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letters.
    “Shit, what a mouthful.” The woman tapped the buttons. “Address?” When Ceara failed to immediately respond, she glanced up. “Where do you live?”
    “Clare, in the chiefdom of the O’Ceallaigh. ’Tis Ireland of which I speak, in case ye do na know of County Clare.”
    The woman sighed. “What’s the address , sweet cheeks?”
    Ceara frowned. “Address? ’Tis uncertain I am as to yer meaning.”
    “The street number,” the woman elaborated.
    “There is only one O’Ceallaigh Road in me sire’s chiefdom, so there’s no need for a number. The manor where I reside is at the end of it.”
    “Look, Ms. O’Ceallaigh, I don’t have time for games. What’s the goddamned house number?”
    “’Struth, there is no house number, nor the need for one. There is only one manor.”
    The officer rocked back on her chair, startling Ceara so badly that she almost leaped up to keep the other woman from toppling over. “You have to have a house number to get letters and packages.”
    “Nay, all heralds know full well where the O’Ceallaigh resides.”
    “Heralds?” The officer laughed, but the sound lacked any trace of humor. “All right, fine.” She rocked forward to tap the buttons again. “Zip code?”
    Ceara sent her a bewildered look.
    “Your postal code?” the officer tried.
    “I do na know of what ye speak.”
    The other woman shook her head. “Hair down past your ass. Maybe all your gray matter leaked out to provide protein. You a member of some weird cult or something?”
    Again, Ceara was mystified.
    “What’s your DOB?” the woman asked.
    “Me what?”
    “Your date of birth,” the officer said with marked slowness.
    Ceara’s stomach clenched. If she told the truth, she would never be believed, and yet honesty had been ingrained in her since childhood. “I was born in 1548 on the fourteenth day of March. I just celebrated a name day and am six and twenty years of age.”
    “And next you’ll offer me a great deal on the Brooklyn Bridge. Okay, fine. You talk; I’ll enter it, bullshit or not. We’re lined up back-to-back, and I don’t have time for this.”
    In Ceara’s century, men stood back-to-back only in battle or while practicing with weapons. She glanced around the room, saw no one in a fighting stance, and decided the woman didn’t mean it literally.
    “You were arrested for breaking and entering. What were you doing in Quincy Harrigan’s arena, and how did you get in without setting off the alarm?”
    From that point forward, the interrogation passed in a blur for Ceara. She tried to answer each question as honestly as possible, but in the end, her reward was to be escorted into a back chamber, stripped by a female guard, and subjected to all manner of humiliations. After much poking and prodding of her person, she was shoved into a chamber with gray walls and a sloped floor of the same color with a grate at its center. Strange, shiny objects poked out from high on the wall. Below them, cross-shaped handles protruded.
    “Take a shower,” the guard ordered. “Here’s a bar of soap. Toss it in the trash bin when you’re finished. With all that hair, you have my permission to use two towels.” She pointed to some shelves at the far end of the chamber where white, nubby cloth was folded and neatly stacked. “When you’re done, come back out here, and I’ll give you some cell scrubs and toiletries.”
    Ceara had no idea what scrubs or toiletries were, and she definitely didn’t know how to take a shower. After the other woman closed the door, she stood at the center of the chamber, staring in befuddlement at the silver protrusions. Then, gathering her courage, she stepped closer to one of the crosses, grasped it in her hand, and gave it a hard turn. Ice-cold water struck her in the face. She gasped and choked. Shuddering, she ran the soap over her body, then turned to rinse off. After dispensing with the blast of icy water, she fetched two towels, wringing the