Nero circles overhead, caw caw cawin. He probly don’t like the baby’s shrill laments. He ain’t the only one. Does the little thing sound weaker or is it jest my imagination? Whatever, we need to git her to Rae as quick as we can.

I tug at the sheema an, bit by bit, I manage to wriggle her free. I reach in an take her. She don’t hardly weigh nuthin. She’s mainly bulky cloth. I turn to retrace my steps.

An he’s here. The Tonton. Standin in the gully. Twenny foot away. A bolt shooter aimed at my heart. He gasps as he spots my birthmoon tattoo. The Angel of Death. Fear shards his face. He scuttles back. But his gun stays on me.

How did he creep up on me without Jack seein? Without me hearin him? He knows this place an we don’t, that’s how.

I raise my voice. I’m alone, I says. I ain’t armed. D’you hear me, Jack? Stay outta sight. Don’t try nuthin.

The Tonton’s eyes widen. His breath’s shallow an high. He’s heard the stories, the rumours. The ghost of the Angel of Death. On the prowl in New Eden. Set on revenge.

I know what you think but I ain’t no ghost. I’m real enough, I says. Here. I reach out my hand to him. Go on, I says. Feel. I’m warm.

After a moment, he sidles forwards. His fingertips touch mine. A tiny nod. Show me yer clean, he says.

I keep my eyes on him as I move slowly an smoothly. I don’t want him gittin jumpy on me. I lay the baby on the ground. I slide off my coat an throw it on the rocks. I open my arms wide an turn in a circle.

He moves in an does a quick pat down, holdin his shooter on me all the while. Lookin at me all the while. Like he still ain’t sure this ain’t some ghost trick. His face is a soft boy’s face. His razor shaves peach fuzz, not bristles. He steps back. I seen the crow, he says. I thought he might hurt her.

The crow’s mine, she’s safe, I says. We look at each other, the Tonton an me. I seen you, I says. I heard you talkin to her. I’m gonna pick her up agin, okay? Don’t want her gittin cold there on the ground. I crouch an scoop the baby to my arms.

Yer holdin her wrong, says the Tonton. You gotta support her head, doncha know nuthin?

Not much, I says. He’s already holstered his gun an goes about settlin the baby proper in my arms.

Yer easy with her, I says. You got a little sister yerself?

His jaw tightens. His mouth too. That tells me all. Yes. But alive or dead, I dunno. Maybe he don’t neether. That must hurt.

I got a sister, I says. She was born weak, jest like this one. But she grew an thrived an … she’s somethin special.

Where you gonna take her? he says. When I don’t answer, he rushes on. I won’t clype on you, I swear, he says. Apology—no, more than that—shame shades his face. This boy who shed tears over a baby that ain’t nuthin to him.

I’m gonna give her back to her mother, I says.

You better hurry, he says. She ain’t doin too good. She’s awful small. He strokes the baby’s cheek with one finger.

It don’t hafta be this way, I says. Every blood tie cut. Mother from child. Brother from sister. Did they take her to Edenhome, yer sister?

I dunno, he says. Maybe.

What’s her name? I says.

Then, it’s like he suddenly realizes that he’s standin with the Angel of Death, enemy of the people, talkin to her like anybody else. His face slams shut. He steps away. Head high, stood tall, he holds his clenched right fist to his heart. Long life to the Pathfinder, he says.

I bring my clenched fist to my heart. I spread my first two fingers in a V. Freedom, brother, I says softly.

Raw hunger spikes his eyes. Like a spark to a wick. His fist loosens. His lips part. Ohmigawd, he’s gonna do it. He’s gonna say it. Say it. Go on. Freedom. In the sky overhead, a star dashes itself to darkness. Hope sighs across his face an slips back in the shadows.

I says, The Pathfinder ain’t what he says he is.

They really shouldn’t let him out on his own. His face gives away his every thought. He knows he shouldn’t believe such as me. But. He folds my words very small an tucks ’em away somewhere secret. To take out an ponder on later. I won’t tell on you, he says. I promise.

Then he scarpers. Scrambles up the rocks an outta the gully, racin to git back to the babyhouse before they wonder what’s takin him so long.

An Jack’s slippin out from behind the boulder an scramblin down to help me up the slope. Possibilities brew in the gleam of his eyes. Huddle in the corners of his smile. As he gives me his hand, he says, Well.

As I take it, I says, Well, well.

My hands was sure itchin fer a gun, he says. That turned out innerestin, though.

Let’s hope there’s plenty like him, I says. The baby starts to grizzle agin. You take her, I says. I ain’t good with babies.

Jack makes a sling around hisself with the ends of the sheema. Then, with the baby held snug aginst his chest, we head off at a fast trot north across the scrubland. To where Mercy an Cassie wait fer us. Where the north road takes a first bend.

Past curfew. Dead night. The stars rampage the sky. An all is quiet in Sector Three. Besides us, there ain’t nobody afoot. The chill wind swings restless between north an east. My skin shivers. Maybe it’s a fallen soul passin by. People believe that on starfall nights, they hitch rides on the back of the wind to wherever it is they’re goin.

A wildcat on a field prowl fer mice pauses. Head high, he sniffs us, ever hopeful of a bigger meal. Then he carries on. The likes of him would easily take a baby left out in the open. She’s asleep now, thanks to Tam’s gentle jog an Mercy’s heartbeat. She’s cradled snugly in the sheema, tied around Mercy’s chest.

The air whispers of winter soon to come. It mumbles the musty corn stubble back into earth. Murmurs on the tips of our noses an fingers. This’ll be the first winter of my life that I ain’t spent at Silverlake. If I last that long, that is. If I don’t slip up fer DeMalo to crush me. But if I’m crushed, so will my people be. I look at the moon. It seems to grow fatter by the second.

I whisper to Cassie, How long away d’you figger the blood moon to be?

She says, Countin tonight? I’d say … five nights from now.

Jack hears me an frowns. I keep askin. Like time might be turnin backwards somehow. I gotta stop. He’ll be wonderin why I need to know.

All’s quiet at Rae’s farmstead, like the land that surrounds it. The Tonton would of dropped her off an turned right around agin. Her an her boy—called Noble—farm ten acres. There’s a sod an junk cabin an two rackety sheds. The tall wind pointer tacks to an fro with a metal click-click-click. Accordin to Cassie, their nearest neighbours ain’t jest well outta sight but they’ll be well outta hearin distance too. A baby’s cry won’t be heard.

Light bleeds out from unner the cabin door. Inside, a girl’s cryin. Loud, body-wracked, heartbroke sobs. Here, with only her boy as witness, it’s safe fer Rae to crack. The ugly sound of her pain warms hope in me.

Jack’s keepin well outta sight. The fewer people who know about him, the better. Fer now, me an Mercy hang back in the shadows too.

Hermes tosses his head. His feet shift a restless demand to gallop. He longs to run flat-out over distance, across endless plains with big skies above. That’s what he was born to. Not this closed-in land. Not this walkin in shadow edges, pickin through trees, this way, that way, around an back agin.