A dark mass of wreckage, over which hung a slight mist of vapour, lay half in the ditch, half across the hedge, close under a tree from the trunk of which the bark had been torn and stripped. It did seem in so many ways exactly what Ramage said it was—the sensible thing to do. Yet here you are, and at precisely the right moment, too. It was 1582. She loved her mother Marina more than any other thing in the world and could not bear to speak to her for a fortnight after being told her fate. It was impossible. ’ ‘Success?’ Her eyes narrowed. "You are angry?" "Very. ” “Please tell me why?” she asked.
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