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Ey distracted Don; he swallowed the offerings like a wolf, while Silver sat and watched him patiently and ignored the tight cramps in his stomach that were almost as acute as the cramps in his skull. ‘Now,’ Don Taylor resumed, after he had proved his satisfaction with a healthy belch, ‘I need to talk to you about this book. I must present you with two urgent matters and criticisms –’ Silver’s brow furrowed and he gestured to interrupt him. ’ ‘e Cycle of Sun & Seed. It is your book, is it not? ’ ‘It is true I have written a book of that title, but it is not yet published.

E end was not far off – he could no longer deny that – but there was still hope. One day in May a rider came through the gates on a black horse, dismounted outside the old manor house, and bellowed at the few Silverites who were not working Sir Denzil’s acres. It was raining hard and he had to shout above the rain: ‘Nathaniel Silver! I know this to be his house! ’ Alice teetered on a chair to see him through the window and the rain. ‘A tall man,’ she described. ‘He has a black coat that makes him look fat, but he isn’t if you look closely.

E hammer had a light wood handle that fitted perfectly snug in Silver’s fist. e dense black metal head – black as the sheep’s own rounded snout and ears and collar – was a weight, and needed a mild effort to lift it. He held it as far above his head as his arm could stretch, judged and tested his arc while the placated victim pushed her nose cautiously into his apron. With his free hand he cradled and pinned the sheep’s shivering body. He brought the hammerhead down onto the sheep’s skull; it fell in a smooth arc, like the pendulum of a clock compelling all men one second at a time towards the grave.