Something insisted that those two were mysteriously linked—that the woman knew the man was there. ‘Madwoman,’ he screamed back, as he climbed over the next pew, eyes darting down briefly to check for his sword. When she saw Ann Veronica she stood for a moment as if entranced, and then advanced with outstretched hands. Why didn’t I die? Why does God hate me so? Why does He not want me? I didn’t die because I’m weak, because I am cursed! I hate this poisoned world! But most of all. “You know of no one likely to have had a grudge against this man?” he asked. Of you—an angel with one wing. “You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated.
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