15 October. The master rose at the accustomed hour, precisely as the first pallor of false dawn crept beyond the blackout drapes. I had anticipated his needs: the silver tray borne from the cold room, its crystal flutes brimming with the fresh vintage from the supplier in Soho. Type O, unadulterated, chilled to four degrees. He took it without comment, his gaze fixed on the middle distance, as is his way when the remnants of reverie cling.

Routine held sway through the early hours. Correspondence dispatched, the ledgers balanced against the nocturnal expenditures. The manor remained sealed, no unbidden guests to shatter the hush. I oversaw the staff’s silent rotations: linens changed in vacant chambers, silver polished against the inevitable tarnish of time. Master Nicolas retreated to the library at half-past ten, his fingers tracing the spines of those leather-bound relics he favours, though he reads little these days. A murmur of pages, the scratch of his pen on vellum, noting some trifling observation on the decay of empires. All as scripted, all in order.

Disruption arrived at noon, sharp as a stiletto. The bell at the service entrance tolled thrice, insistent. Not the tradesman, whose rhythm I know by heart, but a courier from the Consortium, bearing a sealed missive in black wax. The master’s crest impressed, yet the hand unknown. I bore it to him unopened, as protocol demands. His expression shifted then, a flicker across that eternal mask: irritation laced with curiosity. He broke the seal without haste, scanned the contents in silence. The paper crumpled in his fist, consigned to the fire grate before I could discern more than a fragment, “the asset in Vienna requires extraction”.

Orders followed, clipped and final. Preparations for departure: the valise packed with essentials, the secure case for transit fluids, contacts alerted in the Low Countries. Routine fractures thus, and the manor’s hush yields to the grind of machinery below stairs. I have arranged the decoy rota, the lights timed to mimic occupancy. He will depart at dusk, leaving me to tend the voids he leaves behind. One wonders, always, what Vienna conceals this time, what bloodied thread pulls him from our ordered dark.

Chives

Immortalis Book One August 2026