Chapter 6Danby, Yorkshire, August 30, 1885
“Fire!”
The word rent the sleeping air, and William was instantly alert, on his feet, thoughts of tents and trapped horses tumbling through his mind.
“Fire!”
Except he wasn’t in a tent. There were no horses trapped; he heard none squealing. He heard frightened human cries instead, female as well as male, and feet scrambling against floorboards. Floorboards? He was in a house. A house in England. Beneath the scent of smoke, the air smelled heavy and rich. Definitely England.
England, yes, right, a cottage in Yorkshire, Christopher Palmer’s house, seventy years after the tents of the Peninsula. He remembered now. He was sleeping in an empty downstairs room with Maxwell and Schwieger—camping on the hard floor—while Elizabeth and Katarina shared
