Cover

Dedication

For Kim Woodson.

You are missed. Today, tomorrow, always.

The Village Gazette

On Tuesday the 14th inst. expired most regrettably, in this shire of Esswick, the remaining son of the most distinguished Duke and Duchess of Birchwood. Only thirty years of age, the honorable Lord Winston Birchwood died of miasma after suffering from a festering splinter wound.

His disposition was most ebullient, his cheer infectious to all. His lordship will be most sorely missed among family, friends and the residents of Hampleton, home to the most venerable Birchwood seat. May he rest in peace and grace alongside his recently departed brothers, Lord Albert Birchwood and Lord Malcolm Birchwood, who went to their heavenly rewards before him this past February and May, respectively.

Chapter 1

January, 1866

Colonel Constantine Sinclair was not a man given to drink, but were he such an individual, he would be well into his cups by now and on his way to a state of mindlessly deep inebriation.

He carefully set the letter down on the desk before him and leaned back in his chair to stare unseeingly ahead. Dimly he registered the sounds of male conversation and laughter outside his tent. This mingled with the even fainter sounds of the jungle at dusk.

They’d camped here for almost eight months now. Most of the wildlife kept their distance, but he was ever aware of the fact that it was always there, teeming and nipping at the edges of the camp. Last week a soldier had strayed too far during the night and become lost. They’d only found his remains in the morning. It was a vital reminder to all to remain vigilant.

The world was forever full of wild and irrepressible things, ready to devour you. Whether it be a tiger or a splinter wound. Life offered no assurances. He’d always known that to be the case, but he was starkly reminded of it now.

When the camp fell asleep and the sounds of the men quieted, he would be able to hear the nearby river. It was the most peaceful part of the day, when the noise went dead and there was calm—or the illusion of it, at any rate.

He oft liked to ride along the river in the early dawn, when the world was waking, with the verdant hills rising up alongside him shrouded in mist. This time of year was pleasant, a marked difference to the stifling heat of when they had first arrived.

Now he would be leaving all of this . . . but not by his free will.

Duty compelled him home.

Various aromas penetrated the walls of his tent. Food cooking over campfires. He’d already eaten, but his meal sat like a rock in his now-twisting stomach. In the distance a mandolin played. Several voices lifted in song, accompanying the instrument, but it did nothing to ease his spirits.