Preface
Blast this inconvenient cold. He trudged on through the bitter snow in his woolen redcoat and boats, his gloved hand atop his head to chafe the snow over it, his other arm ensuring closure of his coat. The little white flurries were large—fat, wet, and pregnant with the weight of the angels above, maybe even God himself. He looked up to the gray sky that was blanketed with clouds. Oh, to be under blankets…
The army was strange to him, and while he resided in their barracks only for purposes of war and destruction, hopefully to bribe the Germans into coming back into alliance with them, he couldn't help but see that this would be an amazing enterprise for England's goods and health. Though he wanted to be home, seated by the fire and being waited on by a servant or two, his father droning on about business matters that needed to be tended to.
A shiver went up James's spine. He would die of hypothermia if he didn't find shelter soon. All of the houses about him were coated with snow, and the rushing wind that made his ears, nose, and fingertips numb prohibited any clear view through the eyes. He felt his heart skip a beat as he once again trembled with subnormal temperatures. His teeth chattered. A few more steps, you buffoon. Great idea, staying out for sentry duty in the midwinter. Bloody brilliant idea.
A house came into sight. A tiny smile breaking his purple lips, he staggered toward it. The King had best be pleased with this suffering he's putting us all through. With a stiff hand, going up to the furnished wooden door, his frozen knuckles rapped on it only a few times before he put it back in his pocket. Knees weak and trembling, he kept them from giving out. Please, let somebody be home.