"Head trauma. Displaced humors." Lysander had not suffered a head injury in the war. Various other painful things had happened, but not that. He couldn't speak to the humors diagnosis, but it sounded like balderdash.

"Commotional." That had actually been the best diagnosis so far. Many things made Lysander feel commotional. Physical violence, excessive noise, injustice. Once the screams of a woman from a filthy alleyway had made his heart and head pound and sick darkness rise within him. When the red and black had receded from his vision, he found himself standing over a cowering, bleeding man. The fellow's victim, a young, battered prostitute was crawling desperately away. The terror in her eyes when she stared over her shoulder at Lysander had sent him shaking and puking against the alley wall. She'd looked at him as if he were a monster, this poor abused creature who'd no doubt seen more than her share of horrors in these lawless streets — yet it was he whom she feared.

None of his family knew of that particular episode. Iris and Archie persisted in believing him to be, at heart, the young man he'd once been. Lysander's brothers were aware that his "commotional" explosions were out of control, but even they had never truly witnessed him in that terrible state.

Lysander knew that his family told themselves tales — that he was getting better, that he was calmer now. That his nightmares were less, that he was leaving the war farther behind him, that his darkness was lifting into light.

Lysander thought he was faking it all rather well.

But now he had a helpful mission, a search, a goal — a clear-cut direction in which to go. Far from this house of terrified, tragic love and illness.

Far away.

CHAPTER 3

Chapter 3

BACK TO THE DAY WE FIRST MET, DEAR READER…

LYSANDER WORTHINGTON HAD BEEN in the saddle for two days — or was it three? Not that he cared terribly. On horseback, it was much less necessary to speak to anyone. There were a few people on the road and if he timed the pace of his mount correctly he could either fall back or pass ahead of any other rider or cart with no more than a quick jerk of his head and a tug on the brim of his hat. He tried to remember manners, although it was much easier for him when he didn't actually need to use them very often.

Beneath him, Icarus moved with contented grace and far more style than Lysander deserved. Then again, Icarus wasn't actually his horse. The fine mount belonged to Lysander's older brother, Dade. "Daedalus and Icarus" sounded much more imposing than "Dade and Icky", but that's what everyone in the family called them.