It was July 10, 1731 and as determined by the Gregorian calendar there were still 174 days until the end of the year.
It was evening now, for some time the sun, hot and bright, had vanished behind the high hills of the British island.
By now the blue sky had given way to the darkness of the night and with this to the moon and thousands of other small stars, which shone in the sky like infinite silver dots.
According to the zodiac, that month was the month of cancer, a cardinal sign that placed Saturn in exile.
Outside, in the darkness of the night it was raining and a thousand tiny droplets of water hit and fell on the smooth glass of the window, the curtains of which had not been closed.
A faint light shone from the window, the warm light of a candle, the wax of which was slowly melting.
The lamp was placed above a precious table and behind that table was the Marquis Francis Hoover, seated on a padded chair.
In front of him he had a white sheet, next to it was a small and round bottle of black ink and a fine quill.
He wrote as best he could, he wrote a letter which would later be sent to the Orkney Islands, in the North Sea, still above Scotland.
There were the vast lands of the marquisate, including all seventy islands of the archipelago, of which only twenty were actually inhabited.
Nine hundred and ninety square kilometers of land were under the jurisdiction of the Marquis, obviously lending loyalty to neighboring Scotland, which in maritime terms was only sixteen kilometers further south.
Certainly it was not his job at all to govern there, since he was an illegitimate son but the task rested on his father's wife.
But from the point it seemed incorrect not to send condolences to the distant paternal family, Francis was at that moment preparing to write a letter.
In this way, it would also have seemed less suspicious in the eyes of the paternal family and perhaps would have had the opportunity to receive strategic alliances.
On the other hand, Francis had lived there, hosted by his paternal family from ten to seventeen years, he had lived with them for a long time.
He had already changed his clothing, it was now evening if not night and for this reason his usual and precious daily clothes had soon given way to a white and soft pair of trousers and a shirt.
Two strong blows struck on the woody and hard oak door, so that the young man lost control of his pen for a few seconds, leaving a smudged line on the white paper.
He had to finish writing, he told himself, he was too tired at that time of night.
-Please, come in- came out of his tight lips with an air so tired and bored by the situation as to perceive a certain lack of interest.
The golden door handle rotated making him see the tall and sturdy figure of the British Crown Minister of Arms.
Francis at that sight lifted his body from the soft chair with agility, bent, his slender body in a composed bow.
He felt a lot of respect and esteem for that man, who had partly raised him both physically and spiritually.
-Good evening, uncle- admitted the one still bent over and slowly standing up -I'm glad you came to me, I just hope it was not so uncomfortable for you...-.
The young man could not finish his sentence as he felt a strange force and pressure grab his arm, it hurt, it almost burned.
He noticed his uncle's strong hand, quickly and easily pushing his body towards the door.
Francis was afraid, everything around him became incredibly cold and scary, he didn't know what was happening, this was so unexpected.
-I came to save you Francis...- came out of his uncle's lips as if with more force he was trying to move the considerably lighter and frailer body of his nephew -after the death of your father it is clear there is a murderer among the walls of the castle and in any case I cannot let you die like him...-.
At that statement Francis began to get goosebumps, he knew he could not easily confess to the man how the facts really had gone and so, briefly he limited himself to playing a role of innocence.
The brown and wavy hair of the young man, a bit like his own freckled face and his brown eyes were faintly illuminated by the light of the candles.
He made a face of frightened surprise and unpreparedness.
-What do you think you are doing?- Francis asked, slowly releasing his arm from his uncle's strong grip and continuing to look into the other's black eyes.
-I will take you back to the lands of the marquisate, we will return there, safe and sound- admitted the man trying in every way to persuade the young and frightened nephew, he grabbed the forearm again, where he still had the wounds, so much so that he had to keep himself from shouting.
-A ship will be waiting for us at the Scottish port of Dunnet, we will sail home as the sun rises-
Francis looked away from him, he knew he had to do something, he could not let his uncle take him away from there, even if returning to the North was a great opportunity for safety for him.
He could not allow it in any way: leaving the English lands would have entailed the immediate abandonment of Brooke, as well as the renunciation of his revolutionary future and ideals of freedom.
He had to do something, to reveal the truth, even at the cost of social and family repudiation, he had to do it, for the greater good.
-I can't ..- Francis admitted moving his gaze away from the man's in shame, his nose and pale freckled cheeks had taken an intense blush -I can't leave the castle, not now-.
At those words the man was struck, his small dark eyes widened, he looked at his nephew, he must have been mad or something exactly must have been wrong with his head.
Why on earth would he have to give up such an advantageous situation, after learning of the death of his own father?
-I can't run away like this...- Francis admitted looking back at the astonished face of his uncle, his saviour -I can't escape, because I was the one who killed my father...-.
After those words a tense silence was created between the two until a strong slap was thrown by the man's big hands on the freckled and reddened cheeks of his nephew.
-Why the fuck did you ever do it ?!- his uncle scolded him severely, not letting the young man add any other words.
Having no longer a chance to speak, slowly, Francis raised the white sleeve of his shirt, letting the man still glimpse the numerous scars and bruises that covered his own pale skin.
His uncle was silent, struck for a few seconds.
He didn't know what to say, or what to do anymore, that situation, that conversation, was pulling completely unexpected topics out of the dark.
-Go ahead...but let me be - Francis admitted again turning his big brown eyes to the white and cold marble floor -I will not come, I cannot come...-.
At those words the eyes of the young man began to become wetter, as well as his cheeks became more red.
Harald Hoover said nothing, he did not have the courage nor the will to say anything else, he let the heavy door close again, giving up on his nephew.
He was gone, his uncle was gone, Francis felt he would never see him again.
The cold darkness of the night took him, enveloped him, drowned him.
The young man came back to the table, inside his own room, pulled the drawer, closed it.
He touched the soft red ribbon with his own hands, with which he soon made ready to tie the letter it was to send.
A tear fell on the white paper.
Francis was angry, he pretended nothing had happened but his spirit, his mind could not ignore it all.
He tied the ribbon around the paper, pressed the purple-colored melted wax stamp onto it.
Another tear fell.
Fuck it! He didn't want to cry.