Chapter Forty-Seven
Icarus knew it was winter, knew that the days were growing shorter and darker and colder, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that it was spring and that outside everything was being reborn—buds bursting forth on bare branches, lambs prancing in the pastures. Nor could he shake the feeling of lazy convalescence. He knew he should abandon his bed and hire post-chaises and haul everyone back to London, but he simply couldn’t muster any enthusiasm, and so, every day, he let it slide. When Letty Trentham told him she’d put off her return for another two weeks, Icarus nodded his relief and stopped thinking about departure at all.
He didn’t think about Vimeiro, either. He knew it had happened, could remember every detail if he wanted to, but it seemed very distant, something
