The richly attired man threw back the lid of a large box by the hearth–one I had supposed to hold spare kindling–and pulled forth rope and a bottle of lamp oil. All the while he muttered to himself under the guise of speaking to me. He was obviously utterly mad.
“They thought they could hide it from me, the birth. They thought they could pass it off as some random deWinter by-blow. That was a bit of a surprise–deWinter of all people!–but not too farfetched. Besides, who’d care about a Jonathan deWinter?”
At the sound of my name, I began to feel the blood pumping through to the ends of my fingers and toes. Perhaps, with the help of this bit of adrenaline and some concentration on my part, I could regain use of my limbs! I must try, I told myself. I cursed the empty pot of tea on the table and the soporific it had obviously contained. . .