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“All the better.”

“Very well.” I cleared my throat, and began:

“The Duke of Farleigh was an agreeable fellow, beloved by all in his duchy. His taxes were fair, and he was generous, and had a kindly disposition. He loved his wife and children, and they loved him in turn. He enjoyed reading, and collected all manner of books, which he shared with anyone who might be interested. As such, his library was famed across the land.

“Only one thing troubled the Duke: the passing of time.

“As the years progressed, he knew that he was getting older, and so were his wife, and his children, and his people. He lost a beloved horse to old age, and several prized hounds in kind. Some of his books were so old that their pages were beginning to come apart. He knew that his happiness, and the happiness of all those he cared about, could not last.

“So, he went in search of the fountain of youth.

“His quest took him to all the corners of the kingdom. He rode where rumours took him, and where he went he made yet more allies and friends. By the tenth year of his quest, he was growing weary, but his companions bade him continue, and so he did, until, eventually, he found the fountain, at the very edge of the world.

“The waters of the fountain glittered, tempting the Duke and his retinue, but the Duke was wise and cautioned his companions of partaking. Only one disobeyed—a young man with a greedy disposition, who strode forth and supped several handfuls, convinced that he would be made immortal by the waters. The young man was correct, but not in the way that he had hoped. In an instant, he was turned to stone.

“Thus, the secret of the fountain was revealed: One might obtain eternal youth by its waters, but at terrible cost.

“The Duke was not perturbed by this revelation. Instead, he and his companions filled several barrels with waters from the fountain, the wood of which was instantly transformed to stone. It took them a long time to return to Farleigh with their barrels, and by the time they did, the Duke was very old. He knew that he would not be able to stop time in the way that he wanted, and he had no desire to turn anyone in his duchy to stone.

“Yet, there was something that he could do.

“One by one, he soaked the books of his library in the waters of the fountain. And one by one, they were turned to stone. The Duke was pleased. He might not be able to preserve his happiness, or the happiness of his duchy, but he could preserve his library. Now, it might continue to be enjoyed for centuries to come, without fear of decay.

“And so it was:

“When the Duke finally died, and when his children passed away, and when there was nobody left who remembered him, so his library remained, famed across the land: the words that he so loved would live on forever, and so, too, would his kindness.”

By the time I had finished the telling of the tale, Havelock was asleep. I took the leaf he had been twirling from his hands, and fetched a throw from the bed to cover him. There was a lock of loose hair across his forehead, which I brushed back to neatness. It was such a small gesture of intimacy, but it gladdened me that I was able to indulge it without the same fear that had gripped me back in London when I had shaved him.

I took a moment to admire the angle of his jaw, and the arch of his brow. When we first began sharing a bed, all those years ago, it had been strange seeing him so still—he was usually so expressive and animated that I would often find myself watching him for signs of life—the twitching of his eyelids, or the rise and fall of his chest. Now, though—I relished seeing him so at rest. In recent months, I had been awoken at all hours by his fitful slumber, but here, in Farleigh, he seemed to be sleeping peacefully.

Satisfied that he was comfortable, I retired to my room, and went to bed.

When I awoke, Havelock was gone from his room. His hat and jacket were missing, and his balcony doors were wide open, letting a bright gush of sunlight flood the room. I fastened my robe and went out to the balcony, but he was not there either.

The forest was still; the winds had calmed. Stray leaves littered the overgrown lawn, and there were but a pair of lonely white clouds in the big blue sky. It was promising to be a dazzling day. I went to the balustrade, and there spied the unmistakable figure of Havelock in the distance, at the edge of the forest, treading carefully among the roots. Looking for answers in the branches of the trees, perhaps.

The warmth of the sun was invigorating. I hummed as I readied myself for the day, feeling the way that the ache that had taken residence in my shoulders for the past few months had begun at last to loosen. Perhaps it was the wonderful fruit, or the fresh, scented air—the air in London routinely left one coughing, these days—but I felt ready to face the world, and our adventure in Farleigh, in a way that I had not in a long time.

With my sabre at my side, I made my way downstairs with a hop in my step, seeking and finding a way through to the garden via a well-used kitchen. There were fruits in a basket, and I snatched a peach on my way past.

There was a woman I did not recognise working at a stone bench just beyond the kitchen. Her skin was tanned, she wore trousers like a gentleman, and her hair, which had silver streaks through it, was pinned severely to her head. “Good morning,” I said.

The woman peered at me sourly. “You’ll be one of the gentlemen come to investigate the Duke, yes?” She continued working; chopping at handfuls of nettles with the blunt edge of a kitchen knife. “Detectives from London, or so I’m told.”

“My companion is the detective.”

“What does that make you, then?”

“I am Major Sebastian Wright,” I told her, choosing to ignore her impropriety. “It is my job to assist Havelock in his investigations, and chronicle them.”

The woman laughed at that. “You speak proper, like the Duchess does. A real man of the Empire. Tell me, Major—chopped many limbs with that cutlas?”

I placed my hand proudly on the hilt of my sabre. “I certainly know how to use it.”

“You’d be better off leaving it under your bed,” she said, waving her knife at me. “We cut no limbs here—human or tree.”

“And yet,” I said patiently, “someone has cut down the Duke.”