Serere by Andy Frankham-Allen Page B

Their people transcended the loyalties of mortal living. He was still young, despite his outward appearance, and he had much to learn. One thing he did know, though, was how to show his host respect. Holtzrichter had not needed to offer up such intimate information; age and birthplace was rarely a secret shared among their people, and Isobel took it as a mark of respect.
    “For myself I am, as of this month, one hundred and seventy-nine years, born in London to a modest family. And, as you can see,” she added indicated their surroundings, “little has changed. Although let it be never said of me that I’ll be found punting up the River Trick. Financially or else.”
    “Being in debt is never something to be encouraged.” Holtzrichter frowned. “You have lived over a century and thought to make nothing of yourself? If I may make so bold, why?”
    “You misunderstand me, sir,” Isobel said and sat at the table. “I choose to be like this, a woman of little means. You cannot live for over a century by attracting attention to yourself. As I said, this country has been at war with one country or another for so long now, an’ I were to be noticed...” She shook her head. “This is why I came to Newington Green. It has a history for attracting the dissidents, the outsiders, those who do not conform to the Church and the Crown. And those who wish to remain invisible.”
    Holtzrichter nodded. “I understand. I was born poor, and lived a very modest life, until a visiting French noblewoman noticed me. She changed my life, and now she wishes to change yours.”
    Isobel was taken aback, but she had no doubt as to whom he meant. For a long moment Isobel remained as she was. Then she asked, softly, “why me? I keep myself to myself, I...”
    “We both know this is not quite true, do we not, Isabella?”
    For the second time in as many minutes she did not know what to say. She was certain she had kept her tracks well hidden. Of course she had been dragged into the revolution, but as far as most knew it was with open reluctance. Very few knew the truth, knew what exactly Isabella Frith had done during that violent time, and only a select few knew the true identity of Isabella Frith. It appeared one such person had talked. Isobel let out a sigh of defeat. “I do not seek attention and...”
    “That is why Celeste has sent me to you.” Holtzrichter said her name with such a feeling of intimacy it surprised Isobel. The Lady Celeste was said to not keep many close to her, but it seemed Holtzrichter was one of those. If he was not the Lady Celeste’s consort who was he to speak so freely of the Lady Celeste? “She heard of what you did, the great service you did in the name of the Three...”
    “They did not even exist, then,” Isobel pointed out.
    “No, of course, not as a body, but as an ideal embodied in Celeste. Her desire to bring our people out of superstition, away from the monster of myth, has always been with her. Ever since...” Here Holtzrichter paused, and looked down. Isobel watched him closely. He knew a lot more about the Lady Celeste than he was willing to share. The mystery deepened; who was he? Isobel knew better than to ask, it was clear she would not be told. “Since the beginning,” he continued, “and it is that ideal for which you fought. As a thank you, she wishes to offer you something. Something,” Holtzrichter looked around the small room, “you have clearly denied yourself.”
    “Then perhaps it is something I still do not care to have,” Isobel said, beginning to have an inkling of what was about to be offered. “I prefer to be unknown, Mr Holtzrichter.”
    “Then, my dear lady, why did you fight in Celeste’s name?”
    “Because...” Isobel stopped.
    For the first time in many long years she felt she needed to explain herself. Perhaps it was because of what was about to be offered. She needed the Lady Celeste to understand why she stood against the Brotherhood, and why she had to