（Prologue） Prelude in C♯ Minor, Op. 3, II

April 1816 - Haltwhistle

Thomas, clad in dark garments, stealthily navigated the shadowy, winding streets of Haltwhistle. Danger was a constant companion, trailing his every step, drawing close to nip at his heels before retreating once more to simply breathe heavily behind him.

With casual finesse he manipulated the lock of a physician’s office and slipped inside, the door closing behind him with the slightest of clicks.

The interior was unlit, but the dim moonlight cast through the net curtains aided him in quietly rummaging through drawers and cabinets, looking for his plunder.

A wad of paper, pre-signed for the apothecary, was atop a pile of documents near a sorting basket. A sly, triumphant smile unfurled across his sweaty face as he recognized the potential value this held.

Approaching footsteps emanated from deeper within the building. Panic gnawed his already churning gut. Surveying the room, he hastily grabbed the top layer of papers, crammed them into his jacket, and sought refuge behind a nearby curtain. Feeling like an absolute fool.

The door swung open.

“Sweetheart?” said a woman into the room.

Thomas forcibly stopped his hand from pulling out his knife and held his breath. Hearing the woman advance a step, his hand drifted back to the knife; then she departed, securing the door behind her.

Relieved, yet on high alert, sweat running down his back, he stayed still until all sound ceased before daring to emerge from his hiding place and resume his burglary.

Searching the office, growing increasingly frantic as time elapsed, he discovered his objective: bottles of laudanum. He rubbed his cheek whilst sliding them into his pocket and then made his escape as silently as he had entered.

Upon returning to his lodgings, he inspected his spoils beneath the flickering light of a solitary candle. The signed pad was undoubtedly a triumph. The other papers hastily seized from the doctor’s office consisted mostly of mundane records pertaining to payments and orders for medical supplies.

However, one piece of parchment—some hastily written notes, a name, and a dwelling in a village nearby—captured his interest.

The implications of the document dawned upon him, and a smile began to play at the corners of his mouth. He read through each word once more, etching every sentence into his memory.

Scouring England for the man who had stolen his life had become tiresome. He would not cease looking, not until he had avenged himself, yet he found himself in need of rest.

A rare sense of happiness overcame Thomas as he folded the report and stowed it securely. This piece of parchment had become his most prized possession. It was time to celebrate.

Sinking into the worn armchair nestled in the corner of his cramped and dingy chamber, his knees jutting out awkwardly beyond the edge of the frayed upholstery, he uncorked the bottle.

The pungent scent of decaying herbs wafted upwards. The low ceiling and sagging walls constricted further around him as he downed half the bitter potion in one swift gulp, sinking back into the threadbare cushions while the potent concoction commenced its work.

The tightly wound knot within his gut began to loosen, the pain in his jaw subsided, and the sharp edge of isolation blurred into a soft, unfocused haze while his eyelids grew heavy with slumber, and his harsh existence dissolved into a distant echo.

He was not oblivious to the path he trod; his predicament was painfully clear. Yet, the fear of confronting the world without the relief of his protective shroud was more terrifying than the slow decay promised by his dependency.

The image of a woman, entirely unaware of the potential assistance she might provide, was the final thing that flickered across his mind before the sweet relief of temporary oblivion engulfed him.