He swore that I was his wife, and—I shot him, Nigel, as his arms were closing around me. When he awoke it was late in the day, and he was surprised to find Blueskin seated by his bedside, watching over him with a drawn sword on his knee, a pistol in each hand, and a blood-stained cloth bound across his brow. ‘Yes, like you,’ she snapped, with a venomous glance, her role evidently forgotten for the moment. She was to fall back amongst the ruck, a young woman of talent, content perhaps to earn a scanty living by painting Christmas cards, or teaching at a kindergarten. ‘You are really not helping matters, my friend.
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