainly did not disagree. His two elder brothers used any opportunity to kick him under the table or elbow him hard in the chest. He feared being alone with either of them.

He didn’t argue. He did think he was better, and they hated him for it. As a child, Maxim didn’t know what he truly wanted. He knew only that he envied other children with clean homes and clean clothes and papas who cheerfully brought home bread and cheese to share.

One night, as the family began preparing for bed, the crusty dishes from a supper of near-sour milk and two-day-old bread still littered the table. The threadbare rug was soiled by filth and crumbs, and both of Maxim’s younger sisters were covered in grime. Papa glared daggers of blame at everyone before striding off to bed alone.

The other siblings began slinking away, and Maxim was so filled with despair, he could not keep silent. “I don’t belong here,” he told Mama.

He was surprised she responded to such words. That wasn’t like anyone in his family. Except for Papa, they all pretended everything was fine. But then . . . Papa never did anything to try to improve the situation. He just placed blame.

Hesitantly, he followed her to a small chest she kept in the kitchen. Opening it, she took out a miniature portrait of a dark-haired lady.

Mama looked at him. “She was just like you, too, always wanting something better, thinking she was better than everyone else. She looked at me, at my hair and face, as if I were dirt.”

For the first time in his life, Maxim was moved by something Mama said. Even though she had just devastated him, he realized she’d been trying to make him feel better, to feel that he belonged. He wanted to say something, do something, for her in the moment, but he had no idea what that might be.

In the year that followed, he slowly came to terms with the fact that he indeed was a member of the Carey family, and that as soon as he turned twelve, he would be out on a fishing boat with Papa and his brothers, and there was nothing he could do about it.

Other men seemed to hate him, and he’d learned to fear them. The prospect of a life among them—netting and gutting fish—was like a death sentence.

Then, in 1816, a miracle happened, and the vicar of the local rectory died of a massive stroke. Besides resulting in his being excused from Sunday services for a few weeks, this event meant little to Maxim until the old vicar’s replacement arrived.

But when Maxim saw Alistair Brandon up on the pulpit at the Sunday morning service, he knew something in the world had shifted. For one, Vicar Brandon smiled at the people in his congregation, and the smile reached his light blue eyes. He had a round face and thinning red hair even though he was young—almost too young to be a vicar. This was the first time Maxim had ever looked upon another man without feeling fear. Its very absence affected him.

Vicar Brandon’s voice was clear and deep, and instead of making “his flock” feel guilty about a week’s worth of past sins, he gave a sermon on the virtues of avoiding the pitfalls of undue greed, and instead of a Bible, he held up a book called The Iliad written by a man named Homer, and he began speaking of something called the Trojan War. Maxim was on the edge of his church pew.

Apparently, in the story, Achilles was asked to give up a war prize—a girl—and he didn’t want to, and this made him behave badly.

“Most people see Achilles as a hero, a brave warrior,” Vicar Brandon went on, pushing back a few strands of red hair, “but he was plagued by greed and arrogance, and he neglected the needs of his men, leaving Odysseus to tend to such duties. Succumbing to the call of greed can bring out the worst in the very best of us, and we must ever guard against it.”

Just then, Maxim noticed that his two elder brothers were nodding off to sleep, and his father was frowning at the new vicar in disapproval. How could his brothers possibly fall asleep during such a story?

After church, most of the adults murmured to one another in quiet voices, but on the way out, as Papa tentatively shook Vicar Brandon’s hand and introduced himself, Maxim stared up, and Vicar Brandon looked down at him. Their eyes locked, and a jolt passed through Maxim. He did not know what it meant, although he did know it had nothing to do with fear. The vicar quickly looked away and nodded politely to Papa.

For the following five days, Maxim pestered Mama a good deal to send him on errands that might take him past the rectory. He hung outside the rectory garden as long as he could, not certain what he was hoping for . . . but only that he was hoping for something.

On the fifth day, a side door of the rectory opened, and Vicar Brandon stepped out. He wore a plain shirt and trousers, and he carried a hoe in his right hand. He stopped upon seeing Maxim.

“Well, hello,” he said. But his voice sounded different now, almost cautious. Had he felt the jolt back at the church door, too?

Feeling as if he were about to burst, Maxim had the sense that this meeting was critical and that he had to say the right thing or the moment would vanish forever.

By way of answer, the vicar’s face broke into an open smile, the first one ever aimed directly at Maxim. He wanted to smile back but didn’t know how.

Maxim spent the next hour sitting beside Vicar Brandon, listening to him read sections of the precious, faded copy of The Iliad, all about a Trojan horse and a fierce battle with a man named Hector. It was the best hour of Maxim’s life. He nearly wept when it ended and he had to go home.

Maxim wondered whom his father meant, but he didn’t expect to find out, because whenever Papa took that tone, Mama would fall silent in a hurry. To Maxim’s surprise, she shouted back.

“That boy don’t belong on a fishing boat, and you know it! He’ll be less than useless to you, and I think . . . I think it might kill him.”

“No, I didn’t mean . . . Please, give him a chance. He could make something of himself. The vicar ain’t even asking for money. He says the boy is gifted. Please.”

The next day, Mama took him aside. “Vicar Brandon’s made an offer to be your teacher. He says he needs help there at the rectory, and if you’ll run errands for him and do some of the gardening, he’ll pay you a small wage and give you lessons for a few hours a day.”

Lessons and a small wage? Maxim’s twelfth birthday was rushing toward him, and it seemed he was being given a reprieve from becoming a fisherman. He could hardly believe it. At first, he thought his brothers would be green with envy—and they might even make him suffer for his good luck. But instead, they appeared relieved that he would not be joining them on the boat. Perhaps his presence made them as uncomfortable as theirs made him.

While Papa still expressed silent displeasure at the situation, the only one to openly object was Edith, Maxim’s sister. Stunned by the news, she cried, “No! He already thinks he’s so much better than us.”

He looked with disdain at her lank hair, doughy face, and stout figure. Then he forgot about her. Nothing was going to stop him from taking Vicar Brandon’s offer.

In the following years, a new world opened up for Maxim. Under the vicar’s tutelage, he studied history, literature, philosophy, and theology, literature being his favorite. He learned that Vicar Brandon was the third son of a family “of name,” and that he had studied at a grand university called Oxford. Maxim never tired of hearing stories about the university and the professors there.

But he also loved the quiet of the rectory. He loved its cleanliness and its order—so different from his filthy home bursting at the seams with people. Whenever possible, he arrived early enough to share oatmeal and apples with Vicar Brandon for breakfast, marveling at the taste of fresh milk laced with honey. In the afternoons, the vicar always put out a lunch of ham or cheese and fresh bread. The two of them planted a strawberry patch in the garden.

About the time Maxim turned eighteen, he heard rumblings at home and could sense his father gearing up to insist that he finally take his place among the fishermen. The small wage he earned at the rectory could hardly make up for the additional help of one more man on the boat—even if that man was Maxim.

“Papa’s going to take me away,” he told Vicar Brandon, unable to keep the fear from his voice. “He’s going to force me onto the boat.”

And a second miracle occurred. To Maxim’s astonishment, a number of families in Hastings suddenly began offering him part-time work tutoring their young sons. Within a few weeks, he was earning good money, most of which he handed over to Papa, and any talk of the fishing boat ceased.

But the families he worked for were . . . better than his own, and although he took great care with his personal hygiene, his clothes were still those of a fisherman—or at least those of someone from a fisherman’s family—and the shame was surprisingly sharp. He felt caught between two worlds.

Without Maxim saying a word, Brandon gave him enough money to buy his first tailored suit—dark gray with a black shirt. The colors suited him, contrasting with his pale skin. Looking in the mirror at the tailor’s shop, he finally saw himself as a tutor, a teacher, who belonged among the better families of Hastings.

In addition, although he would never be tall, he’d gained some height and felt comfortable in his slender body. He wore his hair a bit longer than was fashionable, with thick bangs hanging over one eye, and while the vast majority of men disliked other men who were “pretty,” Maxim found that women had no such objections.

When he walked down the street near his home, the girls would follow him with their eyes. He enjoyed their admiration, but they were just fishermen’s girls—like his sisters—so he never spoke to them.

The following year, he met Opal Radisson when her parents engaged him to tutor her younger brother. The Radissons lived in a fine house a good distance from the docks, and the first time he saw her, she was standing near the bottom of a staircase with a large vase of roses behind her. Nearly as tall as he and quite slender, she was wearing a peach muslin dress. Her chestnut hair hung in curls to the small of her back with her bangs pulled up at the crown. She was beautiful.

As they looked at each other, he could see she found him beautiful, too, but this was the first time he’d returned any girl’s admiration. It was an uncomfortable feeling. He wasn’t certain what to do.

When he’d finished tutoring her younger brother that morning, he was forced to walk through the parlor to reach the front door. He heard music before even entering the parlor, and he tensed upon seeing Opal behind the piano.

“I don’t know,” he answered honestly. It never bothered Maxim to admit ignorance on a topic. Such admissions usually led to further education. “Vicar Brandon was never a student of music.”

He walked over to stand behind her, and he was still standing there when Mrs. Radisson walked in a half hour later and froze at the sight of them. Maxim looked at her calmly, as if he belonged there, and she smiled slightly, taking a closer look at the cut of his suit. After all, Vicar Brandon had recommended him. Surely he must be a respectable young man.

He had no idea how to behave “at tea,” but Opal and her mother managed everything, and all he had to do was sit and eat and discuss the Christian merits of Daniel Defoe’s novel Robinson Crusoe—a book Maxim had always found rather dry, but which Opal seemed to find fascinating.

This seemed a good answer, somewhere between the truth and a lie. His father owned one, small decaying boat from which he barely carved a living . . . but he did own it. Mrs. Radisson nodded in approval.

After tea was finished, he felt he’d conducted himself well, but in truth, he was beginning to fantasize about what Opal’s slender body looked like beneath her dress . . . what her skin would feel like against his hands.

Their friendship continued in this vein of his visiting with her at home (in the company of her mother) for several months. As of yet, he’d spoken to her father only once—and briefly at that. Mr. Radisson was one of the wealthiest merchants in Hastings. He owned six trading ships and spent much of his time either at his office or at the Mistletoe Coffeehouse near the south docks, where he made many a deal.

“Mother,” she called, “may I walk to the rectory with Maxim? I know you wanted to send the vicar some of your new jam.”

Families like the Radissons did not attend the same church as families like the Careys, but the upper-class families sometimes sent gifts to various members of the local clergy.

Mrs. Radisson walked quickly into the foyer, her forehead wrinkling. “Oh . . . I was going to send Nancy with those later.”

“I’d rather take them myself, if it’s all right,” Opal said. Her voice sounded like music to Maxim, and he watched the delicate hollow of her throat as she breathed.

“Of course,” Mrs. Radisson answered, somewhat nervously. “Mr. Carey, would you invite your mother to tea next Thursday afternoon? I have been remiss in not asking her before.”

The ground felt as if it were slipping beneath his feet. He could just imagine the result of Mama’s coming here for tea. Not only would he lose his friendship with Opal, he’d probably also lose his position.

He slipped it into his pocket and opened the door for Opal. Then, for the first time, they found themselves alone, walking down the open street. The sensation was quite liberating. He wondered what it would be like to be her husband, taking walks together on summer afternoons, listening to her play the piano in the evenings, drinking tea in their own tastefully decorated parlor. . . .

She stepped ahead of him to touch a mass of yellow roses clinging to a wrought-iron fence, and as she moved, his eyes dropped to her hips. A rush of desire hit him so hard, he stopped walking. He couldn’t stop picturing himself running his hands down her bare sides.

“Brandon?” he called. In recent years, he and his mentor had grown more informal, but he found the vicar preferred to be called by his surname.

This place felt like home, and Maxim often wished it were his home. He was proud of his deep connection to the scholarly vicar and this peaceful place.

She followed him to Brandon’s small kitchen in the back of the rectory. Maxim watched her set the basket on the table. Then she turned toward him slowly.

Without thinking, he crossed the short distance between them and took her by the waist, pressing his lips against hers. She responded, kissing him back, but when he slipped his tongue inside her mouth, she gasped and drew away, staring at him with wide eyes.

A few days later, Brandon was not behaving like himself. Maxim had no idea what was wrong, but his mentor seemed unable to focus on anything that afternoon. Then finally, Brandon put away the copy of Voltaire’s Candide they’d been trying to discuss, and he took out a volume of Shakespeare’s plays. Maxim hoped they might pursue a discussion of Macbeth. It was a favorite of them both, and they often debated that play when nothing else could pique their interest.

Maxim nearly winced at the mention of Thursday. As of yet, he’d not decided how to make excuses for his mother’s not coming to tea at the Radissons’. Of course, he hadn’t even mentioned the invitation to Mama, but now he had to think of some plausible excuse to give Opal’s mother.

“Yes!” Brandon answered sharply. Then he closed his eyes. “There is someone I want you to meet, one of my teachers from Oxford. He’s German, but he speaks a number of languages. When he questions you, don’t try to agree with him to be polite, and don’t argue just to impress him. Tell him exactly what you think.” He opened his eyes again. “It’s important, Maxim. Read the play.”

By the time eight o’clock on Thursday night had arrived, Maxim had grown more curious about this impending meeting. He’d managed to plead that his mother was “indisposed” and gracefully avoid the afternoon tea. Mrs. Radisson had been disappointed—perhaps even mildly distressed—by his excuse, and he knew it was just a stopgap, but for today, he’d avoided disaster.

So when he walked through the door of Carp’s Pub that evening, his thoughts turned to the prospect of a scholarly discussion with one of Brandon’s old teachers.

Perhaps his expectations were colored by some preconceived idea of an Oxford professor, but unconsciously, he expected to find a short, rotund, balding man wearing a black robe and thick spectacles.

Even while still seated, Adalrik appeared unusually tall. He was somewhere between fifty-five and sixty years old, with a narrow, handsome face, and long steel gray hair tied back at the nape of his neck. He wore a finely tailored suit.

Maxim could not help noting that Brandon did not include any kind of title in Adalrik’s name—nor did he specify whether Adalrik was the man’s Christian or surname.

Brandon sat quietly with a mug of dark ale, and once the pleasantries were over and more drinks were ordered, Adalrik leaned forward and asked, “Did you read the play?”

Suddenly, Maxim felt eleven years old again and that this was the same crucial moment when he’d asked Brandon about Achilles.

Adalrik sat back again, sipping his wine. His eyes were an unusual shade of very light brown. “The accepted interpretation of King Henry V in Shakespeare’s play is steeped in awe. He’s viewed as the finest and most virtuous of English kings. He defeated the French in the face of great odds and was hailed by the English as a hero.” He paused. “Do you agree?”

For a few seconds, Maxim said nothing, thinking on Brandon’s instructions not to try to impress Adalrik, but simply to express his own opinion.

“Because he had no justification for invading France, and he goes to the bishops only so they can provide him with some propped-up justification. He invades France because . . . because he wants to. I don’t find that heroic.” Maxim placed both hands on the table. “Then he executes his friends Cambridge, Scroop, and Grey for treason without giving them any chance to explain themselves . . . and I think he must have once loved Scroop, because he said, ‘Thou knewst the very bottom of my soul.’ So they must have been close. A hero doesn’t murder a beloved friend without at least giving him a chance to explain himself.”

Maxim let his thoughts roll through the play, which he could still see clearly in his mind. He remembered almost everything he read.

“Henry tells his soldiers they can’t raid any farms or villages for food during the invasion out of compassion for the French,” he went on, “but then he doesn’t find any way to feed the soldiers himself, and he hangs Bardolph for stealing a plate from a church to buy food.” His mind’s eye was moving faster, but this time backward through the play. “At the gates of Harfleur, he tells the townspeople that if they don’t surrender to him, he’ll send his men in to rape their daughters and bash their old men’s heads against the walls and—”

Maxim froze midsentence, worried he had committed some breach. But Adalrik turned to Brandon. “Is this him speaking or is it you?”

Adalrik stood up. The pub was becoming crowded by this time, with a dull buzz of voices all around them. “It’s been a pleasure, Maxim, and at my age, I don’t say that often.”

Brandon’s eyes grew sad. “Not exactly. He’s the one who got me admitted to Oxford, prepped me for the oral exams. I wasn’t sure how to explain him to you.” He leaned forward, gripping his ale mug tightly. “He made me an offer once . . . that I could not accept. He was disappointed, and it’s weighed on me ever since.”

“For a much different life than I wished.” His mouth formed the hint of a smile. “When I was young, I longed for education, but after that, I decided I wanted a quiet life in a place like this . . . with perhaps a few students to keep my mind sharp.”

Maxim was alone at the rectory in the early afternoon, trying to get a fire restarted in the kitchen. Old Mrs. Tillard was dying, and Brandon had gone to comfort the family. Maxim had accidentally let the fire go out, and now the blackened logs smoldered before him. An autumn chill had set in upon Hastings, and the room was cold.

He stood quickly, heading to the door to tell the visitor that Brandon was not in. But he opened it to see Opal standing on the other side. She wore a dress of cream silk that made her hair look even more vibrant, and he drew in a sharp breath. Since he’d kissed her, she’d been a little uneasy around him.

“I’m alone,” he said instantly, politely warning her that she’d best not come inside. “Brandon’s at the Tillards’.”

“I know,” she answered. “Mr. Jacobson delivered our milk a little while ago, and he told Mother. I made an excuse to slip out. I thought you might be here.”

Maxim tensed with a kind of hope. She’d come here on purpose, knowing he was alone? He stepped aside and let her in, closing the door softly behind her.

“Maxim,” she breathed, turning to him. “I’m so sorry about before . . . I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you . . . to stop thinking about—”

He needed no more encouragement and took the back of her head in his hand, pressing his mouth upon hers. This time, she responded with force, kissing him back and opening her mouth.

The room didn’t feel cold anymore, and his mind filled with images of her lying beneath him. He didn’t even try to stop himself. Still kissing her, he pulled her through the kitchen into Brandon’s room and pushed her down onto the bed. She didn’t protest but ran her hands up his back, kissing him harder.

Later, he barely remembered the next few moments, but everything seemed to happen quickly. Breathing harder, he moved his hands to her breasts. Then he pushed her skirts up and pulled his trousers open. When he entered her, she cried out once, but he didn’t stop, and then she was moving with him until something inside him exploded, and he was gasping into the pillow beneath his face.

“Should I speak to your father?” he asked, the thought filling him with dread. Mr. Radisson might be wealthy, but he had the look and manner of any man who worked near the docks. Maxim couldn’t help his fear of such men. They were a foreign species.

While Maxim believed this to be somewhat unorthodox, he had no experience in such matters, and her response filled him with relief.

The next day, he finished his tutoring session with Opal’s younger brother, and he headed through the house toward the front door, wondering if he’d have a chance to see her for a few moments. His whole body still tingled from their afternoon together the day before.

Instead, Mr. Radisson stood in the foyer, his muscular arms crossed. Though he was well dressed, his face bore several white scars, and he wore his hair cropped short like a fisherman.

Fear flooded Maxim’s stomach, but he kept his face still. The study was decorated sparsely, with a large desk, a braided rug, and several paintings of ships. Mr. Radisson closed the door.

“I’ve met Vicar Brandon at the coffeehouse a few times,” he said, “and he seems a good sort to me. Educated, but not lookin’ down his nose at honest workingmen. That’s why I hired you. I want my son educated but not overly proud.”

“So Brandon’s shoring you up to take your exams for the church? To be a clergyman like him? Then you’ll find yourself a parish?”

These questions threw Maxim, as he and Brandon had never discussed any such thing, but then he realized that Opal must have already spoken to her father. Mr. Radisson was simply asking what profession he was choosing and how he planned to support Opal. Maxim had no desire to become a clergyman, but he had to say something. He certainly couldn’t afford his own household on his tutoring salary.

Mr. Radisson nodded. “That’s not what I’d hoped for my Opal, but she’s a few years older than you, and it’s past time she married.”

“Seems she’s got her heart set on you,” Mr. Radisson went on, “and I’d almost despaired of her accepting anyone. Once you’ve been ordained and found yourself a parish, I’ll give my permission.”

Maxim took a step back. What Mr. Radisson was suggesting could take years, and he did not think Opal had any intention of waiting that long, not after what had happened yesterday.... But more important, Maxim had given no thought to becoming a clergyman. He wasn’t even sure what he did want—except to learn more and read more.

“We’ll need to meet your family,” Mr. Radisson said, “and speak of these things together. I’m assuming your father has no objections to your going into the church, and he’ll pay all the costs for your ordination?”

“Good. My wife tells me your father owns fishing vessels, but that your mother’s not been well? Try to bring ’em round next Friday evening for supper, and we’ll talk more then.” He held out his hand, shaking his head slightly as he looked at Maxim’s face. “Not at all what I had in mind for my Opal, but she’s always had her own way of doing things.”

The Radissons could never be allowed to meet his family. Whatever would they think? Oh God, what would Opal think? His lie about Papa’s business hadn’t seemed so dangerous when he’d told it, but now . . .

And becoming an ordained clergyman was costly. He didn’t know how costly, but he was well aware that most vicars like Brandon were second or third sons from “the better” families.

He ran through the door of the rectory’s kitchen and stood against the wall, panting. Once word of his deception got out, no one would ever hire him as a tutor.

“There you are,” Brandon said, coming through the door. He looked so pale and serious that Maxim almost forgot about himself for a moment—almost.

Maxim longed to pour out his whole story, but of course he couldn’t. Even Brandon wouldn’t understand this. So he sat, waiting to hear what his mentor had to say.

“Because Adalrik has offered to make you his protégé, to prepare you for oral entrance exams, assist with your admission, and pay all your costs.”

Maxim’s mouth fell open, and Brandon raised one hand. “I know it sounds eccentric, but he’s done it before . . . for me and others. He’s rich and alone, and this is the only thing that gives him pleasure.”

“You’re a long way from being ready for a place like Oxford. Preparation will take years, and you’ll need to live with Adalrik up near Shrewsbury while you study.”

“Yes, his home is in Hamburg, but he sometimes lives in England, and right now there are some issues going on inside his . . . family, which make him prefer to be here.” Brandon’s eyes grew sad again. “Losing you will feel like a hole inside of me, but you could go so far, Maxim. Shall I tell him yes or no?”

“Right away. He’s arranged a hired carriage for tonight. I know that doesn’t give you much time to bid your family good-bye, but he’s anxious to head back north.”

Maxim did not go home to tell his family good-bye. He had a little money saved, which he kept at the rectory, so he went to a shop and purchased a traveling bag and a few personal items such as a comb, razor, and spare pair of stockings. Then he went back to wait with Brandon.

An hour past sunset, Adalrik arrived at the rectory in a covered carriage drawn by two matching horses, and Maxim said good-bye to Brandon. The moment was awkward, as Maxim had never told anyone good-bye.

Tonight, his long hair hung loose over a black cloak, and his eyes were bright in the darkness as he studied Maxim. “Brandon has told me all your strengths and faults,” he said. “That you remember everything you read, and you analyze subtext better than anyone he’s ever known.”

“He also tells me you are cold by nature,” Adalrik went on, “and that you have almost no understanding of true human relationships, only those in literature. He says you fear most men, but you’ve learned to hide it well, and that you’ll say anything necessary to get through a moment in which you feel threatened, then worry about the consequences later.”

Adalrik looked out the window. “Do not concern yourself. I take no exception to any of those qualities. You and I will suit each other well.”

Over the course of the following year, Maxim entered an alien world for which Brandon could never have prepared him—although at times, Maxim wished he’d at least tried. Brandon had called Adalrik “eccentric,” but this description did not begin to cover the reality.

At the end of the long journey from Hastings, Maxim found himself living in a three-hundred-year-old, isolated stone house more than an hour from the nearest village.

Adalrik did not employ any live-in servants. He engaged a charwoman to come clean twice a week, but he never saw her himself because he slept all day behind a heavy locked door, and he forbade Maxim to ever try to enter that room during daylight hours.

They had no cook, but within the first week, Maxim realized that Adalrik did not eat. Every Saturday morning, a man from Shrewsbury came to deliver food for Maxim: ham, cooked chickens, bread, fresh vegetables, preserved fruit, tea, and milk. By the following Friday, the bread was stale and the milk had turned—even though Maxim kept it outside—but he soon grew accustomed to the schedule, and he’d long been accustomed to laying out meals for himself.

Boxes of new clothes for Maxim sometimes arrived with the food delivery: fine suits, shirts, shoes, and even a black wool coat.

Although Maxim was well dressed now, he and Adalrik did not travel into Shrewsbury, although occasionally Adalrik would go out and vanish for hours. They did not entertain any company. They lived alone and apart from everything else.

At first, the bizarre state of affairs caused dark and anxious thoughts for Maxim. Why did Adalrik never eat? Why did he slip away before sunrise and emerge from his room only after sunset? In addition, Maxim could not remember much of his life before Brandon, and he found the absence of his mentor had created a painful hollow he could not fill. He had never missed anyone before and was not sure how to stop this unwanted feeling of loneliness.

But there were compensations, and slowly, over time, Maxim thought less and less on his previous existence, and after a while, he came to not even notice Adalrik’s strange behaviors. When one lives in close quarters with another for months on end, life begins to take on a reality of its own.

They spent much of their time in the library. Adalrik’s collection of books was astonishing, and he bemoaned Maxim’s limited grasp of Latin. Apparently, Brandon had been quite lax in this essential subject.

Maxim studied Latin, Greek, and Italian. Adalrik was a superior teacher, and soon Maxim read these languages fluently. Together, they pored over the works of Augustine, Erasmus, and Thomas Cromwell. They read Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle. They read Machiavelli.

Maxim’s favorite nights came later, when Adalrik would reward him with literature. They discussed Sophocles, Euripides, Chaucer, Molière, Voltaire, and Milton.

Although he never pinpointed when it actually happened, Maxim’s attachment and gratitude to Brandon gave way to something deeper in what he felt for Adalrik. Brandon had made him feel loved. Adalrik made him feel . . . valued.

They lived in their own private hideaway with no one but each other and their books. The squalid home of Maxim’s youth, along with Opal Radisson and her parents, became nothing but vague memories.

Adalrik kept two horses in the stable, which he tended himself, and he also taught Maxim to ride. This had been frightening at first, but Adalrik said, “A gentleman must know how to ride.”

After a while, Adalrik began to tell him about Germany and France and Italy. Maxim had never traveled, and the idea had always seemed daunting, but he would be safe with Adalrik. The prospect now appealed to him.

Every Saturday night, Adalrik would check to see if any letters had arrived along with the food delivery. Sometimes, he would read them and either put them away or begin writing a response. But sometimes, after he had read a letter, his face would take on a stricken expression, and he would fall into a depressed state—with no interest in discussing Milton.

One Saturday night, just after the New Year of 1826, a letter arrived that caused Adalrik to cry out in anguish and sink into a chair.

When Adalrik looked up from the white page of paper, his eyes shifted back and forth as if he were trying to make a decision. He stood and picked up a fat candle. “Come with me.”

“Look,” Adalrik said, holding up the candle. Maxim gazed into the mirror at his twenty-one-year-old face and blue-black hair.

“I have known many would-be scholars over the years,” Adalrik said softly. “Some were beautiful and some were brilliant. But I have never known both qualities to be so completely joined in a person until you.” He put his free hand to his face with a sad smile. “I was beautiful once, too. It was a different kind of beauty from yours, but I was beautiful nonetheless, and I was offered a gift too late in my life.”

He moved closer, holding the candle aside. “I wanted to wait a few a more years, but there are . . . things happening among my family that have convinced me that we will have to leave this place soon and hide ourselves. I cannot tell you more or take you with me unless you have joined us.”

“You will be like me,” Adalrik went on. “You won’t eat food, and you’ll be forced to take cover during daylight hours. But you won’t age another day, and you will wear that face forever. Is this not a fair exchange?”

Maxim found his mentor’s words to be some kind of heated fantasy, like Goethe’s Faust—probably brought on by the death of his family member.

Then Maxim remembered something Brandon told him the year before: He made me an offer I could not accept, and it has weighed on me.

Maxim looked back in the mirror. Could he really keep this face forever? Could he study and travel with Adalrik, growing more educated, more cultured each year, and yet keep this beauty?

Maxim followed him back, and they both sat on a low couch. What was about to happen? Did Adalrik possess some potion gleaned from an ancient Latin text?

He could not have been more stunned when Adalrik’s right hand suddenly shot out and gripped the back of his head. In all their time together, they had never once touched each other. The hand was incredibly strong, and Maxim couldn’t move, and his former fear of men came rushing back.

The room grew hazy, and an unfamiliar feeling began washing over Maxim . . . of complete trust. He trusted Adalrik absolutely with his body and his soul, and he relaxed in his mentor’s grip.

Then Adalrik pulled him close and bit down hard on his throat. The pain was blinding, and Maxim cried out. But the feeling of trust passed through him in stronger waves, and he ceased struggling, even while aware on some level that Adalrik was drinking his blood, swallowing it by the mouthful.

Adalrik pulled his teeth from Maxim’s throat and used them to tear open his own wrist, which he pressed into Maxim’s mouth.

With blood smeared all over his face, he neither looked nor sounded like the calm German scholar of Maxim’s nights. He was hard and savage. Maxim began swallowing, and the intense pain in his throat began to fade. He drank and drank, and then the world went dark.

“This should all be so different,” Adalrik said, his voice heavy with regret. “But I need to teach you quickly, and we must leave this place as soon as possible. It is too well-known to others like us.”

When they stepped outside, Maxim realized it was early evening, so it could not be the same night. Had he slept so long? He did not even remember which direction they traveled. He remembered only riding into a village and seeing other people for the first time in a year—besides the charwoman and the deliveryman.

“When I tell you,” Adalrik said, “I want you to reach into my mind with your thoughts and follow everything I do.... No, no, don’t look at me like that. Just do as I say.” He looked around quickly and then led Maxim to the mouth of an alley. “Move farther inside and sit on the ground near that stack of crates. Pretend to be unconscious.”

Maxim just stood there. He missed the library. He missed their books and quiet evenings. The man before him didn’t seem like Adalrik at all.

Maxim moved into the alley and sat against the wall. Looking out, he saw a portly man wearing an apron emerge from an inn across the street.

Once again, Maxim was overwhelmed by the strong sense of trust. Adalrik could be trusted absolutely. The portly man hurried over and smiled as he peered inside the alley.

The man collapsed, but Adalrik somehow caught him, lowering him to the ground. “Now,” he said to Maxim, “come inside my head.”

The words appeared in his mind as if Adalrik had spoken them. The thought of biting the portly man’s wrist was repugnant, and Maxim feared that at any moment, someone might walk into the alley and see them.

An ache inside him, beyond hunger, drove him to pick up the man’s wrist and bite down, and then warm fluid flowing down his throat was the sweetest thing he’d ever tasted. He began gulping. As he did, images flowed through his mind of the man serving meals and sweeping floors with laughing patrons all around him. He saw a memory of the man throwing a loud drunk out a door. He saw a small wriggling spaniel name Sheba who slept at the foot of the man’s bed....

Again, Adalrik spoke inside his head. Maxim jerked his head away from the man’s wrist, even though he didn’t want to stop. But he felt strong, whole again. Then he could feel Adalrik inside the man’s mind, taking him back a few moments to when he’d emerged from the inn. He had seen no one at the mouth of the alley, but he’d heard two dogs fighting and come to stop them. Once inside the alley, he’d slipped, tripping against the crates, cutting his wrist on a loose nail, bleeding, and falling unconscious.

Adalrik flinched. “He will not remember us, and you cannot kill to feed. Do you understand? You can never kill to feed. That is the first law.”

Maxim stared at the unconscious innkeeper. He did not understand, and although he’d never committed an act of violence in his life, every instinct inside him screamed that this man must be forever silenced.