He listened for a moment but heard no sound. Not Worthington House then. Though large and rambling, Worthington house was full of people, full of sound, full of music and poetry and the never-ending chatter of people who lived loudly and large.

All tinged throughout with just a hint of Iris's turpentine. It was everywhere.

Iris painted as the spirit moved her, in whichever room of the house took her fancy, although Miranda had finally managed to convince her not to perch on the front steps in a paint-spattered nightdress even though the light was "marvelously luminous" out front.

Thinking of Iris, Lysander was reminded of the true state of affairs at home. Iris was ill. There was no laughter at home, just a tense and worried silence. He'd previously thought the raucous household sometimes more than he could bear, but that had been nothing in comparison to the weight and pressure of his family's worry for their mother.

Pol. He was on his way to find Pollux. A useless mission, following the trail of a months-old missive, but one that Lysander had welcomed for the excuse to leave that twisting tension behind.

He had been riding. Yorkshire. A turn down a side road. It would take longer but Icarus could surely make up the miles.

Icarus. Where was Icarus? He could not remember. Daedalus would not be happy with him, not at all.

Perhaps it was the urge to find out what had become of his brother's fine horse that finally pried open his eyes against the thumping in his skull.

He saw nothing. He blinked, again and again, trying to clear his vision. Then he felt something cold drip onto his ear. He reached a hand to his face. The movement hurt a bit. He ached everywhere, as if covered in bruises from a beating. His hand touched damp cloth.

His eyes were covered but not bandaged. He moved to remove the cloth from the upper half of his face. A gravelly voice halted him.

"Leave it, lad. Let me pull t' curtains first. It's still a bit bright out."

Lysander heard the thumping of boots on a wooden floor and the thick rustle of curtains moving. He sensed the room became dimmer even though masked by the cool cloth.

"Aye then. Go ahead."

Carefully, Lysander lifted the wet fabric from his face and blinked, frowning painfully.

"Can you see, then? Can you see clear?"

Lysander rolled his head to one side, focused on the source of the voice. He blinked and brought into view a man, a wiry older fellow, although not as old as Archie Worthington.

The fellow was smaller than Lysander's father, bent and dressed in rough country clothing. His waistcoat was a lumpy knitted affair and he wore the boots of a farmer. Despite his balding head, there was nothing vague about the man's quick blue eyes beneath his bushy salt-and-pepper brows.

"I see." Lysander cleared his throat. "Horse?"