A/N: Thank you to everyone for the lovely comments, you are all so sweet! So here's my gift to you: a very brief and depressing chapter! This is developing into a series of imagined deleted scenes so unfortunately the timeline is progressing and things are getting difficult for Hewlett. Now that everyone's pumped up, let's do this.

COME MORNING LIGHT

Hewlett had always counted himself lucky for the fact that he had never experienced true fear. He had known the frightening rush of combat, blood pounding in his ears and death rattling through each blast of gunfire. But that kind of fear had always been strangely exhilarating, for even if it left him shaken, he had always survived it; there was none of the arresting, chilling dread of true terror. This night, with his hands bound at the wrists as some soggy rag was wrenched between his teeth, Edmund Hewlett knew his luck had run out.

He wanted it to be a nightmare—he willed himself to wake, to find himself in his bed, the fire burning low and Anna surely sleeping down the hall, safe and sound. He had made her laugh that evening, over the harpsichord—"Astronomy, art, and music?" She had peered at the sheet music over his shoulder. "You're beginning to make me feel quite inadequate, Major."

"You could never be that." When she laughed, her eyes had been warm and relaxed for the first time in days—she had finally felt safe—

Hewlett struggled to break free, to run, but two men were dragging him across the grass by his elbows, and at least half a dozen more surrounded them, rifles at the ready. Before he could get his bearings and make any proper effort to escape, he was thrown roughly into a boat, his shoulder colliding painfully with the hard wood. He quickly straightened himself and cast a desperate glance at Whitehall, but there were no regulars running to the rescue, only dark windows staring back at him. Panic seared through him, cutting to the quick—would he even live to see the morning?

He screamed ineffectually through the gag for help that was not coming, kicking wildly at his captors only to be repaid with a blow to the stomach.

"Would you rather swim across the Sound, Major? Try that again and you'll get the chance."

The man gave him another savage kick; this one landed on his spine and sent a shock of pain through his bones. His breaths were coming in too fast, too shallow, the cold air sharp in his lungs with each ragged gasp. Blood rushed dizzyingly to his head, Anna's screams ringing in his ears—Hewlett focused on her face, trying to calm his heart, to get his wits about him. The rebels were taking him across the Sound, probably to the very camp he had shown Anna through his telescope. There was hardly any distance between them, and yet he might never see her again.

An unwarranted blow was delivered to the base of his skull and he choked his protest into the gag. Reeling, he twisted his head to face the sky. The stars were spinning—he was going to faint—and he didn't even know if she was safe.