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says.
    You tell me, he says.
    I–I don’t remember cuttin the rope, I says. I don’t remember how I got here.
    Oh gawd, I dunno, maybe you was sleepwalkin. He shakes his head. Jeez, Saba.
    Look, I says, all I can remember is, I was huntin an there was this windspringer, runnin in front of a storm – ohmigawd, Lugh, you never seen nuthin like this storm before. There was this . . . long line of twisters, little ones not more’n forty foot high, an they come rollin outta the east, jest sweepin right along there. It was amazin!
    I wave my arm at the plain in front of us. Lugh an me look out over the bleak face of the Waste. The mid-mornin sky’s so clear you can see all the way to the horizon an into next week. No bushes ripped out. No churned up ground. Not a single sign that a storm might of passed.
    There was a storm, I says, it happened, truly it did. Nero seen it!
    I look to him, like he might suddenly start talkin an back me up. But he’s busy with crow concerns, tearin at the ripped flesh of one of the wolfies, gorgin hisself on fresh kill.
    Well, anyways, I nearly had him, I says, this springer, but then this pack of wolfies come outta nowhere an two of ’em – these two here – they come at me an then Tracker shows up an they start to fight an . . . then I . . . I fell an hit my head an when I come to, you was here an . . . that’s it.
    We stare at each other.
    Lugh. Golden as the sun itself. His skin, his long hair that hangs in a plait to his waist. Eyes the blue of a summer sky. So different from me, with my dark hair an eyes. Ma used to say I was the night-time an Lugh was the day. Th’only thing the same is our birthmoon tattoo on our right cheekbones. Pa put ’em there hisself, to mark us out as special. Twins born at the midwinter moon. A rare thing.
    Lugh huffs out his breath. Goes to where my bow an quiver lies on the ground, my knife too. While he picks ’em up, he whistles fer the horses an they start pickin their way down the ridge towards us. Hermes an Rip, Tommo’s horse that Lugh rode here on. He comes back. Hands my weapons over.
    A full quiver, he says. That means you didn’t shoot even one arrow. Not at the windspringer, not at the wolfies. How come?
    I go to speak. Stop myself. I nearly said. It nearly came out. About the shakes an the breathin an . . . the rest. But I cain’t say. I mustn’t. I cain’t burden Lugh with my troubles. His soul’s heavy enough. Whatever it is that ails me, it’ll pass.
    Saba! Lugh says. How come you didn’t shoot?
    I . . . I dunno, I says.
    You know what I think? he says. There warn’t no storm. There warn’t no windspringer an there warn’t no blue-eyed wolfdog that come outta nowhere to save yer life. You dreamed the whole thing. You was sleepwalkin.
    No, I says. No.
    You rode here in yer sleep, he says, an somehow you fell an knocked yerself out. While you was dreamin of blue-eyed wolfdogs an twister storms, these two wolfies an that one I chased off, they sniffed you out an got in a fight over the meat.
    What meat? I says.
    You, you idiot, he says. I came jest in time to save yer hide. If I hadn’t of, they’d of ripped you to shreds an vultures ’ud be pickin at yer bones right this second.
    I glance at the sky. Sure enough, the big dead eaters is startin to circle above the wolfies. No, I says, no, it warn’t like that, Lugh, I swear it was Tracker who—
    Shut up! Jest shut up! he explodes. Gawdammit, Saba, give it a rest an stop lyin to me!
    His face is hot. Flushed dark red. The little muscle in his jaw – the one Emmi calls his mad muscle – is bunched tight an jumpin. It happens a lot these days. This quick snap of rage.
    I ain’t lyin, I says.
    Well, you ain’t tellin me the truth, he says.
    What, like you tell me the truth? I says.
    We stare at each other a long moment. There’s tired lines carved deep in his face. Dark smudges unner his eyes. Suddenly, his shoulders slump. His anger drains away. As quick as it comes, it’s