The chapel was Norman, or possibly Angevin, and he wished he wasn’t aware of the difference. It was barely worthy of the name anyway, just a few pieces of masonry wall jutting around a mound in a field, like the stumps of teeth in an old man’s mouth. He knew it well; Gareth had taken him here a few times to look for beetles. It was called Hope All Saints. He was standing in the broken ruins of Hope in the rain, like the stupidest Gothic hero in the stupidest book.
