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the dogs—down on her knees, her earnest blue eyes brightening—had pointed her to a corner where she could sleep.
    â€œWho bought the flowers?” Floris asked and put her fist to her mouth to stifle a cough. Her shoulders shook with it.
    â€œPeople bought them for their houses,” said Bradley, “or to give to people.”
    â€œWho? Who do you give flowers to?”
    â€œAnyone you like.”
    â€œI’d like someone—to give me—flowers. Flowers—to me and Victor.” There was a shiver in her voice. Bradley stroked the curved knuckles of her spine and she crept back to her nest with Victor.
    There had been times when the Old Woman had tried to give Victor the gift of a story of his own too. But Victor had turned from her gaze and become agitated. He put his hands over his ears and rocked back and forth: “No-o-o-o-o-o,” till Floris had held him and calmed him.
    No matter how circuitous the route, there was no way Victor would revisit his past, and the Old Woman saw that his story, whatever it had been and would come to be, was indivisible from the one he and Floris would make together.
    *   *   *
    Hunger’s eyes flamed in the night. They were fixed on Bradley—wide and alert.
    â€œWhat is it, Hunger?”
    Hunger turned his head from Bradley. His ears leaned forward into the darkness, as he sniffed far into the distance.
    â€œIt’s the wind. Only the wind…” It whispered through the slats in the windows, between the camouflage of the door. Bradley rubbed Hunger’s silver chest, but he would not be calmed. The Pack all shared an instinct for danger; they could all live on very little, they could all make decisions that appeared cruel if necessary and they could all cover ground quickly and silently—as cats. But Hunger could do more. In a dangerous time, he could sift patiently through the air, discarding the common dangers for ones that threatened Bradley and the Pack. He had a sense of something now—only the wind, perhaps, but when dawn came angling through the cracks, Bradley was unslept and all the next day he could never shift the feeling that something lay in wait for them over which he had no control. It could simply be a change in the weather or something more calamitous. In these uncertain times, one could never be sure which.
    *   *   *
    That night, a snowfall muffled footsteps. Warning smells carried in the air were swept off track, swirled above the rooftops. Hunger padded the basement, confused. Fearless and Shelter too took a long time to settle. It seemed Victor had gone back to his old ways, squatting on his blanket, his head swivelling like an owl’s, his eyes burning through layers of darkness.
    He had almost convinced himself of safety, when he heard too late, as Hunger did, the crush of snow as a foot steadied itself. A moment later, a club splintered the window slats and the camouflage door was wrenched open.
    The torches soon followed. Flaming rags wrapped around sticks. The flames drove the dogs wild, but they angered as much as scared them. They stood at the doorway, their hackles up, as four shadowy figures advanced and retreated, banging dustbin lids. Victor meanwhile yowled and stamped and half rolled on the flames.
    Hunger and Fearless snarled and snapped, baring their perfect rows of teeth. The attackers showed no inclination to try their luck—none of them appeared to be much bigger than Bradley was himself—but still they stood their ground, each banged lid goading a growl from the dogs.
    â€œCome any further and my dogs’ll tear you to pieces,” Bradley called. “I mean it.”
    â€œCome any farther. I don’t think so.”
    â€œInto your stink hole.”
    â€œSmell it from here. Piss-the-beds.”
    â€œNo thank you very much…”
    â€œCheesy-feets.”
    â€œGood one!”
    â€œSo what do you want?”