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A Moment Before Agincourt
As an apprentice archer who wasnít very good, Misha had enough of sidesplitting laughter. His mind buzzed with the thocking of spearheads into wooden boards. When Becky came to him with her satchel of dead pigeons, he didnít flinch but continued to trim the high-quality peregrine feathers he used for his hand-whittled arrow shafts. The paddock falcons behaved themselves and seemed to admire his directness, letting him pluck whatever he wanted from their bristly tails. Carving a niche, like tearing out office lighting systems, was nobodyís idea of great living. Take the niche thatís doled to you, Becky sneered. Misha wiped the avian fleas along with the grease from his hands onto his corduroys. With his rubber hammer he tapped the contemplative center of himself one instant more.