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into the eyes of each twin in turn, trying to get a measure of them. ‘I believe it serves a useful purpose that we get to know each other.’
    The twins exchange glances.
    â€˜And you two? Might you introduce yourselves?’
    There’s a brief silence. The twins stare at this new person in their cell. From somewhere in the exercise yard comes the howl of someone unhappy.
    â€˜I am Perch Fishcutter,’ says the sister on the right.
    â€˜My name is Carp,’ says the one on the left.
    â€˜Excellent, that’s good to know. Now I’ll be able to tell you apart,’ says the governor cheerfully, though she’s not sure she believes what she says.
    The twins eye her suspiciously: looking for weakness. The older woman senses the joined-up thoughts of the twins.
    â€˜Let’s be clear from the outset,’ she says in an authoritative voice. ‘I do not aim to befriend you. I have friends enough. It is not my intention to empathise with you. I am not a murderer. I do not aim to sympathise with you. You have been convicted by a jury of your peers and you are paying for your actions. I am simply here to better understand who you are now and where you stand in relation to your crime. It will enable me to respond to questions from outsiders. The members of the Parole Board, as a prime example.’
    The twins look up from looking down. It is a clear sign of interest, one the governor has seen many times before. Still they stay silent. The governor, well versed in the criminal mind, is not easily unnerved. She is more than happy to match their silence with her own. She stares up at the window above their heads. The tiniest patch of blue sky. Of hope. Of possibilities. When she was a little girl she slept in the attic with her baby brother and older sister. At night they would look out of the small window in the slanted roof, point to a star and take it in turns to tell the story of the people and animals that lived there.
    â€˜We know what we did was wrong,’ says Carp.
    â€˜Ah … wrong,’ says the governor, still looking up at the sky, tracing a skein of cloud on the wind.
    â€˜Yes,’ says Perch, ‘we have denounced the religion, the Truth that is not.’
    â€˜So I read,’ says the governor, ‘from Warden Harris. She wrote in a recent report that you have realised that the beliefs you once held prompted you to actions you now regret. Am I right?’
    â€˜Regret indeed,’ says Carp.
    â€˜In the deed we regret,’ echoes Perch.
    â€˜And the boy?’ asks the governor.
    â€˜Oscar Flowers?’ asks Perch.
    â€˜Yes, your codefendant.’
    â€˜We persuaded him of the righteousness of our cause and the need to commit the act,’ says Perch.
    â€˜To conspire to trap and murder your own father,’ says the governor, always eager to lay the blunt facts before her prisoners. To test remorse. To evaluate contrition.
    Perch looks to Carp. There are no tears. No furrowed brows.
    â€˜You may well have heard that the Judicial Commission, set up after your trial, banished your former religion, your cult, from the Province,’ says the governor, looking for a new avenue to a response. ‘Oscar Flowers has found his own way. You will be aware that he spent some time with the monks on the Island of Good Hope and is now a sailor at sea.’
    â€˜Everyone needs to find their way through this world,’ says Perch flatly.
    â€˜And you two, Perch and Carp Fishcutter, need to find yours.’
    Perch looks to Carp: this is not the time to tell anyone, least of all the prison governor, of the visitations from the Archangel Gabriel.
    The governor glances from one to the other. In silence. She holds her gaze, looking for some sign of differentiation. Carp blinks, looks away, then looks back again. Yes , thinks the governor. Yes .

    By the time the cart arrives at the monastery most of the monks are in the field tending to the crops,