It was Annabel’s. ‘Don’t, miss,’ uttered the boy. In all this world there was no sacred ground that said to her: Return! She was of all human beings the most lonely. ‘Stand where you are, or I shoot!’ Like lightning, thoughts zipped through her mind. He beheld the grey tower of Willesden Church, embosomed in its grove of trees, now clothed, in all the glowing livery of autumn. Not with the unavoidable explanations, and the need to secrete the sword and hide it before returning the priest’s horse to its stable—which had been her excuse for running from Martha’s protestations. It was his redemption, his ticket out of hell—that blue-serge coat.
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