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Bradley saw the white world glimmer beyond her.
    From her night place, wherever it was, she had caught a glimpse of Victor, like a ghost, bent low, his hands at times brushing the ground, keening softly to himself, as he followed Floris’s trail.
    â€œI should have known,” Bradley said. “Night holds no terrors for Victor.” He remembered from the night before how the blue glare had returned to his eyes, the nocturnal eyes of a cat or a dog. Once Bradley too had had that power.
    â€œKnowing would have made no difference,” the Old Woman said. “Floris is all that keeps Victor in the human world; the only tenderness he allows in his heart. He will do all he can to find her and, if he doesn’t, yes, he will die as a dog, one that can’t even return to the pack. No, nothing you could have done would have stopped him.”
    Bradley recognized the truth of what the Old Woman said. He recognized too that what burned so brightly in Victor, about whom he knew so very little, was his desire to be something different from what he was. But Bradley also knew the shifting nature of the boundaries Victor had to cross to get there. And how necessary it was that Floris be with him on his journey.
    Perhaps with Fearless he would be all right. Perhaps together they would know to come back for help. But then again, Bradley also knew, though his own eyes had lost some of their power, his ability to think things through had increased. And he could not see anything holding back Victor’s or Fearless’s anger. Bradley knew he had to set out after them as soon as possible.
    â€œYou mustn’t do it,” the Old Woman said.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œYou mustn’t go there.” How could it be, Bradley thought, that the woman who had filled the doorway so recently had shrunk so much? She was no different now from any of the other feeble old women who would not survive this winter.
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œBecause if you cross the boundaries, there is danger everywhere. Danger that you’ll never return. Did you not listen to my stories?”
    â€œEvery one. But there is nothing else I can do,” Bradley told her.
    â€œBut there is, you can stay here … you can—”
    â€œI can’t … do nothing.”
    â€œThen you will need all your wits and all your courage. And luck—a good seasoning of luck.”
    â€œI’ll take Hunger with me. Shelter will stay here and fend for herself.”
    â€œI will look out for her,” the Old Woman sighed.
    â€œGood. She will be a good guard dog for you to have around in case the weasel boys come back for you.”
    Bradley wanted to be gone now, for he was beginning to feel new and different terrors. Not the ones he would have to face on the trail of Floris, Victor and Fearless, but the unaccustomed terror he felt deep in his stomach, when he looked at the Old Woman’s strong but tired face, her soft eyes, and heard the voice he had so often lost himself in. It was the thought of leaving her. It was a desperate need to keep something to hold onto—something he could take with him—that made him ask, “Old Woman, what is your name?”
    The Old Woman pulled off her headscarf and shook it. Her hair curtained her face, till she swept a hand through it.
    â€œOne last story,” she said.
    *   *   *
    â€œI was a teacher before the Dead Time. Yes, of children your age. Children whom no one else wanted to teach. I taught reading and writing. I taught that the world was a beautiful place and that the world was for everyone. And reading and writing, these were the tools to get you what you wanted—they were the foundations on which everything was built. Reading could take you into the worlds of the past or into the future. With writing you could create your own world or leave your own world for someone to discover—a world that would live forever. For nothing lives