Leoandro no longer wished to remain away from home. His heart yearned to arrive in London as swiftly as possible.

Yet, there was nothing he could do to hasten the journey. To sail from the vast Pacific Ocean towards the Atlantic was a matter of weeks, if not months, and no mortal will could overcome the might of wind and water.

In the meantime, their voyage stumbled upon many coasts, counties, and distant islands, offering glimpses into cultures of astonishing beauty-each different, each fragile, each worth remembering.

Within his spacious chamber, Leoandro lay upon his bed, his wife's most recent letters clasped tightly to his heart. Scattered around him were the older letters-creased, frayed, and bearing the scars of countless readings. The seals once proudly impressed with the viscount's emblem had long been broken.

Their battered state was the silent testimony of a man hopelessly tethered to each written word. For him, they held the spirit of Elizabeth, his dearest companion far across the sea.

He drifted easily in and out of troubled slumber. For a time, the rolling ship lulled him to dreams of home, though they always ended with a pang of aching absence.

At length, the silence fractured by a measured knock on the chamber door tore him from his dreamland. Groaning low in annoyance, he pushed himself upright, his frown deepening.

Turning his eyes to the hourglass upon his nightstand, he saw the last grains had nearly slipped into the hollow beneath. Six hours had passed.

He remembered first waking when noon sunlight streamed through his window, but now the horizon burned in hues of crimson and gold. All day wasted in restless naps-and yet fatigue clung to him still.

Knock!

The rap upon the door sounded again, firmer this time. Before the knuckles fell a third, Leoandro rose and unlatched the door with a swift flick of his hand.

"Yes, lad, what is it now?"

The words emerged in a tone honed as brusque, though not uncivil. Despite his scowl, he sought to temper it with a trace of courtesy.

"Lord Hughes," the young man began, bowing slightly, "all the officers are gathered in the dining hall. They ask for your presence-only if, of course, you are strong enough. They are somewhat... unsettled, sir, by your absence. From last night till this moment, you have not quit your chamber, and their concern for your health grows. If you would allow me, I am to return to them with your answer."

The lad's words bore genuine concern, a blend of duty and respect.

"I am well enough," Leoandro declared, his reply curt though steady. "Tell the officers I shall join them shortly for dinner."

The messenger nodded promptly and withdrew.

Bang!

With a short huff, Leoandro pressed the door shut-not violently, but with that faint edge of frustration which betrayed more than he allowed in words.

Yet compared to the night before, his body felt lighter, his spirit less clouded.

He gathered the stray letters tenderly, wrapping them with a length of silk thread, before tucking them away into the drawer of his desk.

Reluctant though he was to part with them, he could not appear before his men with such private sentiments strewn around.

He washed quickly, ran a hand through his dark hair, and dressed. Black trousers, neatly tapered to his polished shoes.

A crisp linen shirt of pure white. A black waistcoat, and finally the frock coat which draped his frame with solemn authority.

From the stand, he claimed his hat, then quitted the room and locked the chamber behind him.

When he stepped into the dining hall, the officers rose as one. The room echoed with a thunderous applause.

"Long live Lord Hughes!" cried one voice amongst them.

He removed his hat and offered a bow, graceful yet tempered, a gesture of gratitude absent of vanity.

At table he was swiftly drawn into various discussions, their subjects drifting-as they often did-towards the endless pursuit of colonial expansion, commercial trade, and the ceaseless sprawl of the Company's dominion.

But Leoandro had grown weary of such talk. To him, there was little triumph in the crushing of other civilisations, the remoulding of rich cultures into dull uniformity, the stripping of uniqueness for profit's sake.

He thought: Diversity is the essence of the world. How barren would life be, if all manners and customs became faceless and the same?

Yet he voiced none of this. Pride chained his tongue, and loyalty-misplaced, perhaps-urged silence.

As he sipped his wine, he masked boredom with composure, enduring the bluster of men drunk not on liquor but on ambition.

In truth, his heart longed not for empire but for Elizabeth. Every word at that table was a distraction from what truly mattered.

At last, he gave polite farewells and withdrew. Still, true rest eluded him. He tossed, turned, and abandoned his bed with a curse under his breath. How absurd-to have wasted the whole day upon sleep, only to find it fled from him when he sought it now.

He could not bring himself, in such a mood, to re-read the letters. The temptation was strong, but the pain of reopening every fold was stronger still. Better, perhaps, to drown the reverie in wine than to ride that ceaseless wave of longing yet again.

Thus he sought the ship's winery. Within its paneled hall, velvet seats and perfumed wood surrounded him, though he cared little for such trappings. He took a goblet, leaned back on a couch, and let the dark red soothe him as he retreated into his thoughts.

It was there the familiar voice reached his ears.

"Lord Hughes, indulging in wine all alone? Surely that is far too lonely an occupation."

Leoandro's gaze lifted. He recognised the speaker-Lord Franklin, once a close associate, always the gambler, always the charmer.

"Lord Franklin," he replied with chill formality, "I could not sleep. It seemed best to fetch myself a drink, and so... here I am."

Franklin came forward, cane in one hand, pipe in the other, as stylish as ever with his chain-clock glinting against his waistcoat. His smile was half-banter, half-challenge.

"My friends and I are at the next table, enjoying a hand of cards. Will you not join us? For old times' sake, Hughes? I insist-it would be an honour."

Leoandro's lips twitched with faint amusement. "Why not? In truth, I tire of sitting alone. But be warned-once you invite me, do not weep when you lose. I will not return your gold to soothe bruised pride."

They joined the table. Cards were dealt, wagers laid. One by one, Franklin's companions were stripped of their gold. Luck-or perhaps skill-guided Leoandro's hand, and soon only Franklin remained to oppose him.

Again the cards. Again the wager. Again the cold, inevitable defeat.

"You've emptied our pockets, Hughes!" Franklin exclaimed with mock outrage, though annoyance lingered beneath. "I saved that gold for the journey-and you have taken it all!"

"I did caution you, did I not? If you insist on peril, you must accept its cost."

Leoandro gathered the winnings into a pouch-a heavy bag of fifty gold coins-before rising smoothly. He gave them thanks for their company with a light smile, already turning towards the door.

And then Franklin's voice called after him, halting his step.

"I have something for you, Lord Hughes."

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AUTHOR CORNER

Okay, so what is Lord Franklin hiding??

They share a past...but what it is??

Leo is quite skill in cards...maybe an hidden talent?? Share your opinion..