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Bradley shouted above the banging.
    â€œWhat do we want? What do we want? What do we want?” echoed the sing-song voices.
    But in the commotion—the flare of flames and the darkness—they could not see what was happening in the back of the basement. The weasel man had slipped in through two ripped-out slats and grabbed Floris, who had been cowering, limp with terror. He had shoved her back through the slats and was almost free himself. He was pulling his legs through, when Fearless spotted him. She bounded over and leaped up, fastening her teeth round part of the weasel’s bare calf. The weasel howled in pain and kicked at Fearless’s head with his other foot. Fearless fell to the ground, but even in the darkness you could see the spill of blood on the concrete floor and the weasel could be heard outside: “Bastard dog! Bastard dog! I’m going to poison the lot of them!”
    Victor was first to realize what had happened. “Floris! Floris! Floris!” He ran at the row of four attackers, but one of them thrust his shield forward, meeting Victor head on. Victor rolled backwards, his nose pouring blood.
    â€œCome on, we’ve got one of them,” the weasel shouted.
    Victor let out a high-pitched cry, but before Bradley and Hunger could act, the attackers brought the patched door crashing back into place and held it with a wooden plank.
    Though it seemed hopeless, there was a corner of space that Fearless squeezed through, her back bent, the ridges of wood scraping against it. Her back legs kicked furiously and she was through and into the night.
    By the time Bradley and Victor had broken out, there was no sign of them and the swirling snow was already burying their tracks. Still, Bradley walked out to be clear of the smoke fumes, to escape the claustrophobia, to think clearly what he should do. Hunger’s shoulder leaned into him, and the dog watched him with his keen, yellow eyes.
    â€œNo,” Bradley told him, “not tonight. It’s too dangerous tracking at night. Tomorrow the trail will still be fresh.”
    But Bradley knew it was Victor he needed to speak to most.
    He found him, snuffling around Floris’s bedding, her blue-glass in his hand. A steady whine came from him. Bradley noted that he had wet himself.
    â€œVictor,” he said, “Victor, you must listen.” Victor looked at him with huge, wild eyes. In the shadows the dark streaks of blood he had spread across his face looked black. “Victor, I know where they’ve taken Floris and I know why. It’s me the weasel man wants. Me and the Old Woman, but she’s too smart for him.”
    Victor spoke haltingly, each syllable on the edge of a growl. “You say Floris is OK. You say Victor is OK. You say—”
    â€œI know.”
    â€œFloris is not OK. Floris is not here. And Victor not OK. No Floris, Victor not OK.”
    Bradley took hold of Victor’s hair and lifted his face to his own. “I do know, Victor, I do know. But tomorrow Hunger and I will start on her trail. Fearless already has. We’ll get Floris back. Tomorrow, OK?”
    And Bradley thought he had calmed Victor down, convinced him that all would be OK, for Victor fell against him and let Bradley stroke his head and ease him down onto the bedding he had shared with Floris, till Victor seemed to fall asleep, though Floris would have spotted the line of his jaw still set, his eyes working below their closed lids.
    Exhaustion carried Bradley far off below the surface of sleep, where he usually floated through the night. Lost in the depths, he was not aware of one who could cover ground quickly and silently as a cat. But they had all developed similar habits to survive, so it came as little shock to find in the morning when a full sun dawned that Victor was gone and that the Old Woman stood, filling the doorway.
    *   *   *
    The Old Woman entered, stamping the snow from her feet.