"...You're a mess. Your words are strange and your decoratin' skills are unholy. You meddle; you presume; you try my patience to the very frayed edges." Each accusation came with a mounting displeasure. A rising tide of disappointment and quasi-anger. Sharpe finally did step back, if just so he could draw himself to his full height and feel just a little more manly in the face of her.

"And I wouldn't be lying if I said I'd happily see you sent back," he added. "But not dead. Never dead. I'll swear to it, if that's what you'd like."

But swear on what? He was no religious man. His mother's grave was likely unmarked. And his honour was rusted and chipped.