feet, meaning to follow him, but Wynter pressed down on his arms, halting his rise. She looked into his dangerously tinted eyes.
‘It is all right,’ she said firmly. ‘The boy is safe.’
Christopher growled at her without any recognition, and she took his knotted fists in her hands, squeezing them tight.
‘It is all right, Christopher,’ she repeated. ‘Come back now.’
He frowned uncertainly. Blinked.
‘Come back to me,’ she said. ‘I need you.’
Christopher suddenly breathed deep. His eyes cleared as they stared into hers. His fists relaxed.
‘Are you with me, love?’ she whispered.
He nodded. Up on the hill, the little boy had made it to the Prince’s tent. They watched him run into the protective shadow of the awning and disappear inside – a tiny figure barely large enough for the cauldron he carried. Wynter squeezed Christopher’s scarred fingers one last time, and together they rose to their feet and made their way back to the Merron quarters.
Wynter told Razi about the young Haun’s scars and her theory on the Bloody Machine. Razi was quiet for a very long time after.
In the silence, Wynter gazed down at her hands. To her surprise, they were clasping and unclasping as of their own accord. She clenched them tightly together, forcing them to be still, and squeezed hard so that her knuckles gleamed brightly in the firelight.
Sitting across from her, his face intent, Christopher waited for Razi to speak. On the other side of the fire, the Merron sat quietly. Though they were trying hard not to eavesdrop, they had been intrigued by Wynter’s low, intense conversation, and they kept glancing furtively across the flames, their curiosity impossible to hide.
‘I shall have to see his body,’ whispered Razi at last.
Wynter nodded absently, watching as her filthy nails dug into the backs of her hands. It had been very easy, in the end, to say the words. It was such a simple sentence, after all, and so quickly over: I think our fathers killed them all. But when she had finally said it, she had felt a pain in her chest, a sharp, tearing sensation, and now she felt nothing.
She spread her hands, watching the firelight play across her grimy fingers. Her nails had left pale half-moon indents in her skin. Wynter regarded them with interest, then tried to fit her nails back into the exact position again, pressing hard. Would it take a lot of pressure to break the skin, she wondered? She dug her nails deep, frowning in concentration.
‘Iseult!’ snapped Christopher, and she glanced up at him, startled. ‘Stop that!’ he hissed.
‘I shall have to see his body,’ murmured Razi again. He scrubbed his hands on his trouser legs and nodded. ‘Yes. After all . . . those scars could have been from anything. You are not a doctor, darling. Perhaps the poor fellow had the smallpox. Perhaps he was mauled by a bear. Perhaps he . . .’ He stopped talking, and his hands stilled. He looked up into the star-strewn sky. ‘Perhaps,’ he said desperately. Then he seemed to give in. ‘Oh God,’ he whispered.
Christopher looked down at Boro, his mouth unsteady. The dog grinned at him and Christopher scratched between his ears. ‘Good boy,’ he whispered.
The night was very still, just the muffled sounds of the surrounding camp, the crackling fire, the snoring of the other warhounds audible. Sólmundr and Hallvor were sitting with the other Merron, grave and withdrawn: after dinner, the soldiers had caught them hassling the Loups-Garous’ slaves down by the river, and the two of them had been returned to their quarters in shame. Úlfnaor had been furious with them. He had made them apologise to David Le Garou and forced them to fetch the Wolves’ spilt water. They had been tense and silent ever since.
Music came drifting from somewhere deep within the camp, a guitar strummed low. Wynter glanced dully at Christopher. He too heard the music, and she saw his face soften at the sound. He shut his eyes, tilting his head to listen as gentle memories played across his face.
‘Maidin Ór,’ he whispered.
Across the fire, Úlfnaor smiled in recognition of the tune and murmured something in Merron. Hallvor glanced fondly at him. Surtr nodded in time with the music, tapping his fingers.
‘Go h-álainn,’ he sighed.
Suddenly, Frangok asked a sharp question and the Merron lost their warm good humour and straightened slowly, their expressions hard. Frangok snapped the question at Christopher. His face drew down in pained understanding, and he groaned, dropping his head into his