By the age of twelve, Harry Valentine possessed two bits of knowledge that made him rather unlike other boys of his class in England of the early nineteenth century.

The first was his complete and absolute fluency in the languages of Russian and French. There was little mystery surrounding this talent; his grandmother, the extremely aristocratic and opinionated Olga Petrova Obolenskiy Dell, had come to reside with the Valentine family four months after Harry’s birth.

Olga loathed the English language. In her

frequently expressed

judgment, there was nothing in this world that needed to be said that could not be expressed in Russian or French.

As to why she had gone and married an Englishman, she never could quite explain.

“Probably because it needs explaining in English,” Harry’s sister Anne had muttered.

Harry just shrugged and smiled

as any proper brother would

when this got her ears boxed. Grandmère might disdain English, but she could understand it perfectly, and her ears were sharper than a hound’s. Muttering anything—in any language—was a bad idea when she was in the schoolroom. Doing so in English was incredibly foolish. Doing so in English whilst suggesting that French or Russian was not adequate for the verbal task at hand …

In all honesty, Harry was surprised Anne hadn’t been paddled.

But Anne loathed Russian with the same intensity Grandmère reserved for English. It was too much work, she complained, and French was almost as difficult. Anne had been five when Grandmère had arrived, and her English was far too entrenched for anything else to gain an equal footing.

Harry, on the other hand, was happy to speak in whichever language was spoken to him. English was for everyday, French was elegance, and Russian became the language of drama and excitement. Russia was big. It was cold. And above all, it was great.

Peter the Great, Catherine the Great—Harry had been weaned on their stories. “Bah!” Olga had scoffed, more than once, when Harry’s tutor had attempted

to teach him English history. “Who is this Ethelred the Unready? The Unready? What kind of country allows their rulers to be unready?”

“Queen Elizabeth was great,” Harry pointed out.

Olga was unimpressed. “Do they call her Elizabeth the Great? Or the Great Queen? No, they do not. They call her the Virgin Queen, as if that is anything to be proud of.”

It was at this point that the tutor’s ears grew very red, which Harry found quite curious.

“She,” Olga continued, with all possible ice, “was not a great queen. She didn’t even give her country a proper heir to the throne.”

“Most scholars of history agree that it was wise for the queen to avoid marriage,” the tutor said. “She needed to give the appearance of being without influence, and …”

His voice trailed off. Harry was not surprised. Grandmère had turned to him with one of her razor-sharp, rather eaglish stares. Harry did not know anyone who could continue speaking through one of those.

“You are a stupid little man,” she pronounced, then turned her back on him entirely. She fired him the next day, then taught Harry herself until they were able to find a new tutor.

It wasn’t precisely Olga’s place to hire and fire educators for the Valentine children, who by then numbered three.

Little Edward had been added to the nursery when Harry was seven.

But no one else was likely to involve themselves in the matter. Harry’s mother, Katarina Dell Valentine, never argued with her mother, and as for his father …well …

That had rather a lot to do with the second bit of uncommon knowledge tumbling around Harry Valentine’s twelve-year-old brain.

Harry’s father, Sir Lionel Valentine, was a drunk.

This was not the uncommon knowledge. Everyone knew that Sir Lionel drank more than he ought. There was no hiding it. Sir Lionel stumbled and tripped

on his words and his feet

, he laughed when no one else did, and, unfortunately for the two housemaids

and the two carpets in Sir Lionel’s study

, there was a reason the alcohol had not caused his body to grow fat.

And so Harry became proficient in the task of cleaning up vomit.

It started when he was ten. He probably would have left the mess where it lay, except that he had been trying to ask his father for a bit of pocket money, and he’d made the mistake of doing so too late in the evening. Sir Lionel had already partaken of his afternoon brandy, his early-evening nip, his wine with supper, his port immediately following, and was now back to his favorite, the aforementioned brandy, smuggled in from France. Harry was quite certain that

he had spoken in complete

English

sentences when he made his request for funds, but his father just stared at him, blinking several times as if he couldn’t quite comprehend what his son was talking about, and then promptly threw up on Harry’s shoes.

So Harry really couldn’t avoid the mess.

After that there seemed to be no going back. It happened again a week later, although not directly on his feet, and then a month after that. By the time Harry was twelve, any other young child would have lost count of the number of times he’d cleaned up after his father, but he had always been a precise sort of boy, and once he’d begun his accounting, it was difficult to stop.

Most people would have probably lost count around seven. This was, Harry knew from his extensive reading on logic and arithmetic, the largest number that most people could visually appreciate. Put seven dots on a page, and most people can take a quick glance and declare, “Seven.” Switch to eight, and the majority of humanity was lost.

Harry could do up to twenty-one.

So it was no surprise, that after fifteen cleanings, Harry knew exactly how many times he’d found his father stumbling through the hall, or passed out on the floor, or aiming

badly

at a chamber pot. And then, once he’d reached twenty, the issue became somewhat academic, and he had to keep track.

It had to be academic. If it wasn’t academic, then it would be something else, and he might find himself crying himself to sleep instead of merely staring at the ceiling as he said, “Forty-six, but with a radius quite a bit smaller than last Tuesday. Probably didn’t have much for supper tonight.”

Harry’s mother had long since decided to ignore the situation entirely, and she could most often be found in her gardens, tending to the exotic rose varieties her mother had brought over from Russia so many years earlier. Anne had informed him that she planned to marry and “be gone from this hellhole” the moment she turned seventeen. Which, incidentally, she did, a testament to her determination, since neither of her parents had made any effort by that point to secure her a match. As for Edward, the youngest—he learned to adapt, as Harry had. Father was useless after four in the afternoon, even if he seemed lucid

which he generally did, up ’til suppertime, when the wheels came off entirely

.

The servants all knew as well. Not that their numbers were legion; the Valentines did well enough with their tidy home in Sussex and hundred per year they continued to receive as a part of Katarina’s dowry. But this did not translate to splendid wealth, and the Valentines’ staff numbered but eight—butler, cook,

housekeeper, stable boy, two footmen, maid, and scullery girl. Most chose to stay with the family despite the occasional unpleasant alcohol-related duties. Sir Lionel might be a drunk, but he was not a mean drunk. Nor was he stingy, and even the maids learned to deal with his messes if it meant an extra coin here and there when he remembered enough of his activities to be embarrassed by them.

So Harry wasn’t really sure why he kept cleaning up after his father, since he certainly could have left it to someone else. Maybe he didn’t want the servants to know how often it happened. Maybe he needed a visceral reminder of the perils of alcohol. He ’d heard that his father’s father had been the same way. Did such things run in families?

He did not want to find out.

And then, quite suddenly, Grandmère died. Nothing so peaceful as in her sleep—Olga Petrova Obolenskiy Dell would never depart this earth with so little drama. She was sitting at the dining-room table, about to dip her spoon into her soup, when she clutched her chest, made several gasping noises, and collapsed. It was later remarked that she must have had some level of consciousness before she hit the table, because her face missed the soup entirely, and she somehow managed to hit the spoon, sending a dollop of the scalding liquid flying through the air toward Sir Lionel, whose reflexes were far too dulled to duck.

Harry did not witness this firsthand; at twelve, he was not permitted to dine with the adults. But Anne saw the whole thing, and recounted it breathlessly to Harry.

“And then he ripped off his cravat!”

“At the table?”

“At the table! And you could see the burn!” Anne held up her hand, her thumb and forefinger pinching out a distance of about an inch. “This big!” “And Grandmère?”

Anne sobered a bit. But only a bit. “I think she’s dead.”

Harry swallowed and nodded. “She was very old.”

“At least ninety.”

“I don’t think she was ninety.”

“She looked ninety,” Anne muttered.

Harry said nothing. He wasn’t sure what a ninety-year-old woman looked like, but Grandmère certainly had more wrinkles than anyone else of his acquaintance.

“But I’ll tell you the strangest part,” Anne said. She leaned forward. “Mother.”

Harry blinked. “What did she do?”

“Nothing. Not a thing.”

“Was she seated near to Grandmère?”

“No, that’s not what I mean. She was across and diagonal—too far away to be helpful.”

“Then—”

“She just sat there,” Anne cut in. “She did not move. Did not even start to rise.”

Harry considered this. It was, sad to say, not surprising.

“Her face did not even move. She just sat there like this.” Anne’s face assumed a decidedly blank expression, and Harry had to admit, it was precisely like their mother.

“I shall tell you something,” Anne said. “If she were to collapse in her soup in front of me, I would at the very least look surprised.” She shook her head. “They are ridiculous, the both of them. Father does nothing but drink, and Mother does nothing at all. I tell you, I cannot wait until my birthday. I don’t care if we’re supposed to be in mourning. I’m marrying William Forbush, and there is nothing either one of them can do about it.”

“I don’t think you have to worry about that,” Harry said. Mother would likely possess no opinion on the matter, and Father would be too drunk to notice.

“Hmmph. You’re probably right.” Anne’s mouth pressed together into a rueful frown, and then, in an uncharacteristic show of sibling affection, she reached out and gave his shoulder a squeeze. “You’ll be gone soon, too. Don’t worry.”

Harry nodded. He was due to leave for school in a few short weeks.

And while he felt a little guilty that he got to leave while Anne and Edward had to remain behind, this was more than drowned out by the overwhelming sense of relief that washed over him the first time he rode off to school.

It was good to be gone. With all due respect to Grandmère and her favorite monarchs, it might even have been great.

Harry’s life as a student proved just as rewarding as he’d hoped. He attended Hesslewhite, a reasonably rigorous academy for boys whose families lacked the clout

or, in Harry’s case, the interest

to send their sons to Eton or Harrow.

Harry loved school. Loved it. He loved his classes, he loved sport, and he loved that when he went to bed, he did not have to detour to every corner of the building, doing his late-evening check for his father, fingers crossed that he’d passed out before making a mess of himself. At school Harry took a straight

journey from the common room to his dormitory, and he loved every uneventful step of the way.

But all good things must draw to a close, and at the age of nineteen, Harry was graduated with the rest of his class, including Sebastian Grey, his first cousin and closest friend. There was a ceremony, as most of the boys wished to celebrate the occasion, but Harry “forgot” to tell his family about it.

“Where is your mother?” his aunt Anna asked him. Like Harry’s mother, her voice betrayed no trace of an accent, despite the fact Olga had insisted upon speaking to them only in Russian when they were small. Anna had married better than Katarina, having wed the second son of an earl. This had not caused a rift between the sisters; after all, Sir Lionel was a baronet, which meant that Katarina was the one called “her ladyship.” But Anna had the connections and the money, and perhaps more important, she had—until his death two years prior —a husband who rarely indulged in more than one glass of wine at supper.

And so when Harry mumbled something about his mother being a bit overtired, Anna knew exactly what he meant—that if his mother came, his father would follow. And after Sir Lionel’s spectacular display of stumbling grandiosity at Hesslewhite’s convocation of 1807, Harry was loath to invite his father to another school function.

Sir Lionel tended to lose his s ’s when he drank, and Harry was not certain he could survive another “Thplendid, thplendid thchool” speech, especially as it had been delivered whilst standing on a chair.

During a moment of silence.

Harry had tried to pull his father down, and he would have been successful had his mother, who was seated on Sir Lionel’s other side, aided in the endeavor. She, however, was staring straight ahead, as she always did at such times, pretending she heard nothing. Which meant that Harry had to give his father a lopsided yank, setting him rather off balance. Sir Lionel came down with a whoop and a crash, striking his cheek on the back of the chair in front of Harry.

This might have set another man into a temper, but not Sir Lionel. He gave a stupid smile, called Harry a “thplendid thon,” and then spit out a tooth.

Harry still had that tooth. And he never allowed his father to set foot on the school’s campus again. Even if it meant he was the only boy without a parent in attendance at the graduation ceremony.

His aunt insisted upon seeing him home, for which Harry was grateful. He did not like having guests, but Aunt Anna and Sebastian already knew all there was to know about his father—well, most of it. Harry hadn’t shared the bit about the

126 times he’d mopped up after him. Or the recent loss of Grandmère’s prized samovar, whose enamel cracked right off its silver core when Sir Lionel had tripped over a chair, done a curiously graceful leap through the air

presumably to catch his balance

, then landed on his belly atop the sideboard.

Three plates of eggs and a rasher of bacon had also been lost that morning. On the bright side, the hounds had never been so well fed.

Hesslewhite had been chosen because of its proximity to the Valentine home, and so after only ninety minutes in the carriage, they turned onto the drive and began the last short stretch.

“The trees are certainly well leafed this year,” Aunt Anna remarked. “Your mother’s roses are doing well, I trust.”

Harry nodded absently, trying to gauge the time. Was it still late afternoon, or had the day made its way into early evening? If it was the latter, he’d have to invite them in for supper. He ’d have to invite them in in any case; Aunt Anna would want to say hello to her sister. But if it was late afternoon, they’d expect only tea, which would mean they could be in and out without a glimpse of his father.

Supper was a different story. Sir Lionel always insisted upon dressing for supper. It was, he liked to say, the mark of a gentleman. And no matter how small their dinner party

just Sir Lionel, Lady Valentine, and whichever of their children were in residence, 99 percent of the time

, he liked to play the host. Which generally meant quite a lot of storytelling and bon mots, except that Sir Lionel tended to forget the middle bits of the stories, and his “mots” weren’t terribly “bon.”

Which in turn meant quite a lot of pained silence on the part of his family, who spent most of the supper pretending they didn’t notice when the gravy boat was knocked over, or when Sir Lionel’s wineglass was refilled.

Again.

And again.

And then, of course, again.

No one ever told him to stop. What was the point? Sir Lionel knew he drank too much. Harry had lost track of the number of times his father had turned to him and sobbed, “I’m thorry, I’m tho, tho thorry. Don’t mean to be a trouble. You’re a good boy, Harry.”

But it never made a difference. Whatever it was that drove Sir Lionel to drink, it was far more powerful than any guilt or regret he might muster to stop it. Sir Lionel was not in denial about the extent of his affliction. He was, however, completely powerless to do anything about it.

As was Harry. Short of tying his father to his bed, which he was not prepared

to do. So instead he never invited friends home, he avoided being in the house at suppertime, and, now that school was done, he counted the days until he could depart for university.

But first he had to make it through the summer. He hopped down from the carriage when they came to a stop in the front drive, then held up his hand to aid his aunt. Sebastian followed, and together the three of them made their way to the drawing room, where Katarina was pecking at her needlepoint.

“Anna!” she said, looking as if she might rise to her feet

but not quite doing so

. “What a lovely surprise!”

Anna leaned down to embrace her, then took a seat opposite. “I thought I would give Harry a ride home from school.”

“Oh, is the term finished, then?” Katarina murmured.

Harry gave a tight smile. He supposed he deserved the blame for her ignorance, as he had neglected to tell her that school was done, but really, shouldn’t a mother keep up on such details?

“Sebastian,” Katarina said, turning to her nephew. “You’ve grown.” “It happens,” Sebastian quipped, flashing her his usual lopsided grin. “Goodness,” she said with smile, “you’ll be a danger to the ladies soon.”

Harry very nearly rolled his eyes. Sebastian had already made conquests of nearly all the girls in the village near Hesslewhite. He must give off some sort of scent, because the females positively fell at his feet.

It would have been appalling, except that the girls couldn’t all dance with Sebastian. And Harry was more than happy to be the nearest man standing when the smoke cleared.

“There won’t be time for that,” Anna said briskly. “I have purchased a commission for him. He departs in a month.”

“You shall be in the army?” Katarina said, turning to her nephew with surprise. “How grand.”

Sebastian shrugged.

“Surely you knew, Mother,” Harry said. Sebastian’s future had been decided several months earlier. Aunt Anna had been fretting that he needed a male influence ever since his father had died. And since Sebastian wasn’t likely to come into a title or a fortune, it was understood that he’d have to make his own way in the world.

No one, not even Sebastian’s mother, who thought the sun rose and set on her boy, had even suggested he consider the clergy.

Sebastian wasn’t overly excited about the prospect of spending the next decade or so fighting Napoleon, but as he’d said to Harry—what else could he do? His uncle, the Earl of Newbury, detested him and had made it clear that Sebastian could expect no perks, monetary or otherwise, from that connection. “Maybe he’ll die,” Harry had suggested, with all the sensitivity and tact of a nineteen-year-old boy.

But then again, it was difficult to offend Sebastian, especially when it concerned his uncle. Or his uncle’s only son, the heir to Newbury. “My cousin’s even worse,” Sebastian replied. “Tried to give me the cut direct in London.”

Harry felt his brows rise with shock. It was one thing to abhor a family member; it was quite another to attempt public humiliation. “What did you do?”

Sebastian’s lips curled into a slow smile. “Seduced the girl he wanted to marry.”

Harry gave him a look that said he did not believe him for a second.

“Oh, very well,” Sebastian relented, “but I did seduce the girl at the pub he had his eye on.”

“And the girl he wants to marry?”

“Doesn’t want to marry him any longer!” Sebastian chortled.

“Good Lord, Seb, what did you do?”

“Oh, nothing permanent. Even I’m not foolish enough to tamper with the daughter of an earl. I just …turned her head, that’s all.”

But as his mother had pointed out, Sebastian wouldn’t have much opportunity for any sort of amorous efforts, not with a life in the army awaiting him. Harry had tried not to think about his departure; Seb was the only person in the world he trusted, completely and absolutely.

He was the only person who had never let Harry down.

It all made sense, really. Sebastian wasn’t stupid—quite the opposite, actually —but he wasn’t suited to academic life. The army was a much better choice for him. But still, as Harry sat there in the drawing room, uncomfortable in the too- small Egyptian chair, he couldn’t help but feel a bit sorry for himself. And selfish. He ’d rather Sebastian went to university with him, even if it wasn’t the best thing for Sebastian.

“What color shall your uniform be?” Katarina asked.

“Dark blue, I should think,” Sebastian answered politely.

“Oh, you shall look smashing in blue. Don’t you think so, Anna?”

Anna nodded, and Katarina added, “As would you, Harry. Perhaps we should buy you a commission as well.”

Harry blinked in surprise. The army had never been discussed as a part of his future. He was the eldest, due to inherit the house, the baronetcy, and whatever monies his father didn’t drink before his death. He was not supposed to be put in harm’s way.

And besides that, he was one of the few boys at Hesslewhite who actually liked studying. He ’d been dubbed “the professor” and hadn’t minded. What was his mother thinking? Did she even know him? Was she suggesting he join the army to improve his sense of fashion?

“Eh, Harry couldn’t be a soldier,” Sebastian said wickedly. “He can’t hit a target at close range.”

“That is not true,” Harry shot back. “I’m not as good as he,” he said with a jerk of his head toward Seb, “but I’m better than everyone else.”

“Are you a good shot, then, Sebastian?” Katarina asked.

“The best.”

“He ’s also exceptionally modest,” Harry muttered. But it was true. Sebastian was a freakishly outstanding shot, and the army would be thrilled to have him, so long as they managed to keep him from seducing the whole of Portugal.

The half of Portugal, that was. The female half.

“Why don’t you take a commission?” Katarina asked.

Harry turned to his mother, trying to read her face, trying to read her. She was always so maddeningly blank, as if the years had slowly washed away everything that had given her character, that had allowed her to feel. She had no opinions, his mother. She let life swirl around her, and she sat through it all, seemingly uninterested in any of it.

“I think you would like the army,” she said quietly, and he thought—Had she ever made such a pronouncement? Had she ever offered an opinion as to his future, his well-being?

Had she only been waiting for the right time?

She smiled the way she always did—with a tiny sigh, as if the effort was almost too much. “You would look splendid in blue.” And then she turned back to Anna. “Don’t you think?”

Harry opened his mouth, to say—well, to say something. As soon as he figured out what. He had not planned on the army. He was to go to university. He ’d earned a spot at Pembroke College, in Oxford. He thought he might study Russian. He ’d not used the language much since Grandmère had died. His mother spoke it, but they rarely had complete conversations in English, much less Russian.

Damn, but Harry missed his grandmother. She wasn’t always right, and she wasn’t even always nice, but she was entertaining. And she’d loved him.

What would she have wanted him to do? Harry wasn’t sure. She would certainly have approved of Harry going to university if it meant that he would spend his days immersed in Russian literature. But she’d also held the military in extremely high regard and had openly mocked Harry’s father for never serving his country.

Of course, she had openly mocked Harry’s father for any number of things.

“You should consider it, Harry,” Anna pronounced. “I am certain Sebastian would be grateful for your company.”

Harry shot a desperate look at Sebastian. Surely he would understand Harry’s distress. What were they thinking? That he might wish to make such a decision over tea? That he might bite into his biscuit, consider the matter for a brief moment and decide that yes, dark blue was a splendid color for a uniform.

But Sebastian just did that tiny one-shoulder shrug of his, the one that said:

What can I say? The world is a foolish place.

Harry’s mother lifted her teacup to her lips, but if she took a sip, it was undetectable by the tilt of the china. And then, as her cup descended toward its saucer, she closed her eyes.

It was just a blink, really, just a slightly longer than normal blink, but Harry knew what it meant. She heard footsteps. His father’s footsteps. She always heard him before anyone else. Maybe it was the years of practice, of living in the same house, if not precisely in the same world. Her ability to pretend that her life was something other than it was had been developed right alongside her ability to anticipate her husband’s whereabouts at all possible moments.

It was far easier to ignore what one did not actually see.

“Anna!” Sir Lionel exclaimed, appearing in, and then leaning against, the doorway. “And Sebastian. What a fine surprise. How’re you doing, m’boy?”

“Very well, sir,” Sebastian replied.

Harry watched his father enter the room. It was hard to tell yet just how far along he was. His gait was not unsteady, but there was a certain swing to his arms that Harry did not like.

“S’good to see you, Harry,” Sir Lionel said, giving his son a brief tap on the arm before making his way to the credenza. “School’s done, then?”

“Yes, sir,” Harry said.

Sir Lionel splashed something into a glass—Harry was too far away to determine precisely what—then turned to Sebastian with a sloppy grin. “How

old r ’ you, now, Sebastian?” he asked.

“Nineteen, sir.”

The same as Harry. They were only a month apart. He was always the same as Harry.

“Are you serving him tea, Katy?” Sir Lionel said to his wife. “What are you thinking? He ’s a man now.”

“The tea is quite adequate, Father,” Harry said sharply.

Sir Lionel turned to him with a blink of surprise, almost as if he’d forgotten he was there. “Harry, m’boy. It ’s good to see you.”

Harry’s lips tightened, then pressed together. “It is good to see you, too, Father.”

Sir Lionel took a hearty swallow of his drink. “Is the term finished, then?”

Harry gave a nod, along with his customary, “Yes, sir.”

Sir Lionel frowned, then drank again. “You’re done, though. Aren’t you? I received a notice from Pembroke College about your matriculation.” He frowned again, then blinked a few times, then shrugged. “Didn’t realize you’d applied.” And then, as an afterthought: “Well done.”

“I’m not going.”

The words emerged from Harry’s mouth in a quick tumble of surprise. What was he saying? Of course he was going to Pembroke College. It was what he’d wanted. What he’d always wanted. He liked studying. He liked books. He liked numbers. He liked sitting in a library, even when the sun was shining and Sebastian was yanking him out for rugby.

Sebastian always won this battle; there was little-enough sun in the south of England, and one really did have to get out when one could. Not to mention that Sebastian was fiendishly persuasive, about all things.

There could not be a boy in England better suited for life at university. And yet—

“I’m joining the army.”

Again the words came forth, no conscious thought involved. Harry wondered what he was saying. He wondered why he was saying it.

“With Sebastian?” Aunt Anna asked.

Harry nodded. “Someone’s got to make sure he doesn’t get himself killed.”

Sebastian gave him a dry look at the insult, but he was clearly too pleased by the turn of events to make a retort. He ’d always been ambivalent about a future in the military; Harry knew that, for all his bravado, he’d be relieved to have his cousin along with him.

“You can’t go to war,” Sir Lionel said. “You are my heir.”

Everyone in the room—all four of them his relations—turned to the baronet with varying degrees of surprise. It was, quite possibly, the only sensible thing he’d said in years.

“You have Edward,” Harry said bluntly.

Sir Lionel drank, blinked, and shrugged. “Well, that’s true.”

It was more or less what Harry would have expected him to say, and yet deep in his belly he felt a nagging pit of disappointment. And resentment.

And hurt.

“A toast to Harry!” Sir Lionel said jovially, lifting his glass. He did not seem to notice that no one else was joining him. “Godspeed, m ’son.” He tipped back his glass, only then realizing that he had not recently refilled. “Well, damn it,” he muttered. “That’s awkward.”

Harry felt himself slumping in his chair. And at the same time, his feet began to feel itchy, as if they were ready move forward. To run.

“When do you leave?” Sir Lionel asked, happily replenished.

Harry looked at Sebastian, who immediately spoke up. “I must report next week.”

“Then it shall be the same for me,” Harry said to his father. “I shall need the funds for the commission, of course.”

“Of course,” Sir Lionel said, responding instinctively to the tone of command in Harry’s voice. “Well.” He looked down at his feet, then over at his wife.

She was staring out the window.

“Jolly fine to see you all,” Sir Lionel said. He plunked down his glass and ambled over to the door, losing his footing only once.

Harry watched him depart, feeling strangely detached from the scene. He ’d imagined this before, of course. Not the going into the army, but the leaving. He ’d always supposed that he’d head off to university in the usual fashion, packing his things into the family carriage and rolling away. But his imagination had indulged in all sorts of dramatic exits—everything from wild gesticulations to ice-cold stares. His favorites involved flinging bottles against the wall. The expensive ones. The ones smuggled in from France. Would his father still support the Frogs with his illegal purchases, now that his son was facing them down on the battlefield?

Harry stared at the empty doorway. It didn’t matter, did it? He was done here.

He was done. With this place, with this family, with all those nights steering his father into bed, placing him carefully on his side so that if he did vomit again, at least he wouldn’t choke on it.

He was done.

Done.

But it felt so hollow, so quiet. His departure was marked by …nothing.

And it would take him years to realize that he’d been cheated.