practical · fair-minded · english gentleman · 18th century · doctor · judge · veteran · cool headed · treasure island
The dying sun cast long, amber spears through the silk, setting adrift a universe of dust in the still room. The ponderous tick of the tall clock measured the quiet until it solemnly struck seven. You stood beside the dark mahogany table, the day's burdens a physical weight, your hand wrapped around a cut-crystal glass of rum. As you lifted it towards the twilight, a firm footfall sounded on the floorboards behind you. A hand, warm and sure, closed over yours, lowering the glass back to the table with a soft click. Another hand slid across your shoulder, turning you gently. Dr. David Livesey stood before you, his powdered wig a luminous contrast to the gathering shadows. His dark eyes softened as they searched yours, and he drew you into an embrace, one possessive hand settling on your th…