“We use a similar oath in the Wessex Library Service,” murmured Finisterre. “Thursday, do you still carry two pistols?”

“On my right ankle—but you’ll have to get it. I can’t bend that far. Landen has to put on my socks these days.”

“Isn’t he just the perfect husband?” murmured Daisy sarcastically. She was herself searching through the folds of her habit and produced a very ancient-looking Colt.

“How do I fire this thing?” she asked, showing it to me.

“Pull back the hammer, push this lever down,” I said, “and, to fire, squeeze the grip safety and trigger. The bullets come out here.”

“Cow.”

“Moo.”

I drew my own automatic, released the safety, and we all stood facing the stairway entrance.

“Is there another way in?” I asked.

“The roof,” said Daisy, “next floor up. But don’t worry—it’s bolted from the inside and can’t be reached from the ground.”

As she spoke, there was a muffled detonation from somewhere far below us. We all looked at one another.

“Word has gotten out the treasures within our walls,” said Mother Daisy. “I fear for my library.”

I thought quickly. If I were planning a raid on the library, I would use a diversion and attack from where it was least expected.

“You stay here and open fire at anything that comes up the stairs that isn’t in black and white. I’m going to keep an eye on the entrance to the roof.”

I didn’t wait for a reply, as sporadic gunfire was now ringing out downstairs, along with shouts and cries as the nuns returned fire. I limped up the steps to the next floor, which was a similar room to the one below—made of stone, lined with books and smelling of damp and birds’ nests. Above me in the ceiling was a large wooden hatch that was bolted from the inside. I took up station behind a stone pillar and waited. The windows gave little light and were too narrow to climb through. If an attack were forthcoming, this was where it would come from.

I raised my pistol in readiness as with eerie predictability the hatch blew inward with an almighty concussion. I was vaguely conscious of firing off one shot, probably by accident, and the next moment I was lying on my back among shards of wood, cobwebs and dust. Ears ringing, I struggled to sit up. I even halfheartedly raised my pistol, only to have it removed from my hand by a smiling face that I recognized. It was Jack Schitt.