Chapter ElevenThistle Street seemed once more like a haven from the complications of the world. I listened to the slow ticking of the clock, looked around my drawing room and walked to the bookcase, where my books were old friends. Some were travel-worn, with stains from salt-water and spilt coffee, others I had bought since returning to Scotland. As well as Burns and various religious books, there was Wordsworth and Fielding, Homer and Tacitus, Smollet, Voltaire and Gilpin. Running my fingers across the spines, I selected a long-time favourite and retreated to my seat.
Opening Homer, I sat near the fire, trying to forget the outside world in the adventures of Odysseus. The familiar old words in the book blurred and merged as I attempted to concentrate. At that moment I did not care about
