He had turned her into this. He had made a monster of her and although she felt appalled by her actions she also felt strangely good about it. He had deserved to die, and to die by her hand seemed to make it all the sweeter. If she had just heard that he had perished, lost at sea or perished by the hand of another, she would have been gladdened by the news, but would have felt cheated by the lack of vengeance she would have been able to administer. It had been rewarding to see the fear in his eyes, the pleading words he uttered in his final moments.
The power she had wielded.
She pulled the tobacco pouch from her breeches raised it to her lips and gently kissed the remains of the breast upon which she had once suckled as a child.
‘I love you ma,’ she whispered beneath her breath. ‘And I
