Pale sunlight dances on the river surface but it is cold today. I pull the heavy cape around me tightly, covering my doublet. My fishing line is still out but no sign of a bite all morning. I look to Benson, my estate manager, and he has an optimistic expression on his face. I try to feel the same myself, but it is not easy. I feel I am in the right place at the right time but still my mind is not easy. I am far away now but I still see images of a burned man every time I close my eyes and even when I look towards the grey-blue sky. Or an axe coming down, blade flashing in a sudden burst of light. Two more died before I left London but mercifully, I did not witness either.
“He’s biting, Sir. Hold hard.”
Can Benson have seen a fish before I even felt a pull on my line? He is right, though
