Chapter Twelve
November 11th, 1808
Basingstoke, Hampshire
Icarus woke to the sound of someone moving quietly in his bedchamber. He blinked his eyes open. For several disorienting seconds, he didn’t know where he was. India? Portugal? England?
“Good morning, sir.”
Icarus stared at the young man blankly—and then recognition came. Green. With the recognition came comprehension, and memory. Basingstoke. The Plough.
“Good morning,” Icarus said, and pushed back the bedclothes, feeling dazed and off-balance. Where had Miss Trentham vanished to? Why were the shutters open? Was it actually daylight outside?
He looked around the bedchamber with incredulous disbelief. He’d fallen asleep again? “What time is it?”
“Ten o’clock.”
“Ten?” Icarus felt even more off-balance, even more incredulous.
