Jacob was silent for a few seconds while he studied the lay of the land.

'I can get the book for you,' Will reminded him, just in case he was thinking of going on alone.

'I know,' Jacob said. 'I'm relying on you. But I don't think it'd be very wise for us to just walk through the middle of the village right now.'

'We can go around the back,' Will said. He pointed out a route that would take them another half-hour to complete but would keep them out of the way of witnesses.

'It seems the wisest option,' Jacob said. He teased off his right-hand glove, and reached into his coat to take out his knife. 'Don't worry,' he said, catching Will's anxious glance, 'I won't taint it with human blood unless it's strictly necessary.'

Will shuddered. An hour ago, climbing the hill with Jacob, he'd felt happier than he'd felt in his life before; the feel of that blade had made his palm tremble with pleasure, and the little deaths he'd caused filled him with pride. Now all that seemed like another world, another Will. He looked down at his hands. He'd never finished scrubbing them clean, and even in the murk he could see that they were still stained with the bird's blood. He felt a spasm of self-disgust. If he could have fled then and there, he might well have done so. But that would have left Jacob searching for the book on his own, and Will didn't dare risk that. Not while Steep was carrying that knife of his. Will knew from experience how self-possessed it could be; how eager to do harm.

Turning his back on man and knife, he resumed his descent, no longer leading directly into the village but around it, so as to bring them undiscovered to the Cunninghams' doorstep.

ii

When Frannie woke, the clock beside the bed said five twenty-five. She got up anyway, knowing her father, who had always been an early riser, would also be up in the next fifteen minutes.

In fact, she found him in the kitchen, already fully dressed, pouring himself a cup of tea and smoking a cigarette. He gave her a grim little smile of welcome. 'Something's going on out there,' he said, spooning sugar into his tea. 'I'm going out to see what's happening.'

'Have some toast first,' she said. She didn't wait for a reply. She took a loaf out of the bread-bin, then went to the drawer, for the breadknife; then to the cooker, to turn on the grill, and back to slice the bread; and all the time, toing and froing, she was thinking how strange it was to be pretending that there was nothing really different about the world this morning, when she knew in her heart that this wasn't so.

It was her father who finally spoke, his back to her as he gazed out of the kitchen window. 'I don't know,' he said. 'Things going on these days ...' he shook his head '... used to be safe for folks.'

Frannie had slid two slices of the thickly cut bread beneath the grill, and fetching her favourite mug out of the cupboard, poured herself some tea. Like her dad, she sugared it heavily. They were the two sweet tooths in the family.

'It makes me scared for you, sometimes,' her father said, turning back to look at Frannie, 'the way the world's going.'

'I'll be all right, Dad,' she said.

'I know you will,' he said, though his expression belied his words. 'We'll all be fine.' He opened his arms to her, and she went to him, hugging him hard. 'Only you'll see as you get older,' he said, 'there's more bad out there than good. That's why you work hard to make a safe place for the people you love. Somewhere you can lock the door.' He rocked her in his embrace. 'You're my princess, you know that?'

'I know,' she said, smiling up at him.

A police car roared past, siren blaring. The happiness faded from George Cunningham's face.

'I'll butter us some toast,' Frannie said, patting his chest. 'That'll make us feel better.' She pulled the slices out from under the grill and flipped them over. 'You want some marmalade?'

'No thanks,' he said, watching her as she fussed around: to the fridge for some butter, then back to the cooker, where she picked up the hot toast and put it on a plate. Then she slathered on the butter, the way she knew he liked it.

'There,' she said, presenting him with the toast. He wolfed it down, murmuring his approval.

All she needed now was milk for her tea. The carton was empty, but the milkman could have arrived by now, so she padded through to the front door to fetch the delivery.The front door had been bolted top and bottom, which was unusual. Plainly her parents had gone to bed nervous. Frannie reached up and unbolted the top, then stooping to unbolt the bottom, opened the door.There was still no sign of the day; not a glimmer. It was going to be one of those winter days when light barely seemed to touch the world before it was gone again. The snow had stopped falling, however, and the street looked like a well-made bed in the lamplight, plump white pillows piled against walls, and quilts laid on roofs and pavements. She found the sight comforting in its prettiness. It reminded her that Christmas would soon be here, and there'd be reasons for songs and laughter.

The step was empty; the milk was late being delivered today. Oh well, she thought, I'll have to have tea without.

And then, the sound of feet crunching on snow. She looked up and saw somebody had appeared at the opposite side of the street. Whoever it was stood beyond the lamplight, but only for a few moments. Realizing he'd been seen, he stepped out of the grey gloom and into view. It was Will.

i

Rosa waited on the rock, listening, listening. They would be upon her soon, her pursuers. She could hear every creak of their snowcaked boots as they followed her trail up the hillside to where she sat. One of them - there were four - was smoking as he climbed (she could see the pin-prick of his cigarette, brightening whenever he drew on it); one of them was young, his breathing easier than that of his companions; one took out a flask of brandy every now and then, and when he offered it around, had a distinct slur in his voice. The fourth was quieter than the others, but sometimes, if she listened very carefully, she thought she heard him murmuring something to himself. It was too indistinct for her to understand, but she suspected it was a prayer.

Her exchanges with Jacob had been quite straightforward. She'd freely admitted to what she'd done in the Courthouse, and told him he'd better get out of harm's way before the mob was upon them. He'd told her he would not be leaving the vicinity just yet; he had work to do in the village. When she asked him what manner of work, he told her he wasn't about to share secrets with a woman who'd probably be under interrogation before dawn.

'Is that a dare, Mr Steep?' she said.

'You might take it that way, I suppose,' he'd replied.

'Would you have their deaths on my conscience?' she'd said, to which he'd replied:

'What conscience?'

His response had amused her mightily, and for a few moments, standing there on the hillside with Jacob, it had almost seemed like old times.

'Well,' she said, 'Now you've been warned.'

'Is that all you're going to do?' Jacob had replied. 'Warn me, then walk away?'

'What else do you suggest?' she said with a little smile.

'I want you to make sure they don't come after me.'

'So say it,' she'd whispered. 'Say: Kill them far me, Rosa.' She'd leaned closer to him; his heartbeat had quickened. She'd heard it, loud and clear. 'If you want them dead, Jacob, then all you have to do is ask.' Her lips were so close to his ear, they were almost touching. 'Nobody's going to know but us.'