The Prioress of Kirklees was ringing pigs when she heard the news

New Zealand, 1826.
The whaleboat’s keel scraped along the shore. John sprang out and landed knee-deep in chill seawater. His bare feet dug into the shingle as they hauled the boat onto the beach, far from the sea’s reach. John checked his journal was in its place in his pocket and lifted his eyes to the hills.
A ragged cloak of mist obscured the landscape and lent the sound a wild, romantic aspect. Knife-sharp mountains stabbed the high clouds. Clumps of scrubby grey-green trees fought gravity all around the bay. Long scars marked the peaks where the trees had plunged in arboreal avalanches to the sea. Raucous birdsong echoed through the fog. The seals sporting in the sound replied with a symphony of grunts and squeals.
Something struck John’s shoulder. He turned and saw Bill Trigg glaring at him. “Whaleboat won’t unload itself.”

Of all the emotions Mary Everard had expected to feel when contemplating her death, the last one she had anticipated was boredom.

Mary fixed her eyes on the floor. The witchfinder’s voice was clear and light, his yellow beard neatly trimmed, his hair long. He wore the spurs and high boots of a country magistrate. A black cape flowed from his shoulders like a pool of shadow, and a lean grey hound followed silently at his heels. Despite his outwardly respectable appearance, he cut a threatening figure in the tiny cell. He knelt swiftly, gripped Mary’s chin, and pulled her to face him. “You’ll hang tomorrow,” he said pleasantly, as if discussing the price of bread.