He depended upon her, for his medicine, for his drink, for the little amusement it was now permissible to give him. He looked like a French boy soldier she had once glimpsed marching towards his death in one of the battles they would later call the Hundred Years War. “You asked me in to tea,” he protested. “Tell me more about this Martin Chen. Did he intend to kill her now, this instant? Or had she a moment or two to try to save herself? Recalling Leonardo’s dictum, she did not struggle, for that would only tighten the trap about her, and perhaps even spring it. The country was partitioned in a similar manner.
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