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Prologue
“Ishall get you out of here, Mother!” Sixteen-year-old Nicholas shouted over loud crackling as he frantically searched amidst the engulfing flames and smoke around them for an exit.
The fire was persistent and merciless, eating up everything in its path and seeking out more with greed as ferocious as its heat. Nicholas saw no way out of it. His mother coughed through the smoke as she also sought a way out. She’d fallen asleep in his bedchamber after coming in earlier to play their nightly game of cards only to be woken by the sudden heat and brightness that filled the room.
They had just made it out of his bedchamber, but the hallways and stairs Nicholas had known his entire life seemed foreign to him, almost as though he were in a maze. Whatever confusion he felt at that moment though, he was not alone. Just below, he could hear the furious efforts being made to reach them on the third floor.
“Give me your hand, Nicky,” his mother, Celia, said, “And don’t let go. I have you.” Her eyes shone with concern for him. He was supposed to be the one saying those words to her. But he would get them out of the fire. Hehadto.
They were hurrying down the hall towards the servants’ staircase when a loud creaking stopped them short. Celia abruptly released his hand as a beam fell between them, taking a step back to avoid being hit by it.
“Mother!” he called, taking hold of a burning beam without thinking and releasing it abruptly and crying out in pain.
“You’re going to burn yourself, Nicky!” she called. “I am fine. Go downstairs and tell the others where I am.”
“I can get you out of here!” he insisted, taking hold of the fallen beam again and pulling. The thing refused to budge.
“Stop it, Nicholas! You are harming yourself.” Her tone was grave. “Go. I’ll be all right.” There was fear in her eyes and it increased his own fear. The thought of leaving her there to find help terrified him but it was necessary. Taking a shaky breath, Nicholas took a step back.
“Nicky, look out!”
He jumped back but was unable to land on the floor. Instead, he began to fall down the stairs. The last thing Nicholas saw was another beam falling toward his mother. His fall seemed endless, his ears filled with a devastating shrill scream.
* * *
“Thank heavens, you are awake!” the housekeeper, Mrs. Henshaw gasped when Nicholas’s eyes fluttered open.
It was not the first time he’d tried to open them, yet they felt heavier than ever. His head throbbed and a dull ache somewhere along his leg informed him of the extent of his condition but not the nature of it.
“Oh, don’t sit up, child,” Mrs. Henshaw stayed him with her hands on his shoulders, “Dr. Busket said to not move that leg.”
Nicholas craned his neck to get a glimpse of the inert limb, registering the dead weight and what appeared to be ice on his knee. Most of the leg was bandaged, from his thigh down to his calf. The coolness of the ice was soothing and instead of resuming his attempt at sitting up, he leaned back against the pillows, closing his eyes.
“I must summon him,” came Mrs. Henshaw’s voice. “‘At once,’ he said,” she added, turning on her heels and hurrying out of the room before he could ask her anything.
He was dazed and tried as he might and could not recall what had happened to cause him to be confined to his bed. A short stint passed before Mrs. Henshaw walked back in with the family doctor in tow.
The kindly middle-aged man who had been treating him since infancy squeezed his shoulder. “I knew you’d fight through it.” The smile on his face gave Nicholas some comfort.
“Night after night of fever,” Mrs. Henshaw said as Nicholas was about to speak. “We thought you wou—” she stopped herself from saying any more.
Dr. Busket examined his leg. “I had to operate on it because you dislocated your knee during your fall, injuring the artery behind it.”
“Was I riding?” Nicholas asked, observing Mrs. Henshaw blanching as she exchanged a look with the doctor. His brows drew down over his eyes in puzzlement.
“The ice helps with the inflammation and pain,” Dr. Busket carried on, ignoring his question. There was a grim set to his mouth that Nicholas found both unusual and disturbing.
Nicholas sighed. “Mother must be cross with me. She always is concerned about my riding. Says I am too wild on a horse.”
A loud gasp made his head snap up quickly and in time to see Mrs. Henshaw turn away from them, her eyes shimmering with… Tears? What was the matter with her?
Cautiously, he began, “Mrs. Henshaw, are you...”
“Where is he?” His father’s stentorian voice drowned his question and he turned his head toward the door. The duke stormed into the room, his face red with rage. “Explain yourself, boy!”
Nicholas drew a breath, moistening his dry lips and collecting his thoughts before speaking. “I beg your pardon for the inconvenience, Your Grace. I must have pushed the horse too hard to have gotten unseated and hurt.”
His father’s face was now vermillion and the proverbial smoke was coming out of his ears. “Horse?” he spat. “What rubbish are you talking about?” He turned to the doctor and the housekeeper without waiting for a response from Nicholas. “Are those the lies you have been feeding the boy?”
