It had rained the night before and it was freezing.
Lord Harrison stood in the corridor outside the study, the photograph grasped in his hand like an offering no hi.
The woman in the image who held two infants in her arms, wore a bland expression, as if waiting for penance.
Harrison stared at the fireplace across the room and his pulse quickened.
He reached for the wine gallery and just as he lifted the St. Morris, a small panel slid open revealing an iron box behind it.
Curiously, he set the photo aside and reached for the hidden box.
Its surface was aged and soot-stained. He pressed a clip and the lid creaked open with a heavy click.
Inside was a scorched black-and-white photo of his mother, Lady Wycliffe, holding one infant.
The other half was missing, burnt away.
There w
