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amusing if their owner had not been dead. The nostrils were flared and cavernous, like those of a horse about to bolt: as if they had flung themselves open in one last desperate attempt to draw in oxygen. The corners of the open mouth, inverted as they were—turned up instead of down, in mockery of a smile—made it clear that the man had, at the instant of death, been terrified.
    How had he come to be strung up in that helpless position, hanging like a hawk from a tree in its tangled jesses, left to struggle helplessly until death freed him?
    Saint Andrew had been crucified in just such a spread-eagled way. I remembered that from an exchange visit we had paid several years ago to the Girl Guide troop at Hinley Presbyterian Church. Although the meeting itself had been pretty much of a washout—on account of snobbery—the great stained-glass window behind the pulpit and the “common table,” as the Presbyterians called their altar, had been most instructive.
    The center panel depicted Saint Andrew, who was, as I had expected he would be, fastened to his cross like a giant asterisk, arms and legs flung wide, as if he were a paratrooper whose parachute has not yet opened.
    But Mr. Sambridge was, as I have said, hanging upside down—unlike Saint Andrew, who had at least been put to death in an upright position.
    It was Saint Peter, I remembered, who, at his own request, had been crucified head downwards.
    This fact in itself was incredibly interesting. Surely such a bizarre death—and in such an interesting position—coming to a wood-carver who specialized in ecclesiastical subjects could be no coincidence. Was there a hidden message here, having to do with his past?
    My first thought, of course, had been to go for help. But it was clear—and it would have been even to someone less accustomed to death than myself—that Mr. Sambridge was beyond assistance.
    I was fairly certain, anyway, that there was no telephone at Thornfield Chase. I had not noticed one in my quick survey of the downstairs room. And surely, if there had been a telephone installed, Cynthia or the vicar would have rung up Mr. Sambridge, rather than sending me on this errand.
    Too late for doctors or ambulances. Too late for Mr. Sambridge.
    For the time being, at least, I had him all to myself.
    And I might as well say here and now that, at that very moment, a sudden sense of vast relief swept over me, as if a long-hidden and unexpected sun had risen. I felt as Atlas must have felt when some good Samaritan finally took pity upon him, and lifted the weight of the globe from his poor aching shoulders.
    For quite some time now, I had not been myself. Much as I hated to admit it, the events of the past several months had shaken me rather badly. I was not at all the Flavia de Luce I had once been. Whether that was a bad thing or a good one remained to be seen, but until I managed to work it out, the feeling was one of bearing an enormous invisible burden: the weight of the world.
    I want to know who I am before it is too late—before I am no longer the same person—before I become someone different. Although there are days when this seems a furious race against time, there are others when it seems to matter not a tinker’s curse.
    But now—suddenly—in a flash—an instant—a twinkling of the eye—everything changed.
    Somewhere in the universe, a cinder had fallen through the grate and bounced out onto the open hearth.
    And yet none of those tired old phrases—in spite of their suggestion of speed—manage to convey how quickly that change came over me.
    Before you could say “Jack Robinson!” or “Snap!” (I was ashamed of myself for using these tired old phrases, but for some reason I couldn’t seem to help myself), I felt as if I had been suddenly possessed by my former self—as if from some molten furnace, a new Flavia de Luce had been poured into my old shoes.
    No…not a
new
Flavia de Luce, but the old one, yet tempered now, and hard as