In the darkness of Auriel’s tent, she sits by the fire in her shawl. Her pale wolfdog eyes turn to me. We all got our parts to play in this, she says. Jack. Yer sister. Yer brother. You an me. The wolfdog an the crow. Long before you was born, Saba, a train of events was set in motion. Fer you, all roads lead to the same place.

Bunkers an seedstores an visions in hills. An fall away, fall away to darkness.

Complaints from my body start to drag me awake. It grumbles at the lumpy hardness of my bed. Stiff neck, cramped arm, my back’s got somethin stickin into it. An somethin heavy pins my feet down.

The hands of a dream try to drag me back. A dream of Peg’s birds. Nero had opened the doors of their cages. I followed their skysongs, chased after them to the seedstore, where I found ’em feastin on seed from the spilled jars. DeMalo discovered us there. He made me gather all the birds an put them in the jars. Even Nero. I wept as I closed the lids on their songs. He held me in his arms until the room fell silent.

I squint through gritty eyes. The sun’s moved, but daylight still shifts through the slat window above. I got no idea how long I bin out of it. My dull head tells me too long an not nearly long enough.

The heavy weight on my feet is Tracker. As I sit, I pull myself free an he scrambles up. Next thing I know, his tongue’s swipin at my face. All right, that’s enough, thank you. I shove him offa me. Look at this mess, I tell him.

My bed of packs has collapsed. Between me probly shovellin at ’em in my sleep an now Tracker’s big feet, they’re scattered about. The top pack’s fallen open an some of the gear spilled out. It’s Tommo’s. He’s th’only one among us who’d bother to fold a worn brown shirt so neat. I tuck it back inside, along with the other stuff. Empty trade bag, his flint an steel, a coil of nettlecord.

Nettlecord. My hand pauses. I stare at it a long long moment. No two cords are the same. They speak of the hand of their maker. What Ash said, what I rubbished so quickly, hisses inside of me darkly.

I don’t wanna think that one of our own did it, but I cain’t figger how else to explain it. If it is one of us, we gotta know who. An why.

I didn’t look at the tether closely. It was night-time. I ain’t looked at it since. I’m probly wrong. I should check anyways. I don’t want to, but I must. I need better light. Tracker follows me as I take the coil outside. There ain’t nobody around. I pull the tether from my coat pocket. I hold the two side by side. The coil an the tether. They’re the same. My heartbeat trips. I compare the cut ends. They match. They fit. The same hand made both. Cold stills my skin.

A cord tells its maker as surely as palmlines tell a life. From the loose work of a child’s first cord to the roughness of one made in haste. Pa taught us cords early on, me an Lugh. How to make one. How to read one.

As my heart denies it, as my head decries it, my eyes declare they know who made this cord. I’ve watched him make an mend many times.

Tommo. It’s Tommo’s cord.

I make fer the nutgrove in a numb hurry. Tracker bounds ahead. I’m dizzy, off-kilter, fuddled. Like I git when I’ve drunk too much whisky. When what’s real seems dreamlike an distant.

Tommo would never harm Nero. He couldn’t. Apart from a rare few people, his sympathy lies with creatures. An surely so. They won’t ever misuse him fer his deafness, not like his fellow humans have. He’s always got a soft word, a kind hand. Fer the horses an Tracker an Nero. Fergawdsake, he even thanks the animals he has to kill fer food. He calls ’em brother. But I did wound him with my duplicity. Did I wound him so badly that this is how he wounds me back?

Peg waved a cranky claw towards the grove when I asked if she’d seen Slim. Too busy loadin choice bits of scrap on her junktub to waste words on me. On my way, I do my best to calm myself, smooth myself. I don’t wanna give out that there’s anythin untoward. I’m wrong. It’s a mistake. I must be wrong. I gotta speak to Slim first, before anythin else.

I find him helpin Em with her bow an arrow target practice. They’re a gentle sight, the old man an the girl. Golden an soft in the afternoon sun. Memory kicks in me, falters me mid-stride. Of a gold moment of my own, jest like this one. Wait … no. Not a memory of my past. It’s a memory from the walls of DeMalo’s white room. A old man an a girl, laughin together in a kind afternoon, in a world that was lost long ago.

Still. If I was to secretly patch my own threadbare life with this small, unwanted scrap of memory, no one would know it ain’t mine. I walk towards them, sayin, Fine shootin, Emmi.

She smiles, shy but pleased. I wish Jack was here to see, she says. He always said I had good aim. I still got a long ways to go. But I got the best teacher ever. She leans her head aginst Slim’s arm. He ruffs her hair with affection.

It’s clear he’s bin helpin her fer some time. I had no idea. An I git a heart pang that it ain’t me teachin her. Well, too bad fer me. I had every chance an never bothered. I hand her the tether cord. Is this the tether from the burrow? I says.

You should know, she says. I gave it to you an you put it in yer pocket right away. Why you askin me?

Never mind why, I says. You sure this is it? Take a good look, Em.

She studies it, frownin. Well, it’s dirty enough, she says. It’s bin tied around somethin. It’s pretty worn. I’m sure as I can be, I guess. It was dark, y’know.

I take it back from her. Okay, I says. Git back to yer practice. Keep on like this, you’ll be outshootin me in no time.

Not yet, she says. Maybe one day. She steps her feet into place with particular care an starts firin at the moss target agin. She’s much stronger in her arms an wrists an chest. Jack’s right. She’s got a natural eye. An her aim holds remarkably true. That’s a surprise in a girl made of air.

I don’t hafta give Slim the nod I wanna talk to him. He knows. He falls in beside me an we move among the trees so’s we’re well outta earshot of Em. I unsling the coil of nettlecord from my belt. I hand it to him, along with the tether. Tell me what you see, I says.

He takes his time, compares the two. Our eyes meet an hold. I see that Nero’s tether was cut from this cord. An lookin at yer face, he says, I see you know who made it.

Slim wouldn’t know the work of Tommo’s hand. I don’t s’pose he’s ever seen it close enough. An Em didn’t notice, she was too excited at the time.

I do know, I says. I don’t want to, but I do.

He hands both back to me. I wouldn’t rush to judgement. As you well know by now, things ain’t always what they appear to be, he says. What looks to be guilt could be somethin else.

Such as? I says.

He shrugs. Somebody could of borrowed the cord. Whoever’s guilty could be settin the cord maker up to be the fall guy. Don’t gimme that look like I’m crazy. Yer a straight arrow, Miss Death, not everybody is. In fact, you shouldn’t be talkin to me about this. Fer all you know, I could be to blame.

I’ll take my chances, I says. What should I do, Slim? Help me out here, please.

He ponders the hazel bough above our heads fer a moment, drawin a hand down his bristly jowls. Then he says, Okay, lemme play devil’s advocate. How much does it really matter? Our feathered brother’s safe an well, no harm done, an yer plate’s heaped high as it is.

I says, If we got somebody among us who’s done this, we need to know who an why. They might be up to all sorts behind our backs. This could be a problem, Slim. A big one.