"Not this one," he chuckled coolly but leaned the hilt into her palm all the same. "Damned big for a lass like you, I'd say."

Hell, it was almost too big for Sharpe. The scabbard slings had been shortened so the guard's handle sat at the bottom of his left rib-cage, rather than at his waist. Sharpe remembered the first day he'd held the sword -- still healing near Salamanca -- and he'd barely been able to lift it, he was still so weak from his wounds.

He stepped back, happily giving her a wide berth so that give the blade a try. It was poorly balanced to begin with -- no luxury steel to be seen. But it had been made with devotion and friendship and maybe just a little Celtic magic. And in homage to the perfectionist in Harper, Sharpe kept the top seven inches razor sharp. It was a butcher's sword and it was clumsy, but it had never failed him.