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Summary
It is long years now — long since he and Hornblower have settled into their own comfortably perturbed orbits — yet still he finds himself thinking of odd things at odd times. In fact it happens more often now, not less. The details are lost, words and dates, and the memories are impressions only: of colour, of sound (Kennedy sang, nights in the wardroom; Hornblower, never), of scent. Of the habits of sunlight on blue-green sea, on brown-gold hair. Of the precise weight of navy blue serge in the tropics.
Remix of A letter from Kingston, January 1802 for the Hornblower Remix.
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