‘What? What do you mean it’s too late?’ cried Albert, a rapidly growing anxiety beginning to gnaw at him, twisting the inside of his stomach with iron talons. He stood there, dreading what the man was about to say, hoping, praying, willing him not to say it.

‘The Council reached its verdict ten minutes ago. Marcus is to be executed.’

20

Shock slapped Albert across the face, but it was a slap clad in the velvet glove of relief. He had feared the worst for a moment—that he was too late and the sentence had already been carried out. A second later, the relief had passed but the shock remained, reverberating through his system like the after effects of a sonic boom.

‘But you can’t!’ he said.

Behind Father, Ucho bristled. ‘Oh can’t we? Well, we just did, and what’s more—’

Once again Father turned to look at him, and once again the tirade was quelled instantly. ‘I’ll handle this, Ucho, if you don’t mind,’ said Father.

‘Well, I’ve got some things I need to see to,’ said Ucho, looking annoyed. ‘Be back in a jiffy.’

Father turned to Albert. ‘What is it, Albert? Is there something you wish to tell me?’

Rapidly, the words almost falling into each other, so eager was he to get them out, Albert told Father and June what he had told Colby a few moments earlier, about his discovery of the fact that the man couldn’t write. When he had finished, he took a deep breath, looking at him expectantly.

But Father shook his head. ‘No, Albert, I’m sorry. What you are telling me is interesting, but it is still just a theory, based on your interpretation of your observations and certainly not enough to overturn the verdict, or cast all the evidence into doubt. And much as it pains me, and believe me, it pains me, what the Council has decided upon must be done, and shall be.’

Albert believed him. The truth of what he said was clear—both the remorse he felt for what he had decided to do shining in his eyes, visible in the unhappy frown on his brow, as well as the determination clearly reflected in the set line of his jaw and the decided cast of his countenance. He had all the look of a man who, forced to take a deeply regrettable decision, completely intended to see it through. ‘You are making a mistake, Father.’

‘It must be done, Albert.’ The note of warning in his voice was clear.

‘But—’

‘Still bleating away, eh? Why don’t you give it up, already?’ Ucho came back up to them, his long strides quickly eating up the distance between the entrance of the tent and where they were standing. ‘Or you think you’re going to get the killer a last-minute reprieve? Not on my watch, you’re not!’

Albert looked at the man, flooded with sudden dislike.