Hector Mallory, formerly the Holy Roman Emperor, but now simple Mr Mallory – or ‘Daddy’ to the current Holy Roman Empress, or ‘Grandad! Grandad! Sugarbread! Toys!’ to the grandchildren on which he doted, raised himself to a sitting position and wondered when his chair got so cold. It took him a moment to realise he was not back inside the palace, waiting for dinner and enjoying an afternoon nap – he had slumped down over the small mound in the gardens of Palermo, where he had been sitting admiring the now maturing roses.

“You’d still like the place,” he said fondly. “It’s grown up a bit with time – they’ve added two more turrets, heaven knows why – it was big enough to begin with. Don’t know if you’d approve so widely of what they’ve done with your place here – try as I may to explain that this bit has to remain untouched, the little ones go to the workmen with pleading eyes and, knowing I’ll foot the bill, they dump sand on this spot for my grandchildren to play in. And great-grandchildren, now, though little Vally’s only just starting crawling. You’d like her. She gets into everything and pulls things over and then giggles adorably. And she’s got such an imperious look when you tell her off – like she already knows she’s going to be Empress one day and mere subjects like myself need to toe the line!”

He climbs off the pile of sand and, stooping, brushes some away from the headstone.

“They’ve offered me a place in the cathedral in Aachen,” he says, “to be buried alongside all the other Emperors. The official internment will have to be there, of course – there needs to be a procession with the coffin and all that malarkey – ensures that people selling souvenirs and bits of ‘genuine relic – all varieties – Saint James – Agrona – Osmund – Dii Casses’ don’t lose out on all those bits of dead-Emperor related tat. However, on my last trip back to England – Gerard and I were discussing some Pact-related matters – I went up to your old haunts and chatted to some girls in the woods there. Urshie the Reckless, she was calling herself, their leader – some relation of Robin’s, I think, through his cousin the old Abbess Ursula, the one who – she sold you-“

His voice breaks off and he needs a minute or two to compose himself.

“Well, they’re going to come and get me, when the time comes,” he eventually continues. “Urshie’ll break into the cathedral and they’re going to nip downstairs and sling me into a chest, which if anyone asks contains the church linen going for cleaning in the river. They’ll then put me in a boat and sail me back here to lie in the sandpit with you – hopefully quite a few feet down, or that wretched dog my grandson insisted on buying will dig me up and scatter me around the garden like it does everything else.”

He sees a servant hurrying towards him in the distance and totters off towards her.

“See you soon, Katrina,” Hector says. “Not long now to go.”