All right, perhaps I am a little perturbed. I once was mistress to the hell-raiser turned young contender of the Church of Rome who is now Augustine, Bishop of Hippo, with all the politics that attend such connections. I left that behind years back, and I’m no good as a hostage anymore, not with Adeodatus burned to ash upon his bier. Fire dissolves chains, Augustine said. No flesh shared between us any longer, and nothing to tie him to his sins. Let them blow away into the past. So I did. I go by another name, and I have another life. If I am found and roped back in this morning, it is by some enormously ingenious and painstaking idiot, to be able to locate me and yet not recognise the futility of that achievement.