Lucy grabbed the hand cannon, stuffing it with powder, nearly missing a swing of the sword meant for her neck. “Do?” “Are you prepared to do things for us? Distribute bills? Write letters? Interrupt meetings? Canvass at elections? Face dangers?” “If I am satisfied—” “If we satisfy you?” “Then, if possible, I would like to go to prison. ‘And I am delighted to see that you are ready to admit that the Charvills—or rather the Valades—are indeed your affair. ‘I know,’ said Prudence Sindlesham, sympathy in her tone.
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