as 'sir,' he soon led her down the hallway and up two flights of a back staircase to a small guest room.
'If you take off your clothes, sir, I will have them dried.'
'I can't do that,' blustered Alison.
'Sir?'
'I–I'm afraid of catching a cold.'
'That would be the point of your taking the wet clothes off your back, sir.'
'I won't change until I have something to change into.'
The servant frowned, but as he had been planning on fetching new clothes anyway, merely bowed and left.
Alison closed the door and examined the room. It was sparsely though elegantly furnished. The bed and curtain fabric were thick and sleek beneath her fingers, ten times as luxurious as any her father had ever used at the inn. The wardrobe and small chest of drawers glowed a reddish brown, their surfaces so strongly polished that Alison could see her reflection in the wood as clearly as if it were glass.
The harsh river currents had scrubbed her body clean of the blood that had bathed it last night. With her short hair and thin face, she did indeed look like a boy — an exceedingly fair one, and a few years younger than she actually was, but a boy nonetheless.
Her clothes were very damp; finally feeling the chill through them, she made sure the door was barred and window curtains closed, then whipped off her coat and shirt. She peeled back the breeches and walked naked through the room, her toes tickling the fine wool of the carpet, feeling as if she had been reborn.
Her father's death was as yet a bad dream, unreal to her. Jake, on the other hand, was very real, and her feelings toward him sharp in a way she had not felt before.
It was as if some new part of her had grown inside; if she were able to reach inside her chest she might find a new heart or lung there.
It took a few seconds for Alison to hear the knock on the door, and a few more to realize it was for her.
'Sir? May I come in, sir?'
'Wait,' Alison said, running to the door. She wedged her bare foot against the floor, then leaned her head over to the edge of the doorway as she creaked it open. 'What do you want?'
'I have your clothes, sir, if you'll permit me.'
'Give them here.'
'Sir?'
To open the door even another inch would be to give herself away. Alison eased her hand into the hallway — and pushed her weight harder toward her foot.
'Please give me my clothes,' she told the servant. 'I'll dress myself.'
The servant sighed heavily, but nonetheless complied.
'Tell the lady I'll be down shortly.'
'The lady is a dame,' said the servant heavily, 'being the wife of an earl. Her full name is Lady Patricia Eileen Buckmaster. You may call her Lady Patricia, if she so directs you.'
'She already did,' replied Alison. 'Tell her I'll be right down.'
'As you wish.'
Alison whisked the clothes into the room, then fell against the door, closing it. She stayed against the oiled wood panel until she had finished pulling on a shirt and then the breeches.
The servant had not brought a coat, which presented her with a bit of a problem. As Jake had discovered, her chest was not so completely unnourished as to escape close scrutiny. She saw no choice but to wear her damp waistcoat over the linen shirt, buttoning it despite the moisture.
Barefoot, she emerged from the room to find the servant waiting impatiently.
'Here,' she said, handing him a wadded pile of wet clothes. 'Can you dry these?'
'You are expected in the north parlor.'
Alison had no idea what a north parlor was, much less where to find it, and so followed quietly as the servant led her back downstairs to a large paneled room twice as large as her father's inn. The thick carpets covering the floors were the first thing the shoeless girl noticed. Then a pair of massive chandeliers caught her eyes and led them to a white marble fireplace that took up nearly three-quarters of the wall. Despite the fact that it was summer, a fire had been started, and as Alison approached she felt the heat blow across her face, chasing the last vestiges of the river's chill. Her vest seemed to dry immediately.
'Isn't your waistcoat still damp?'
Startled, Alison spun quickly and took a step back, avoiding Lady Patricia's touch. The woman moved so silently and quickly, she might well be an angel or a ghost.
'It's not wet at all,' she told her.
Lady Patricia frowned briefly, dimples forming in her round cheeks. But they soon slid into an indulgent smile. 'You are just learning the rules of decency, I see. Very well. I am glad to see Thomas's old clothes fit. They haven't been worn since he was thirteen or fourteen, when he first came to visit his uncle.'
'Is that long?'
'Too long, now,' said the woman. 'Take this chair and sit by the fireplace, child. With luck, the Servant will find you some shoes.'
Alison nodded and sat. 'Tell me how you came to be, on my brother's beach while we wait for your shoes,' said Lady Patricia. 'Then we will go inside and eat.'
'There's not much to tell, ma'am. My father and I were fishing.'
'Fishing?'
Alison nodded her head up and down. She could tell that the woman did not believe her, but had no other lie to offer.
'And what happened to your boat?'
'The waves took it,' said Alison. 'We had to swim to shore, from at least midway. My father — saved me.'
'Fishing? At night?'
'It was only late afternoon when we sank.'
'Your father seems quite young to have a boy your age,' said Lady Patricia.
'He seems old to me. But he has said my mother and he were young sweethearts.'
'I see. And where is she?'
'She died. I was to have a younger brother.'
Lady Patricia, who despite her high birth knew the trials of childbirth all too well, nodded sadly. 'Let me have George get you some breakfast. My husband and brother are in the city,' added the woman as she rose, 'or we would have been able to greet you properly. With the rebellion, of course, times are strained. And my brother's ways here are somewhat different than our own — refreshingly so, I think.'
Alison nodded. She belatedly realized she should have gotten up when the woman did — it would have been considered the gentlemanly thing to do.
Fatigued by his exertions and relative lack of sleep, Jake found it difficult to shake off Morpheus's shackles. He pushed his arms against the hard rocks beneath his chest several times before actually rising. When he succeeded he found himself squinting not into the sun but at a member of Her Majesty's Light Dragoons, an impressive if slightly haughty unit whose members spent considerable time each day primping the smart blue facings on their red uniforms — and a lot more time practicing with their swords and carbines.
Only the fact that Jake's legs were still weighed down by the invisible forces of exhaustion kept him from bolting.
'Lady Patricia directed that I wait on you,' said the man. He was nominally at ease but still gripped his carbine tightly. 'Your son has already been taken inside.'
'My son?'
'He's quite safe inside Mr. Clayton Bauer's house. Were there others in your boat?'
'In my boat — no. Just myself and my son,' said Jake. Fatherhood had come upon him unexpectedly, but he saw no option but to accept the condition gracefully and without comment. 'Is he all right?'
'He has been seen to, sir. Please come with me.'
