A faint, incoherent roar of indignation resounded from within, informing Harrison quite clearly that Richard was, in fact, at home and moderately conscious. Responsive was always a welcome state.

He tried the door, which was fortunately unlocked, though there was some concern for the location of his brother’s residence without the security of a lock in place, and he entered the room.

The first thing he noticed was the lack of furniture in the room. The last time he had been in this place, there had been at least one chair by the fire and a clock on the mantle, and he was positive some unremarkable artwork had hung about the room. None of that was there now, and even the fireplace seemed remarkably empty. Dark and empty.

Apart from the curtains, which had enough wear in them that holes were allowing sunlight through them—certainly irritating his brother on the occasions that he appeared from his bedchamber in the daylight hours. Nothing in this room indicated life, let alone inhabitants.

Harrison moved to the adjoining door of the bedchamber, presently ajar, and knocked again as he pushed the door open further still. The light in this room was worse than the anteroom, but Harrison’s eyes had adjusted enough to take in plenty of details: the four-poster bed with tattered hangings, the blanket hanging over the window in addition to the curtains to increase the room’s darkness, and the prone figure in a stained linen shirt splayed on the rumpled bed, barely moving. Its dark, sprawling curls hid any facial features, but the half-groaning breaths it took were decidedly familiar.

“Are you conscious?” Harrison asked in as loud a voice as he felt necessary to wake his brother from any deep sleep he might have been in.

The barely coherent response from his brother was too vile for anyone of manners, and Harrison could only shake his head.

“What happened to your furnishings?” he inquired as he moved farther into the room, glancing at the open bureau of relatively fine clothing, though a number of its contents had been strewn across the floor before it.

“Sold ‘em,” Richard grumbled, turning on the bed and glaring blearily at Harrison. “Run of bad luck, and I had debts.”

Harrison grunted once. “Are you solvent now?”

“Settled up, more like. Why? You offering to give me money?” Richard laughed before groaning and burying his face in his bed.

“I see your morning routine has not altered much,” Harrison mused, coming closer to the bed. “How’s your head?”

Again came the vulgar response, this time bringing a faint smile to Harrison’s lips.

“Ordinary people don’t have to wake up like this, you know,” Harrison told him as though it were helpful. “They actually feel rested and don’t have much pain.”