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grass, and the stars above were hard and sharp. Alice slid onto the seat beside him, with the shotgun across her knees. She pointed across the yard to a rutted dirt path leading downhill, through the fields.
    “It’s down that way.”
    He let the handbrake off and they started rolling.
    “Is it far?”
    Alice fished a band from her pocket and leaned forward, tying her bluish hair into a loose ponytail. Her jeans squeaked on the leather seat. She wore a blue zip-up fleece over a white t-shirt.
    “It’s in the paddock at the end of the track, by the river.”
    About a mile later, at the bottom of the valley, they bumped off onto a patch of wet ground. Caught in the Land Rover’s headlights was the arch she’d promised him, four metres wide at its base and six tall.
    He killed the engine.
    “Does anyone else know about this?”
    She shook her head. “This is all private property. The only footpath’s on the other side of the river, behind the trees.”
    Ed popped the door and climbed out. It was midnight.
    “Stay here.” He walked over to the arch. Looking at it made the hairs rise on the back of his neck—a frightening and exhilarating sensation that reminded him of the time he stood, as a backpacking art student in Australia, on the parapet of a single span bridge overlooking a deep river gorge, with a bungee cord lashed around his ankles.
    The sides of the arch glowed like amethyst. Hesitantly, he reached out to touch the nearest. It was warm and pleasantly smooth, like candle wax. Intrigued, he walked over and laid his hand on the other, being careful not to step between them.
    He found it hard to believe that it had been only seven months since the appearance of the Chancery Lane arch, and Verne’s disappearance. Now at least a dozen lay scattered around the country, more than a hundred worldwide.
    “How long’s this one been here?” he said.
    Alice stood holding the shotgun in one hand, a digital camera in the other.
    “About two hours. I called you as soon as I found it.” She raised the camera and fired off half a dozen quick shots, getting him and the arch. Then she shivered, as if cold.
    Ed walked back to the Land Rover and climbed into the driver’s seat. His fingers drummed on the wheel as he nerved himself to carry out his plan.
    Alice opened the passenger side door and clambered in beside him. “What do you think?” she said. She seemed better than she had the last time he’d seen her. Calmer. More focused. The grief was still there, every bit as strong as before, but now better hidden.
    Ed stopped drumming. He peered through the windshield at the arch, standing in the light from the car, in a field that smelled of dry grass and cow shit.
    “I’m going to go through,” he said. The authorities had the other arches blocked off. If he passed up this chance, he knew he’d never get close enough to try again.
    Alice frowned. Her knuckles were pale on the shotgun stock.
    “Are you sure?”
    Ed swallowed. All his instincts were telling him to turn the car around and make a run for it. Instead, he slid his hand into his combat jacket and pulled out the gun, and a St Christopher medal he’d pocketed on the way out of the flat: an old birthday present from his missing brother.
    “I’ve got to find him,” he said, laying the medal on the dashboard, hoping he sounded a lot more decisive than he felt.
    Alice bit her lip. She reached over and touched his arm.
    “Then I’m coming with you.”
    He squeezed her hand.
    “Are you sure?”
    She pulled away, eyes on the gun. “I’ve already lost my husband. You’re all I’ve got left; I don’t want to lose you as well.”
    Ahead, the moon cast long dark shadows through the trees on the far riverbank. Moths flickered in the headlight beams. Ed settled himself into the driver’s seat, and slipped the pistol into the glove box. He wiped the sweat from his palms on the hem of his paint-splattered black t-shirt. Then he leant forward, squeezing the