was ajar and unlatched; as usual the help had been careless as they crept away with meat scraps from Anthony's table to season their own bland meal.
He paused at the first step and tried to think how he would begin. For no reason at all he found himself staring up at the stars. The heavens in the Caribbees always reminded him of one dusk, many years ago, when he had first seen London from afar—a jewel box of tiny sparklers hinting of riches, intrigues, delicious secrets. What waited there amidst those London lights, he had pondered, those thousands of flickering candles and cab lanterns? Was it as joyful as it seemed? Or was misery there too, as deep and irreducible as his own?
That answer never came. But now this canopy of stars above the Caribbees mantled a place of strife and despair wrenching as man could devise.
He gently pushed open the split-log door and slipped through. The back hallway was narrow and unlighted, but its walls were shadowed from the blaze of distant candles. He remembered that Anthony always lit extra tapers when he was morose, as though the burning wicks might somehow rekindle his own spirit.
As he moved through the rough-hewn archway leading into the main room, he saw the seated figure draw back with a start and reach for the pistol lying on the table.
"By God, what . . ."
Suddenly the chair was kicked away, and the man was rushing forward with open arms. "Jeremy! God's life, it's you! Where in heaven's name have you been?" Anthony wrapped him in his arms. "We heard you'd been taken by Morris and the Roundheads." He drew back and gazed in disbelief and joy. "Are you well, lad? Were you wounded?"
"I've been with Admiral Calvert on the Rainbowe. " He heard his own voice, and its sound almost made him start.
"You've been . . . ?" Anthony's eyes narrowed slightly. "Then you managed to escape! Did you commandeer a longboat? For the love of God, lad, what happened?"
What happened?