Chapter Eleven
The morning was well advanced when Edward finally woke. He stretched beneath the covers, feeling rested and invigorated—and more than that, feeling alive. The funereal gloom of his bedchamber—the dark paneling, the dark bed curtains—failed to diminish his sense of well-being. He lay for several minutes, savoring the sense of contentment, before ringing for Tigh. For the first time since Waterloo the sight of his right hand—the stumps of his missing fingers—didn’t bring a jolt of disbelief or grief.
Edward whistled beneath his breath while he shaved. His scarred face in the mirror, the clumsiness of his butchered hands, failed to dampen his mood. It was as if he’d been wearing someone else’s skin—ill-fitting and uncomfortable—for the past five months. Today he fitted into h
