‘What do you mean?’ ‘You have papers of identity, for the Mother Abbess told me so. I can remove the prisoner at any hour of the night I think fit: and I will remove him. Instead her point disengaged, dropped, and then the sword came up again and banged, flatbladed, onto Gosse’s wrist with such force that his own blade dropped from his grasp. This is your choice. The spinsters were not kind; they were only curious because she was odd and wore a dress thirty years out of date. It was fastened inside. “It is part of the irony of life,” he said.
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