4141.214 · August 2, 1821 AD
Prisoner Number 4,847
William Jeffries has spent years constructing a gentleman from the raw materials of ambition and will. The manor, the books, the cultivated accent, the signet ring with its invented heraldry—all proof that the transported convict has transcended his chains. But the letter with the blood-red seal remembers who he was. Some masks can be torn away. Some bargains demand payment that compounds with time. And some foundations rot from within.
In his sanctuary study, surrounded by books he taught himself to read whilst in chains, William Jeffries breaks the crimson seal with steady hands. The mask of control holds. The gentleman's posture remains perfect. The cultivated voice betrays nothing.
Then he reads the words.
The arrangement has been compromised. Your continued discretion is expected. The next exchange must proceed as scheduled. Refusal will result in exposure.
Alastair Blackwood. London. The bargain struck when desperation overwhelmed caution. The young men who disappeared from work gangs—attributed to the bush, to natives, to accident. No one asked questions about missing convicts. No one cared enough to investigate.
William had told himself it was victimless. That whatever fate awaited through Blackwood's mysterious portal couldn't be worse than colonial labour. That the wealth and respectability were worth the price.
But lies grow harder to sustain. And now the secrets that built everything threaten to destroy it all. The manor. The businesses. Madelyn. Young William Jr. Everything balanced on rotten foundations.
He could refuse. But Blackwood made clear from the beginning—withdrawal is not an option. The organisation doesn't permit associates to walk away with their knowledge intact.
Some choices, once made, allow only forward motion. Even when the path leads toward the scaffold.
