If you meet me, have some sympathy 7

She brought me coffee and we sat at the back of the cathedral, listening to the silence for a while. The rest of her lot had disappeared off on some celestial errand; one or two of mine were lurking in the shadows near the roof, looking for trouble as usual but not paying us much attention.

‘It’s good to see you, Sam,’ she said, smiling. ‘I didn’t think they’d let you out after last time.’

‘So what are they calling you now?’ I asked, changing the subject.

‘Same as usual.’

‘Still Theresa?’

‘Yep.’

‘It’s a bit mediaeval.’

She laughed. ‘It’s served me well enough.’

No one uses their real name. Names give power as any backstreet sorcerer will tell you (not that I’ve ever heard of a pentangle working properly, but they’re a tedious distraction).

‘Do you remember the first time?’ she asked. She was talking about the king and the archbishop.

‘You were thrashed,’ I said. Those knights had hacked him down before the altar.

She shook her head sadly. ‘I don’t think either of us won.’

I was about to reply but there was a loud crack, and Theresa vanished as a black fissure split the floor open.