“I know.” Hurtheven’s voice softened.
“I cannot go home.” Not like this—weak and left cowering by a few phantom whispers.
Hurtheven was right. Everyone would want to know where he’d been. And Chev had locked the answer in an unfolded memory.
“You can’t go home,” Hurtheven amended, “before you’ve been to the Admiralty.”
“You don’t understand.”
Hurtheven flashed him a startled glance. His lips flattened as he thought. “We’ll store you at Ash’s, then. Until you regain your strength.”
“Ash?” He frowned.
“Weren’t here for that either, were you? Our old friend has been fully fitted with the dubious mantle of his mad father—the Duke of Ashbey.” Hurtheven stopped abruptly. He tilted his head. “For now, let’s just say Ash’s habits are such you could stay with him as long as you need, with no one the wiser.”
Ashbey.Chev fitted the family name to the other face he’d remembered when he’d first awoken.
Hurtheven rubbed his chin. “Perhaps this isn’t the worst of ideas. You, Ash, myself.” He chuckled. “Who’d have thought our brotherhood would reunite?”
Eta Rho Zeta.The ink on his ankle. A name for the secret triumvirate inspired by some American society Hurtheven’s uncle had founded. Three school boys, taking for themselves the mantle of gods—Zeus, Hades and Poseidon.
Poseidon.He snorted. What hubris. If the sea god existed, no wonder the waves had been intent on his death.
“You were always a bit touched,” Cheverley said.
“Entitled, yes. Arrogant, often. But my mind’s as sound as the king’s.”
Cheverley expelled a rough, involuntary chuckle. Hurtheven glanced askance with a half-smile. He squeezed Cheverley’s shoulder.
“My God... Chev.” His smile faded. He shook his head, and then he turned away. “It is really you.”
The hearse jostled, parting the curtains and illuminating Hurtheven’s face. Lines—deep cut—chiseled his forehead and wetness glinted in the corners of his eyes.
Thirteen years.
Vastness hit Chev all at once—an expanse that set him adrift in uncertainty.
In bone-deep fear.
Hurtheven wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and stiffened. “The sea spit you up. For now, be grateful.”
Grateful?
There was much he didn’t know. So much he had yet to understand. He turned his head to the side. Heat from Hurtheven’s hand seeped into his skin. Warm. Comforting.
Grateful.Yes.For now.
He had made it out of the storm. He had made it back to land. As for the menace lurking just beyond the grasp of his consciousness?
That was too large to be faced—or exorcised—with weakened limbs and a mind engulfed with fog.
First, he must regain his strength. Because when those memories came, they would bring a fury stronger than the sea.
Chapter Three
Spring 1806
UNDYED WARP STRINGSstretched far above Penelope’s head, giving the ancient loom rescued from the ruins of Ithwick Castle the appearance of a massive harp. Instead of producing music, however, Penelope’s skilled fingers—carefully guided by the image in the mirror beyond—slowly transformed bobbins of colored thread into representations of the things Cheverley held dear—Pensteague, his longbow, arrows and quiver, Ithwick Manor, Ithwick Castle’s ruins, and the sea.
