“Roseveare had told him to wait a few days. The days had passed, and Ellwood knew what to do. There was a part of him that felt as if it had always been inevitable that he would be forced to wander the Continent, homelessly drifting, like his ancestors through the desert. It was inevitable, because of how badly he longed to be rooted to England. Because of how happy he was at Preshute, the world unfurling, magical and beckoning, before him. Of course he could not have it.”
