[A letter from William Montagu, an accountant and cambist, to his husband Jonathan Vesey, dated 10th October 1724. A note is attached: Harriet, look at this. I think this letter was never sent? The seal was intact (Never fear, I opened it with utmost care), and it was tucked into a daybook from the old collection. Nothing interesting other than this, just accounts and payments. -Hazel x]

My Dearest Jonathan,

Lord Mallory is such a scrawny and odious man who boasts the most tremendous Hapsburg jaw, one might think they were in the presence of the Emperor himself. At first glance I thought him squat, but upon standing he unfolds himself like a spider and I realised it was his posture, the twisted grimace of a burdened man, that made him seem to metamorphosize before my eyes. His macilent frame towers over me, and as you know I am not a small man. Overall my first impression was one I would not like to repeat again, and so I have taken to eating meals in my salon. Presumably, this also suits my Lord, for he has not once complained about the arrangement.

His son, Oscar, is a scraggy boy of twelve and by all accounts a much more likable fellow than his father, but I worry that the expectations of his family weigh heavily upon him. He is dour for his age. Where other boys might be spirited and playful, he is sullen and withdrawn. His father has him reading all day about tombs. Tombs! Really, what kind of man could even suck all the youthful joy out of a book about crypts and treasures, and yet the boy reads it as though it were the strictest punishment, presenting what he has learned every night to his father in a voice as cool as slate. I worry for his future and hope for his sake that he takes more after his mother.

The mansion itself is a grand and foreboding place, I cannot stress enough just how much of it there is. Every time I think I have reached the end of a corridor, two more branch off from it like some sort of daemonic junction. Even the corners have corners! I tried once to count the windows from the outside, and could not. Even counting the windows of a single floor got me all confused, as my bedroom is on a corner, and yet I could not see the lamp I left in the window from any outside angle! The word mansion barely does justice to this vast and looming palace, it is more like a castle than a mere country house, what with these turreted towers and thick, basalt walls.

The Mallory's are the best in their line of work. The cryptography of Mallory the elder, Gods rest his soul, was renowned. Not a single noble of note was buried without a Mallory contraption in his final place of rest. I must admit, I was surprised to hear that the current Lord Mallory was not of the same level of accomplishment, but having now met him I can understand why. Something has taken root in this man's mind, his worldview has narrowed and he has time only for his marsh, his mines and his growing religious fervour. He is training his son, however, and the boy does at least show a shining potential. I think it would help him to get away from the manor, and study in some other part of the world, where he can enjoy the fame his name grants him and forget about the building and maintaining of catacombs for a while.

My work here is fairly straightforward, though by the gods there is enough of it. I feel like these accounts have never been looked at, there is work here that will last me for months. But luckily, Mallory is willing to pay. What he could be needing with all this equipment however, I haven't the faintest idea. The mansion is sprawling enough, and I cannot see any sign of new construction nor indeed any workers who might carry it out. Apart from myself, the Lord, the young master and a few servants the place is empty. And yet, day after day carts of metal and mortar are delivered and deposited somewhere, I do not know where. I just tally the books, and count my money.

The Romans called this place Palus Sulis, the swamp-land of Sulis, goddess of the water, as many of the streams and rivers which nourished the local villages came down from the peaks of this rocky haven. There was even a small temple, the ruins of which you can see in the north garden. In modern times, this has been corrupted into Palus Somni, for reasons unknown but when I mentioned it to Lord Mallory he just gave me a rasping laugh and said "Even goddesses need to sleep, Montagu."

The water here is thermal, naturally heated from deep beneath the stone which has led to many a pleasant hot bath, despite being accompanied by the pungent smell of brimstone. I was told by one of the servants that the spring waters, when meeting the porous earth of the marshland, creates a rather beneficial epsom salt, pinkish in colour from the iron deposits and very good for sore muscles and as a medicinal base. I have enclosed some for your satisfaction, as I know how much your knees pain you.

Everything here smells of rust and sulphur and peat, and I miss you and your good company. I miss your smiles, and your strong arms around my shoulders. I know you would have something insightful to say about all this, and I await your response with excessive eagerness, as one might who is cursed to stay in the middle of nowhere with no decent conversation in sight in the long months ahead.

Ever yours, my love,

William

----

[Harriet – I found another letter! It was in the same book. I know, I know – I’m not the most observant cat in the closet but at least I found it before it got filed away forever. Poor William though, it looks like none of them ever got sent. I’ll have another look through the daybooks and send any more correspondence your way for cataloguing. H x]

19th October 1724.

The strangest thing, my love. The most curious incident happened this morning, and I need to get my thoughts down on paper because if I leave them buzzing around my head I fear I shall go mad.

Forgive me for writing again so soon but I couldn’t wait another moment, I had to share with you my thoughts. Hopefully you will receive this alongside the other letter, as the postal service here is scarce. Lord Mallory’s assistant took my letter for posting but said that it may be a week or two before the postwoman comes (she is a shepherdess, you know – she takes letters between the villages as she moves her flock for grazing, how peculiar!)

I had skipped dinner last night, and sorely regretted it later. I thought I knew my way to the kitchens by now, but I must have taken a wrong turn in this damnable maze. Surely, all stairs should lead to the ground floor, I thought, but it was impossible to tell without windows where the earth began and the sky ended. The air grew increasingly stuffier as I made the trek down staircase after staircase, each step narrower than the last before realising that this was a fool’s errand. I should have been content with the fruit plate up in my room. I turned to go back up the way I came and – oh! – when I put my fingers upon the wall it was damp, and there was a strong smell of rust. Where I had touched the wall - now, please suspend your disbelief for a moment my dearest - it had started bleeding! Fresh clots of bright red blood oozed out from the mortar and painted my hand a brilliant crimson. I raised my torch to see only red. The hall behind me, and in front, was a sickly mess of bloody sinew where there should have been mortar. I am ashamed now to admit that I ran like the devil and went to bed, for what remained of the night, hungry and sleepless. I don’t know how my feet found their way up, some instinct to avoid the visceral and seek the safety of the familiar was at work in my brain.

Jonathan, I think this building is haunted.

By what, I cannot say. Perhaps it is merely channelling the restless spirit of Mallory and his mad obsession. He has found some kind of new material, he claims. A new species of metal that he calls ‘pearl iron’. It doesn’t act like any normal metal that you might be familiar with, more like quicksilver when warmed and mother of pearl when cool. Its metallic radiance is corroded with speckles of opalescent shimmer, and overall it is a bright and vivid crimson.

“Listen closely, Montagu.” Mallory said to me over dinner today, as he slid a chunk of the substance over the table towards me. “Listen tight and listen fast, for you understand nothing – Nothing! – you hear, Montagu? Nothing!”

I could only nod my head at this, for it was true – I knew nothing of his ramblings. I was tired from the previous night abroad and wanted only to finish my meal in peace.

“Touch it.”

“Touch it, my lord?”

“Touch the damn stone, Montagu, or I shall throw it.”

(Such charm you would never find in the city!)

I put my hand upon the chunk of ore, expecting it to be cool and smooth beneath my palm. But to my surprise, it was warm! Warm and vibrating, like the heart of some quivering, noble creature. When I took my hand away, it left streaks of red upon it, just like in the basement.

I saw his laugh before I heard it, his face splitting in half with a wolfish grin. Too many teeth and too little empathy.

“See now? This house is as alive as this rock, and no more.”

I felt my face burning with realisation as I watched a rusty droplet trickle down and stain my cuff. The workers were hollowing out this very same ore from beneath the mansion itself. It was pearl iron I had seen between the cracks in the walls. I have no idea how Mallory found out about my night-time jaunt but I suppose in a place like this, even the walls have eyes.

I stand by what I said however. This place, if not haunted, is cursed.

Ever yours,

William

---

[A note is tacked on to the back of the letter, in a clear and spidery hand:

Pearl iron - golem coagulate. Can find it in the undercroft?]

---

[The next note is written on modern paper in the same handwriting.]

I checked the catacombs, it took me a while to find any but it was there. None in the undercroft, William Montagu’s night-time wanderings must have taken him deeper than he realised. It’s stubborn stuff, I had to bathe twice before my skin returned to normal, and even then the smell still lingers. I shall have to take some to the engineer and see what she makes of it, what properties it could have. To think that I of all people could stumble into such a mess! I’ll have to be more careful. From now on, I’m going to start keeping a more detailed log of this discovery. I already have a good place I can hide it. Rookery.

I want to stop and put these letters down. Forget I ever saw anything. But here I stand, feet planted firmly on the mossy earth, and wonder; might the secrets we have been pining for be so very near us, so close beneath us that I could touch them, if only I reached out?

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