The new year arrived without ceremony.
There were no bells at midnight beyond those that already marked time. No proclamations nailed to doors. No sudden shift in the way the wires hummed or the way men breathed. January first, seventeen eighty-eight, came the same way most mornings did in Shropshire—gray, damp, and patient.
Phillip woke before dawn, not from habit this time, but because his body had finished resting and did not know what to do with the excess. He lay still for a while, listening to the house settle, to the muted sounds outside that suggested life continuing without him. Somewhere in the distance, a cart moved. A door closed. The sounder remained silent.
He rose quietly, dressed, and stepped into the kitchen. Henry was not there yet. That alone told Phillip it was later than usual.
