Chapter 4Danby, Yorkshire, August 30, 1885
The overheated little room was absolutely silent for the space of three heartbeats. Then William heard Katarina Rasmirovna whisper, “Bloody hell.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her grope for the sofa and lower herself into it as though finding her legs inadequate to the task of keeping herself upright. The rest of his attention was captured by the old man who faced him, body bent over a cane but eyes still alert.
“So you were there,” Christopher Palmer said in a tone of satisfaction. “After all.”
“I was,” William said. “I was there when you were wounded at Waterloo.” His knees felt as though he were there in fact. For a moment, his ears rang with the sound of booming cannon, screaming horses, men crying out as they collapsed halfway to t
