I’m silent. I sit starin at my boots while heat flags my cheeks. That was a sidewise reminder that Molly knows one secret of mine. She knows that the first man I lay with warn’t Jack. But she don’t know who. She’d never dream it was DeMalo.

The thing is? she says. The thought of Jack dyin never once occurred to me. Not once. Fer all the trouble he found or that found him. An the other thing is, besides me, Jack’s th’only one who ever knew Gracie.

Her voice falters. Fat tears spill down her cheeks. Damn, she says. Sorry. She fumbles in her pocket.

I hate this. That I lie to everybody. Most of all, I hate lyin to Molly about Jack. She’s our greatest guilt, him an me. Our biggest regret in this necessary deception. She, his dearest friend, who mourns him so deep. But she has to believe that he’s dead. The more people who know a secret, the more likely it is to slip out. Jest a glance from her to me at the wrong time could git someone thinkin. I’d trust my little Free Hawk gang with my own life. But not Jack’s.

An the fact is, I hardly dare mention his name myself fer fear I let somethin slip that I shouldn’t. How I ache to unburden myself to her. To tell her everythin. About Jack, yes, of course. But, if I’m honest, about DeMalo too. Of anybody in the world, I think Molly’s the one person who might unnerstand, who could help me make sense of it. Make sense of him an me. I want her to be my friend. I wanna be a friend to her. But it cain’t be. Not now. Not yet.

Sorry, I never cry. Molly blows her nose on one of her useless little scraps of hanky. Well, I better head back, she says. Creed’s probly lookin fer me to apologize fer the umpteenth time. He don’t do nuthin by halfs, I’ll give him that. I dunno if it was me slappin his face or what you said to him after, but the boy’s contrite. No more declarations of love, no more proposals. Don’t tell him I said so, but I quite like him now he’s actin more normal with me.

She gits to her feet an dithers with brushin off grassy bits, tidyin her skirts an petticoat. I can tell that she’s hopin I’ll ask her to stay. To talk about Jack, as she so badly wants to. I sit, silent, with a miserable heart.

She’s holdin the shawl in her arms. It’s a shame you don’t like it, she says. The colour suits you.

Shawls ain’t me, I says. An I ain’t easy with this one.

That’s the truth, near enough. But it’s a fishy excuse fer all the fuss I made. If Molly thinks so, she don’t let on.

Who’d of thought? she says. The Angel of Death, shy of a shawl. Don’t worry, yer secret’s safe with me.

I couldn’t begin to try an explain it to her. I cain’t explain it to myself. Why Auriel Tai’s blood red shawl has wrapped through my dreams from the moment I met her. Why it’s always swaddled round the head of a body. A faceless warrior in a gravepit. Or Lugh or Jack or DeMalo. An then, the unnerve of findin it in my pack. When Auriel an me parted at the Snake River camp, the shawl was draped around her shoulders. Then somehow—some strange impossible how—when I was leagues an hours an more leagues away, I found it in my bag. It was hers, no mistake. One of her hairs was caught on it. Long an fine, the colour of pale fire.

Saba? Molly’s watchin me with a little frown. If you really don’t want it, I’ll have it, she says.

I take it from her. No, it’s mine, I says. See you later.

Dismissed, rebuffed, she leaves me. With a smile an a wave an a grace that I do not deserve.

Alone, I stare at the shawl. It is mine. Fer some reason, it seems to be mine.

I curl in the grass by the pool, my head pillowed by Molly’s rose-scented scarf. Beside me, Nero nests hisself into the red shawl.

I tip into sleep an wake with a start. Like I’m on a cliff edge then fall off. Over an over. Agin an agin. My heart slams me awake each time I fall. Dark dreams trap me in shallow circles. Round an round. On an on.

Me on the hill above the bridge in the night. The Steward girl in the cart. Her face. Her smile. Her spotted kercheef at her neck. The sound of the blast an the sound of screams an blood rains down upon me.

While Mercy’s voice repeats an repeats. Paired with a boy you don’t know. Pregnant to a boy you don’t know.

Me an DeMalo. In the pool above the bridge. I’m in the water, in his arms. We twist an turn below the surface. Sunlight sparkles above. His white shirt billows. His voice whispers. Think of it. A child. Yours and mine.

From each place he kisses me, each place he touches me, a stream of blood starts to flow. The water turns red. Hands pull me down. Down down, the darkest depths beckon me down.

I go deeper, darker, as Molly’s voice sings. Hush now, my baby, an sleep without fear. Dream Angus will bring you a dream, my dear.

Strands of hair wind from darkness towards me. Long an fair, my mother’s hair, like weeds it winds around me. Then she, her ghost self, my white fog dead mother, wraps her arms around me an down we go, down down down.

Dream Angus will bring you a dream my dear.

As I bleed. As I drown. As I drift away to black.

I come to with a shudder. Sit up quickly. Too quick. A sleep of such dreams ain’t no sleep at all. My skin’s bumped with cold. The day’s fuggy swill is gone. The wind’s changed. A brisk easterly is busy at work, sweepin the dregs of day into night.

I bundle Nero in the shawl, any old way, with him squawkin protest till he struggles free an flies. I walk fast, brisk, to wake myself. In the hope that my dreamtime cain’t keep up. I collect Hermes from the cottonwood glade. I’ll need him fer the ride to meet Jack tonight.

The racket from Peg’s caged birds grows louder as I near the junkyard. I can hear music. Faint at first. As we follow its trail through the yard, it settles to a wistful lament. Somebody on a stringbox. A good player. Must be Peg. None of our lot scrapes the strings. It ain’t long before the deep smell of cooked meat joins in. My mouth waters. There’s a shout of laughter.

The music an smells an voices tumble through the open door of a ramshackle shed. Outside, there’s a roastpit. The spit’s empty, the rocks grow cool. Tracker slinks among the junkheaps, on watchdog duty. He greets us with a raised head an swish of his tail, then disappears agin, nose down, on his patrol.

Me an Nero go in. Rush lanterns hang on the walls of the shed. Splash warm pools of light over the dusty clutter. There’s a big space bin cleared in the middle of it all. Peg hunches over a battered stringbox. Her skinny old arm’s at one with her bow, haulin that mournful tune from its guts. Creed shakes his head in admiration as he plays along on his squeezebox. Molly an Slim an Mercy perch, uncomfortable, on barrels and whatnot. They’re tryin to eat, but without much success. Emmi’s in the grip of giddy excitement. She jigs an hops all around ’em, with her tongue goin clickety clack. They smile an nod. The fools. They don’t know not to give her encouragement. They’ll be trapped now till she tires or death takes ’em. Ash an Tommo know better. They don’t meet her eyes, but keep their heads down an fill their bellies.

Lugh’s right by the door. Eat tin in hand, he’s pickin over the ravaged carcass of a spread you might dream of. An he’s bein so fussy, he must be on thirds. There’s woodchuck roasted to tender flesh an crispy skin, boiled lilybulb with onions, nettlecake an more. I’m used to livin low, to hard fare. I’m only confused by plenty. Nero dives at the table. Lugh cries, No!, but too late. Nero’s done a snatch an grab. He shrieks defiance as he settles on a rafter with a big piece of woodchuck.