A Short Excerpt
“What if the cure for madness is simply to believe the mad?” the doctor asked himself. “Whom should I trust to tell me of the world’s sad truths, my patients — poor King George at Windsor Castle and the one claiming to be the arch-mutineer Fletcher Christian in Bedlam, … or Bonaparte and Wellington?”
—–o—–
“I am Fletcher Christian.” If their names — William, Dorothy Wordsworth — had shocked me, mine blasted them.
“I remember you from school!” Wordsworth managed. “I was six years behind you.”
“Your brother was our barrister against Sir Jamie Lowther, he won for us in court,” Dorothy added.
Wordsworth said, “Your father and ours were…”
“Our families are as intertwined as a shroud-laid rope,” I said. “I’m a fugitive. I couldn’t let you speculate about me…”
“But you couldn’t kill us, either,” Dorothy said, “so you may stay for supper.”