Small Village in England, October 1901

George stood on the hill overlooking the village. The leaves on the trees were just beginning to turn fall colors, leaving the town looking like a painting you'd see in someone's house. The vibrant shades of red and orange reminded him of the house fire. The flames that licked up the sides of the wall. The fire took his mother and two other siblings, leaving only him and his four year old sister, Rose. Rose was currently clinging to his pant leg, admiring the clouds in the sky. A thick, slightly worn leather glove protected George's right hand where his pet falcon, Brutus, sat preening. His hood was off, and he was surveying the town below with his sharp, yellow eyes. Rose had a dead field mouse she'd found in her little basket, and had been begging to tag along and feed it Brutus all morning. He'd caved after she'd given him her puppy eyes. He raised his arm, and Brutus unfolded his wings and took flight.