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barrel.
    She sniffed the air and then noticed the tin in his hand.
    “Is that… fish?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Where’d you get it?”
    “I found it.”
    “You stole it.”
    “I found it.”
    For a moment she had a faraway look in her eye. He could have pounced then, wrestled the gun from her and made a run for it.
    But the noise… And if she was faster than he anticipated...
    By the time he’d thought it over, his chance had passed. She had the eyes of a predator all of a sudden.
    “I haven’t eaten fish for two years.”
    He sighed.
    “Fine. It’s yours. Just let me go.”
    Outside the horses had come to a halt. He couldn’t see them but they had to be right outside the hole in the wall. If any of them were listening, they could probably hear the conversation.
    “Please,” he whispered.
    She shook her head, backed up and motioned again with the morbid end of the shotgun. There was space for him to pass by her now and that was what she wanted; to get him in front of her. To herd him. He did what she wanted, keeping low. He sensed her crouching too as she followed.
    “Up,” she hissed.
    He mounted the last flight of stairs where there were two more rooms. A ladder led from the top landing, up into a black square hole.
    “And again.”
    Shit .
    He climbed the ladder, still holding the tin of salmon. From up here there was no way to see the back garden, no way of telling what the Ward patrol was up to. A single candle burned in the blackness above. He didn’t have time to register what it illuminated before he felt the shotgun in the crack of his arse.
    “Quick,” she said.
    He could tell from the strain in her voice that the patrol had entered the house.
     
    She pulled the ladder up and closed the attic hatch with swift, well-practised movements. Like a soldier. She wrapped the fish in a clear plastic bag and pushed it as far from the hatch as possible. Any smell from the open tin was masked by odours of human habitation where water no longer ran. Sweat, urine, faeces. And something else he wasn’t able to isolate at first. Something like decay.
    Using only gestures his captor showed Gordon where to sit and to stay silent. He didn’t require the instructions but accepted them with a nod. On the far side of the attic where the roof met the floor, something wrapped in blankets moved. The woman put her hand on the muffled form and made as quiet a shushing as she could. The shape stilled.
    Now the woman let her eyes meet Gordon’s over the light from the candle, a light that suddenly seemed very bright and very dangerous.
    Indistinct noises and voices came from below.
    The woman leaned forward and Gordon noticed that she really wasn’t a woman at all but a girl, probably not much older than him. A girl whose face had been worked over by fear and responsibility. He knew the look from his own reflection.
    She whispered one last thing:
    “If they come up, you’ll fight them with me?”
    He withdrew his lock-knife and unclasped it.
    She nodded once, licked her fingers and pinched out the candle flame.

5
    Megan and Mr Keeper walk in silence for many miles. There is nothing unusual in this except that, for the first time, the silence originates in Megan.
    Shep Afon is miles behind them and nothing but open country lies ahead. Megan senses the tug of the weave and thinks of her half-finished business with the prostitute. This is the first experience she hasn’t shared with Mr Keeper since treading the Black Feathered Path and keeping silent about it fills her with shame. And yet, if she has learned anything at all from him, it is to trust her instincts above all else. An intelligent gravity works on her from the weave, drawing her back to the attic room in Shep Afon. The moment she has a chance, she will go, while the blood of her moon shields her from Mr Keeper’s watchful protection. A sudden belly cramp reminds her of her power but she doesn’t permit herself a smile; she’s certain he would sense it even