Chapter 8London, September 2, 1885
A hand on his shoulder woke him. His dry eyes blinked open, flinched closed again at the glare from the candle. Kent shifted without speaking, interposing his cool shadow between William’s eyelids and the attack of the light, and William was sufficiently grateful to attempt opening his eyes again. The light was mostly behind Kent now, lighting his tawny hair with a halo of gold and shrouding his face like a veil. He waited a moment or two, fingers still warm on William’s shoulder, watching William’s face. Then, apparently satisfied the younger man would stay awake, Kent removed his hand. William brought the words from what seemed an immense distance: “What—time’s it?”
Kent did not move to consult a pocket watch. “About an hour after sunset.”
Just over
