His eyelids nearly groaned when he forced them open, and his muscles, sore from several long days of travel, protested at being forced upright. His bleary vision struggled to focus in the darkness. It was either still night, or the sun had been extinguished in an apocalyptic catastrophe. In either case, there was no call for the ruckus coming from elsewhere in the house. There had been a pounding, someone using the iron door knocker over and over, as if to rouse not only Fairbrook’s inmates, but also the souls of all those buried within ten miles of the house. Henry scratched idly at his bare chest, placidly reasoning whatever emergency had brought company at this unholy hour would be dealt with by others. Being the younger son had some advantages, after all. Around him, the house came to grudging life. Someone from the maids’ chambers made her way down the servants’ stairs, which passed behind his wall. Meanwhile, the pounding at the door stopped when another someone—a footman, most like—opened it.
