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the figure lifted its head and pulled down the hood.
    Jordi recognised the preacher, and the fear drained away from him. His legs felt suddenly hollow and he found he needed to sit. The branch dropped from his hand into the snow. He watched his father walk up to the cart and help the preacher down with one hand, the device still clasped in the other. A short, whispered conversation passed between them and the preacher nodded.
    Some of the villagers moved slowly to the back of the cart and began removing what looked like sacks from it. Jordi watched them for a moment until the preacher spoke.
    ‘No,’ he said. ‘Not here. There’s something we must do first. Then I must ask you to walk again. For only a little while, I promise.’
    Josiah shuffled towards his son and sat next to him.
    ‘You need to be brave,’ he said quietly.
    ‘I will, Papa,’ Jordi replied, nodding slowly. ‘Of course, I will. Where’s Ishmael?’
    ‘The preacher doesn’t know. He never made it to him.’
    The words hung in the air as if Jordi could almost touch them.
    ‘Where is he?’ he whispered, already knowing the absurdity of his question, but unable to stop himself.
    His father shook his head. ‘We have work to do.’
    ‘We can’t just leave him,’ Jordi insisted. ‘We need to go look for him. I can go—no one will see me, I promise.’
    ‘No, little man,’ his father said. ‘First we must protect those we know are here. Then we can think about looking for others.’
    Jordi glanced towards his mother. She was speaking to Mrs Ingmarrson, one hand raised to her mouth, her back to him and her head bowed. Her shoulder shook. Jordi could see the grief in Mrs Ingmarrson’s eyes, and knew they mirrored his mother’s.
    ‘He’s not dead,’ Jordi said. ‘I know it.’
    ‘You must be brave,’ his father replied. He picked up a small piece of wood and gave it to Jordi. ‘Put this between your teeth and pull up your shirt.’
    Jordi stared at him, uncomprehending.
    ‘Please, little man.’
    Jordi relented and pulled his shirt from where he’d tucked it into his trousers. The cold clawed his skin and he shivered again. He placed the wood in his mouth. It was rough and cold and tiny splinters cut his lips. His father nodded towards the preacher and Jordi watched as the man strode towards them. The preacher leaned down and tried to smile, but it looked thin, unreal. He had always looked ageless to Jordi; his face appeared worn because of the scars but, behind his grey eyes, there was always vibrance. He had once told them that he had found an understanding, and that it had lifted a great weight from his shoulders. ‘Freedom exists,’ he had told them, ‘and there will come a time when you must all fight for it. No one will give it to you. The Magistratus holds the First Concession as its highest law. What you believe in, you are told, is not your choice to make. The moment you refuse the First Concession—the moment you choose to believe in something greater than the Magistratus and its New Republic—you will be hunted forever. You must be ready to take your freedom.’
    Jordi wasn’t sure he believed everything the preacher said—for instance, the story about a divine being who was responsible for all creation—but what the preacher told them about the past, about the lies they had been told for generations, had led him to believe he could be free. Free to choose, free to hunt for food, free to roam the land as he pleased. Free of the Praetor, the Peacekeepers and the Magistratus.
    ‘This will hurt,’ the preacher said quietly. ‘I’m sorry. Look away and think of something that makes you happy. Try to focus on it and bite down hard.’
    ‘What are you going to do?’ Jordi asked, suddenly afraid. He wanted to look at his father, but the preacher’s eyes held him.
    The preacher smiled again and glanced to one side. Jordi followed his gaze and understood. He closed his eyes and thought of Ishmael. Strong hands took his