"I suppose there's no use delaying," says Susan, at long last and after considerable delay. She rips the package open.

It's small, made of ivory, and - despite being fully intact - clearly thousands of years old. She runs her fingers over the fine ridges, the familiar wear of it, the smudge of something she'd rather not think about too deeply from once when she bore it in battle.

"I see," she says, frowning.