O ye gods and little fishes, I hope this isn’t one of my colleagues feeling his oats. If I’m to be wooed by a shrivelled goat of a man dressed as Dionysus while a string quartet of pretty young things from the slave market make bad music around their blindfolds, I shall probably stab him, and won’t that cause a stink. Yes, stab him, like the back-country urchin I was when I arrived here. I still carry my novacula. I use it for preparing herbs, but I haven’t forgotten how to be more assertive with it in time of need. A blade’s edge is a blade’s edge, and mine has a little cross-piece to keep my fingers from slipping, just in case.