They landed a few hours later, the dragons setting down their burdens with deep and grateful sighs. It was no easy task even for a heavyweight to carry two sixteen-pounders a distance of over thirty miles, and Maximus and Requiescat had been loaded down with four apiece. Temeraire sighed and stretched himself out upon the cool ground like a long black snake.

Laurence slid down from Temeraire's back, weary and sore from the long hours dragonback. ‘Will you speak to them up at the house?’ Jane asked him, ‘or will I send Frette?’

‘No. I will go,’ Laurence said, and touching his hat turned away.

‘Pray give my best regards to your mother,’ Temeraire said, rousing a little, when Laurence rubbed his muzzle in farewell.

He walked slowly and with reluctance to the house; the windows were mostly dark, only a few link lights burned near the door. There were a couple of footmen outside gripping muskets, nervously. ‘It is all right, Jones,’ Laurence said, when he came close enough to recognize their faces. ‘It is only me. Is Lord Allendale at home?’

‘Oh—Yes, sir, but,’ Jones said, looking at him wide-eyed, and then the door opened. For a moment Laurence thought it was his father, but it was his eldest brother George, in dressing gown and slippers over his nightshirt, with a valet fussing a coat on over his shoulders.

‘For Heaven's sake, Will,’ George said, coming down the stairs. He was Laurence's senior by six years, and nearly as much time had gone by since Laurence had last seen him. He had grown stouter, but his exasperated tone remained unchanged. ‘That will be all,’ he added abruptly to the footmen, ‘you may go back inside.’ He said nothing more until the door had shut behind them, and then turning back to Laurence he hissed, ‘What in God's name are you doing here? And coming to the front door—You might have a little discretion, at least. Have you—Are you … hungry? Do you need—’

He floundered, and Laurence flushed in sudden understanding, ‘I have not fled gaol and come to the door to beg, sir; I am paroled, to fight the invasion.’

‘Paroled?’ George said. ‘Paroled for the invasion, and yet you are here in the middle of Nottinghamshire! Whosoever is likely to believe such a story, I ask you?’

‘Good God, I am not lying to you, brother’ Laurence said impatiently. ‘I am not going to explain this twice over. Will my father see me?’

‘No; and I shall not tell him you were here,’ George said. ‘He is sick, Will: three stones down since August, and the doctors have said he must keep quiet. Do you understand? Perfectly quiet; if we want him to see another year. He cannot even oversee the estate manager anymore; why do you think I am here? And no wonder, with the worry he has had. If you need money, or someplace to sleep—’