Free When Falcons Fall by C. S. Harris Page A

the heat of the dying day and let her gaze rove over the surrounding countryside.
    From here she could see the ruins of the Priory of St. Hilary nestled in a green dale threaded by a sparkling stream. Beyond that stretched the extensive, carefully cultivated park of the vast estate known as Northcott Abbey, its grand Tudor house built by whichever ambitious nobleman had managed to acquire the monastery after the Dissolution. The Grange, home of the young Squire, lay at the base of the hill to the east. Half-timbered except for a single stone tower and still partially encircled by a moat, the Grange was both several centuries older and considerably more modest than the Seatons’ vast estate.
    She had thought those the only two grand houses in the area. Now, as she gazed toward the river, she spotted the brick chimneys of another large house soaring above a clump of trees near the crossroads and closer to the river. Then she realized the chimneys were blackened, the brick walls broken; the house was a ruin.
    Once, the fields surrounding the village would have been owned and worked in common, with common meadows for hay and livestock, and wasteland used by the villagers for collecting everything from furze and turf to berries and nuts. But the enclosure movement that had been under way in fits and starts for centuries had vastly accelerated in the past thirty or forty years. Now she could see only ghosts of the old medieval ridges and furrows, lost mementos of a past long since vanished. And she felt a wave of nostalgia sweep over her, as useless as it was sad.
    The rattle of a dislodged pebble brought Hero’s head around, and she found that she was no longer alone. A boy stood near the entrance to the old watchtower. He looked to be about ten years old, dark haired and handsome beneath the fine layer of fresh dust that coated his face. He wore a brimmed hat, sturdy trousers, and a short coat, all of which were obviously both new and expensive, although the collar of his white shirt was awry and grimy, his stockings were falling down, and a large rent showed in one knee of his trousers. And even if she had not seen Emma Chance’s sketch, Hero would have guessed who he was, for the resemblance to his famous, feared uncle was inescapable.
    “Hullo,” she said with a smile.
    He came forward, leaping gracefully from one fallen stone to the next until he came to a halt some ten feet away. “You’re the Viscountess, aren’t you? The one whose lord is looking into that gentlewoman’s murder?”
    “I am, yes. You’ve heard about that, have you?”
    “I found her.”
    He said it matter-of-factly, as if stumbling upon dead bodies were an everyday occurrence—although she noticed a muscle twitch along the side of his jaw.
    “Ah,” she said. “Then I think I know who you are. Monsieur Charles Bonaparte, yes?”
    He hopped off his stone and landed in a crouch before straightening slowly, his head tilted, his large brown eyes solemn as he regarded her fixedly. “It doesn’t bother you? That he’s my uncle, I mean.” There was no need to specify which
he
they were talking about.
    “Of course not. Why should it? I hope no one would think to hold me responsible for the actions of all my relatives.”
Especially my father,
she thought.
    He gave a delighted laugh. “Are they infamous?”
    “Some. It’s inevitable, you know. We all have them.”
Some more than others.
    He came to sit on one of the stones beside her, his dangling feet swinging back and forth, his gaze sweeping the skies. There was an alertness, a watchfulness about him that intrigued her.
    She said, “Do you come here often?”
    He nodded toward the peregrine circling overhead, its long, pointed wings blue-black now in the gloaming of the day. “It’s a grand place to see birds at sunset.”
    “You’re interested in birds?”
    “Oh, yes.” He tipped back his head, his expression rapt as he followed the falcon’s soaring flight. “It’s a female, I