Midshipman David Napier wedged his shoulder into his seat and watched the passing trees reaching out as if to claw at the window, the paler shapes of a house or barn looming in the background.

It was not his imagination: the sky was already darker. He must have fallen asleep, despite his troubled thoughts and the swoop and jerk of the vehicle. He had forgotten how many times they had pulled off the road, to change horses and take a few steps to ease mind and body. Or to allow the young woman who sat opposite him to find refuge behind a bush or tree.

And her father, his impatience, even anger at each delay.

They had stopped overnight at a small inn somewhere outside St. Austell. Even that seemed unreal. A hard bench seat and a hasty meal, alone in a tiny room above the stableyard. Voices singing, and drunken laughter, ending eventually in a mixture of threats and curses, which had only added to Napier's sense of loss and uncertainty.

He winced, and realized he had been gripping his leg beneath the blanket. The deep wound was ever ready to remind him. And it was not a dream or a nightmare. It was now.

More houses were passing, some in shadow. A harder, firmer road, the wheels clattering evenly, and then the sudden blare of the horn. Louder this time, thrown back from solid walls.

He licked his lips and imagined they tasted of salt. Twice he had seen the glint of water, the land folding away, final.

The other passenger, who had scarcely spoken all the way from Plymouth, jerked upright in his seat and peered around.

"Are we there? "He sniffed and stifled a cough. A thin, stooped figure, dressed in black: a lawyer's senior clerk, he had disclosed. He carried a leather case, heavily sealed, probably documents, and obviously not intended even for his own eyes.

"Coming into Falmouth now. "Napier watched the buildings, some already showing lights.