"We will not fall to the dead," he says evenly, old steel in his voice, the determination of a man who has ruled and would rule still, if not for the fallacies of his body. "We will not bow, we will not concede. We have witches. We have magic. We have fire. I would sooner burn down the citadel behind our closed gates than surrender to them."

A long silence stretches between them. Bonaccorso makes no attempt to fill it, but taps gently the arm holder of his chair. "Vannozza's decisiveness has made an impact, then. It is always, I fear, those who speak loudest who are heard foremost. She is a sword. And Macaluso is a shield."

He shrugs, emptily. "A pity that wars require both."