A broken plank - the name Daydream still visible on the salt-crusted wood - and a signet ring were all that had been recovered in a full fortnight. No other sign had been found, no word had come from the shores of France - it was time to accept the inevitable.

The body, lost forever in the English Channel or Atlantic Ocean, had not been recovered, so the wood and ring were buried in his place. The memorial service was a small, private affair - only the League and Lady Blakeney were in attendance. Few words were exchanged the entire time, for what could be said? How could mere words, so fleeting, so meaningless, so ephemeral, fully illustrate the loss that had been sustained? Far better it was to let the silence, thick and heavy as a leaden curtain, speak for the exclusive gathering, and for all those whose lives had been touched or saved by the departed hero.

That night was overcast, with no moon or starlight penetrating the dense clouds that blanketed the atmosphere. It was as if the very earth and sky knew what had happened, what the world had lost. Rain fell, not heavy and storming as someone in a rage, but a dull, listless drizzle, as though the clouds themselves were mourning his passing.

Marguerite Blakeney, swathed from head to foot in deepest black, stood on the cliff overlooking the Channel and gazed across the dark, choppy waters. The icy wind, keening its mournful dirge to the Stygian night, tugged at her gown and whipped her veil before her stony face, chilling her to the core. She ignored the cold; compared to the pain that tore at her chest and shattered her heart, such things as physical discomfort were negligible.

For over an hour she stood there, as though petrified, staring out across the merciless expanse of water that had claimed her beloved, 'til at last she stirred. Reaching into a pocket deep in her skirt, she pulled out her last offering to the fallen hero.

Snatched from her open hand by the wind, the scarlet petals of a pimpernel flower danced across the open air before coming to rest on the cold surface of the waves. At that moment, a single shaft of moonlight split the clouds, cutting a path across the water and turning the cliff side silver. Illuminated by the austere light, the flower petals bobbed on the dark waves like so many bloodstains, marking the last resting place of French aristocracy's greatest ally.

Lady Blakeney stood gazing down at them for a moment longer; then she turned and, without a backwards glance, swiftly started towards the lone horse that stood patiently waiting for his mistress. Mounting up, she tugged the reins, turning the faithful equine homeward, and lightly tapped her heels into the chestnut sides. The horse dutifully broke into a smooth canter, and Marguerite returned to her estate alone. Never once did she look back.

Far behind her, out above the open sea, faint strains of a high, inane laugh echoed fleetingly through the dark sky. Then it was gone, and all that was left were a few red petals, bobbing on the cold, relentless waves of the English Channel.