The new century was a week old when Fotherby finally stepped down from the coach three miles from Wanderford Hall. The crossroads, and indeed much of the surrounding area, was carpeted in snow and Fotherby had to coax his feet to continue walking as he trudged on, finding the journey almost unbearable. At times he had to think back to India and the endless sunshine that had poured down an inexhaustible heat. In this way he continued to walk on. The snow was not deep but it was enough so that the soles of his boots made a squeaking crunch sound with each step he took.

The midday sun, like a perfect disc beyond a shroud of cloud, was shining down on the snowy lawns before Wanderford Hall. The water in the fountain was glazed with shards of ice which floated in the pool. At the sight of his house...

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