Chapter 9London, September 3, 1885
William sat at the dining table, swirling the last dregs of cold tea in a handleless cup, not really listening to the conversation going on upstairs between Kent and Katarina. He could catch no more than one word in three, and he gave his attention to no more than half of those; most of his mind was elsewhere. He fancied he could feel the weight of the little silver locket in his breast pocket as well as the weight of history resting on his shoulders, factually impossible though both those notions were.
In the far corner of the room, Elizabeth was curled up in the wing chair they had all insisted she rest in. At least she had not been badly hurt in the scuffle with Schwieger, the blow to her middle having caused only bruises, not broken ribs. The bliste
