Chapter 11Danby, Yorkshire, June 5, 1764
The brook proved to be as peaceful as it had looked on the fourth face of the pocket watch. Quiet green meadow stretched around it in every direction—free from the constant grinding undertone that had plagued construct-governed London, but saved by birdsong from the heavy dead silence of French-occupied London. Best of all, a weeping willow arched over the brook itself, dipping its leafy tendrils in the water, perfectly positioned to conceal anyone who sat under it from the eyes of chance passers-by. The brook was a good place to regroup, to shake, to cry. Even to sleep a little. Elizabeth found herself profoundly grateful for the safety it offered. As she surfaced toward wakefulness, she found herself almost ready to begin again.
“Are you feeling
