Serena nodded to Galloway, who stood where the cage closed the ring's one entry point. Galloway shoved hard against the cage bars and created an opening, small but enough. By the time Hamby and the other onlookers realized what was happening, Serena had stepped into the ring.

"Get her out of there," Hamby shouted at one of his workers, but Galloway flashed a knife.

"She comes out when she decides, not you," he said.

After speaking to the bird a last time, Serena removed its hood. The dragon and the eagle acknowledged each other at the same moment. The dragon had moved into the ring's center, but now it paused in its pacing. The eagle's head swiveled downward. As the two creatures stared at each other, something summoned forth from an older world passed between them.

Serena lifted her hand and the Berkute flapped awkwardly over the ring and landed on the fence's back portion where no lamp or torch burned and the shadows deepened. As the bird passed overhead, the dragon lunged upward with a speed and dexterity that belied its bulk.

"Another six inches and we'd have had it ended before it even started," Snipes told Stewart in a hushed tone.

The eagle did not move again for almost a minute, though its gaze remained on the dragon, which resumed pacing around the ring's center. Though she was still in the ring, the reptile appeared oblivious to Serena, who now blocked its one exit point from the pit.

"I thought dragons could breathe fire," Stewart whispered to Snipes.

"They used to a far back ago," Snipes replied softly, "but they evolutioned out of it to survive."

Stewart leaned toward Snipes' ear.

"How come? It's a mighty powerful weapon to have, breathing fire."

"Too powerful," Snipes said. "They was scorching all the meat off their prey. Wasn't none left to eat."

The third time the dragon passed below the eagle, the bird pounced, wings outspread as its talons grasped the reptile's face. The dragon whipped its head back and forth, shaking free not just the eagle but a few of its feathers, but not before the eagle's talons had pierced the reptile's eyes. The bird half-leaped, half-flew back onto Serena's arm as its adversary plunged blindly into the metal, making the whole fence shudder. The dragon turned and lunged in the other direction, its slashing tail raising spumes of strawy dust off the earthen floor. It slammed against the fence's other side, only a few feet from where Serena stood, both she and the bird placid amid the dragon's frantic rushes. The mesh shuddered again.

"That fence ain't gonna hold it in," a worker shouted, eliciting a frantic rush that almost collapsed the tent as a number of onlookers shoved their way out the entrance and into the night.

Hamby now pressed his considerable bulk against the ring, causing the metal to give enough that the fence was further destabilized. The carnival owner leaned over the railing and raised both arms out, imploring his champion to rally.

The dragon's lunges were weakening, a white froth coating the rim of its mouth. The dragon turned back toward the ring's center, making a slower and slower circle, its belly dragging against the earth. Serena waited a few moments more, then lifted her arm and the eagle swooped down and landed on the dragon's neck. The bird stabbed the base of the reptile's head with its hallux talon, piercing the skull with the same force and result as a well-struck sixteen penny nail. The eagle arose and this time flew onto one of the tent's rafters as the dragon rolled over on its back, feebly righted itself. Hamby tumbled into the ring, his top hat falling off his head. He got up and watched his champion use what life it yet had to drag itself to the ring's far corner.

Hamby called for more light, and the juggler tossed him a torch. The carnival owner kneeled beside his reptile, the torch lowered so all could see that the dragon was indeed dead, its split purple tongue laid on the ground like a flag in defeat. Hamby remained hunched over the creature almost a minute, then looked up. He reached into the front pocket of his swallow-tailed coat and brought forth an elegant white handkerchief with the initials D. H. embossed on the center. The carnival owner opened his handkerchief with great formality and gently placed it over the dragon's head.

Henryson walked toward the tent's exit, Snipes joining him, now wearing the cap and bells.

"I don't see Ross picking up his winnings," Henryson noted as they passed the table where bets were being settled. "That's the first wager I've seen him lose in a coon's age."

Snipes nodded at Mrs. Pemberton, who was taking the eagle back to the stable, Galloway walking behind her with a thick stack of bills in his hand.

"Looks like she done pretty good for herself, though."

"Yes, sir," Henryson agreed. "I'd say she just bankrupted a whole carnival. I wouldn't be surprised to see the lot of them on the commissary steps tomorrow."

They stepped out of the tent and followed other workers up the ridge. Above them, the locust pole foundations made the stringhouses look like shaky dry-docked piers.

"I bet if you tugged good on just one pole every one of them stringhouses would tumble off this ridge," Henryson said. "That would be a wager near certain as betting on that eagle tonight."

Henryson paused and glanced back at the tent.

"I wonder what notion got into Ross's head to make him think her and that eagle could be beat."

"It wasn't in his head," Snipes said.

RACHEL DIDN'T SLEEP WELL THE FIRST NIGHTS in Kingsport. Every passing train waked her, and once awake she could think only of Serena and her henchman. She'd removed the pearl-handled bowie knife from the trunk and placed it under her pillow. Each time the house creaked and settled, Rachel grasped the knife's smooth handle. The child slept beside her, closest to the wall.

It wasn't until the fifth day that Rachel took Jacob outside. On an earlier trip to the grocery store, she'd found a rhubarb patch across the tracks from Mrs. Sloan's house. I can at least make her a pie, Rachel figured, a little something to thank the older woman for her kindness. She and Jacob crossed the tracks, the bowie knife and an empty tote sack in her free hand. The rhubarb was near a rusty boxcar so long motionless its wheels had sunk deep in the ground. She moved through a blackberry patch, the briars clutching at her dress. The boxcar cast a square of shade, and Rachel set the child in it. She took the sock from her dress pocket and spilled its contents before him. Now don't be putting them near your mouth, Rachel told him. Jacob placed the marbles in small groups, then pushed them farther apart.

Rachel began cutting the rhubarb, topping the plants the same way she would early-summer tobacco. It wasn't the sort of work she'd ever have thought you could miss, the purplish stalks so twiny it was like cutting rope, but it felt good to be doing something outdoors, something that had a rhythm you could fall into because you'd done it all your life. Next year I'll plant me a garden, she told herself, no matter where we are.

Soon small bouquets of crinkled leaves lay scattered around her. Rachel gathered up a handful of stalks, placed them in a stack like kindling. Jacob played contentedly, appearing glad as Rachel to be outside. A train came up the track, moving slow out of the depot. As it passed, a flagman waved from the caboose's railing. A pair of bright-red cardinals flew low across the tracks, and Jacob pointed at them before turning his gaze back to the marbles.

The sun had narrowed the boxcar's shadow by the time she'd cut the last stalk, stuffed the pile into her tote sack. More than enough rhubarb for five pies, but Rachel figured she and Mrs. Sloan could find a use for the extra. When she and Jacob recrossed the tracks, the sheriff's Model T was parked in front of the house.