It is a strange thing to be enjoying the simple pleasures of an English winter evening, cosy within a country cottage. Beneath a thatched roof, where a roaring fire warms the outer and a fresh pot of tea warms the inner, a rare assemblage sits in awkward silence.

The hearth-fire's crackle, the second-hand of the grandfather clock, the clink of fine bone china, and the occasional sip is all that can be heard. I am tempted to put on a cylinder of Offenbach. I rise from my seat, but I pass the gramophone and stroll in the direction of the room where Mr Niafer is being interviewed by Mr Hawkins and Protector Smythe.

I link my hands behind my back and pucker my lips to whistle. This, too, comes to no fruition, and I am soon strolling back to my chair. How odd this is for the likes of us.

Leopold Saxby, perhaps one of Britain's most dangerous men, puts a match to his pipe tobacco, his leonine whiskers jerking with each puff. This Watcher was an excellent choice to accompany Mr Hawkins. Broad-shouldered and muscular, Leopold is notably demihuman. His hair is a great golden mane, and his skin is covered in a smooth, shiny coat of dark fur. His slitted, yellow eyes narrow beneath his spectacles, and his hands are paw-like mitts. And out from the slit in the back of his frock coat one can hardly ignore the long, lion's tail that sways to and fro. The man is often thought of as the Swiss Guard of Ordo Orbis Albus. You couldn't have a more feral and formidable bodyguard than Leopold. I am unaccustomed to seeing him in such a domestic setting, and I'm tempted to laugh aloud.

Then there is Ivor Kneath-Evans, another excellent Watcher. He appears to be the most comfortable of us tonight, but that seems largely due to his attitude that he is the only one in the room. With a copy of the Times in his hands, the lanky, dark-haired Welshman sips his cup of Twinings. To the untrained eye, Ivor is simply scanning the rotogravure for interesting articles or advertisements. But in actuality, Mr Kneath-Evans, like most Watchers, is trained in the reading of metaprint. It is a highly esoteric skill, one that he has mastered over the years, in which the reader detects a series of certain type anomalies or flaws in printed characters which, when pieced together, reveal hidden messages. It is through metaprint that Watchers conduct most of their communication.

We are few in number, but we are everywhere. Not only do we infiltrate the offices of the London Times. We also have some influence in Downing Street, Whitehall, and Government House throughout the Empire. Unlike editors and politicians, however, we are less conventional in our methods. Ours include magicks and subterfuge.

Miss Van Hasding watches me as I stroll aimlessly about the room. I must seem to her a terrible host. Does she truly understand how unnatural it is for Watchers to sit idly in a drawing room. We haven't a single, sedentary bone in our bodies. We survive on little food and no more than two or three hours of sleep every few days. We've little regard for etiquette and small-talk, but we highly esteem culture, education and industry.

I suddenly feel the need to escape the vampire-hunter's gaze, perhaps because I begin to feel a little embarassed about my shortcomings in the realm of social protocol. Without a word, I throw on my frock coat and step into the cold outdoors. Through the large, oriel window I see Ivor and Leopold haven't even blinked at my sudden departure.

To the lake's edge I go, gazing out across the silver, frozen expanse. My heart leaps into my throat when my eyes fall upon a woman's lifeless body trapped beneath it.