You’re the youngest son of a well-known wealthy family in the early 1800s in London.

You’ve never had many expectations, since you are furthest from inheriting your father’s considerable fortune. You’ve always been a slight, scrawny little fellow, with skin too pale and a constitution too frail to be taught the trade of merchants and traders, which is how your parents became so well-to-do in the first place. So often, you’re sent to the countryside for long stretches at a time, because the doctors say that the fresh air is good for you. You end up staying at the small manor of your uncle. He’s not home very much, as he’s partners with your father in his business, but it’s all the better for you, since it means that everything is quiet and calm, and you can roam the hills and forests and moor as you please. Many nights, you make the climb up to the highest hill around, which is about two miles from your uncle’s manor. It takes you a good hour and a half, having to stop to take frequent rests. It saps the strength from you considerably, but you believe it to be worth it for the view you are rewarded with upon completing the journey.

The hill is very flat on the top, with few trees and grass kept lush and soft by the rains. The sun has gone down and the night is dewy and chilled despite it still being late summer. You spread your cloak down upon the most even bit of ground and lower yourself with a soft exhale of relief. Your body is aching from the travel, so easily bruised and fatigued. But despite that, you’re glad that you’re not as impressive as your brothers and male cousins, because they don’t get to experience the beauty of the dark velvet sky stretched out above you, speckled with gleaming white stars.

You sigh happily and close your eyes momentarily. When you open them, there’s a tall, shadowy figure standing over you. You gasp, sitting halfway up.

“No need to startle,” the figure says, in a drawling voice. His educated way of speaking mirrors your own. “I was not planning on mugging you, if that is what you are fearing.”

You hold up your lantern. The figure reveals himself to be a man of about six feet tall, with a dark overcoat and matching tophat and cane, and peculiar black glasses. His hair peeks out from under his hat in perfect curls of a color that is nearly crimson. He’s probably ten or twenty years older than you, with a thin and slightly rugged face. He’s handsome, you notice.

“If you are not here to murder me, then might I enquire as to what you are doing, father stranger?” you ask politely, your heart fluttering like a songbird. He gave you such a scare that you feel a little faint.

“I intended to watch the stars,” he replies. “The same as you, I believe?”

You nod, and shuffle over a bit. “Would you care to sit? I notice you haven’t brought your own cloak or blanket, and it’s only right for me to be hospitable and share my own, when there’s plenty of room. It can’t be very comfortable to stand.”

The man pauses, and then seems to decide that it’s a kind offer, and carefully folds himself down to sit, his legs sprawled out long before him. “And here I thought that the youth of today had no manners at all.”

You give a small laugh. “I’m afraid that I was raised to be proper, father stranger. Mightn’t you tell me your name, so we can be fully introduced?”

The man inclines his head towards you. “I am Anthony J. Crowley. And you are?”