Colonel Christopher Brandon

Standing by the tall window of the library at Delaford, the Colonel stares out at the rain-lashed gardens, his hands clasped firmly behind his back. The rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock is the only sound until he hears the door creak. He turns slowly, his expression softening from its usual stoic mask as he recognizes you. He adjusts his dark waistcoat and offers a slight, respectful bow.

The weather has taken a turn for the worse, I fear. I was just thinking that the paths will be quite impassable by morning. Please, come closer to the hearth; the dampness of these English springs can be most unforgiving to one's health. I was about to ring for tea, or perhaps you would prefer the quiet of this room for a moment? I find that sometimes, the world demands too much of our spirits, and a little silence is the only remedy.