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Jayne laughed, low and long. “He can try.”

The Deacon had wandered up to the top of the stairs. He sounded as if he was dreaming. “Syd tried to tell me. And I didn’t listen.”

“At least Syd and Len have each other right now,” I said. The thought was comforting, and yet I was jealous. My two best friends had each other, and I had neither.

I fished Cal’s note from the back pocket of my jeans. “This seemed so important yesterday. But now . . .”

Jayne took the note. She unfolded the tiny square, and read aloud.

The Bishop knows. He knows about the stock. About the aid to the Survivors. About the plans to get everyone out before they attack. About my gift. He told me he’s coming for me. Know I haven’t gone without a fight. Jayne, if it has gotten this far, you have to find a way to stop him. He’s not through with the world. Maybe my death, this murder, will allow you to do that. Maybe you can show the people of New Charity what he’s taken from them. From all of us. Take care of Syd. Take care of her people. Tell her I’m sorry.

“Where did you find it?”

“In the grip of Cal’s gun. The gun is still at the mansion. I didn’t want them to know I took anything.”

“You did good,” Jayne said.

All three of us started at the knock on the door.

“Should I get it?” I asked.

“I don’t think the Bishop is going to knock when he comes,” Jayne said.

I stood, since no one else had, and padded my way to the front-door peephole. A close-up of an eye was all I could see.

“It’s Becky. Becky Purcell. Please. Before someone sees.”

I opened the door and Becky flew inside, slamming the door behind her.

“Spirit be thanked. I found you all.”

“What’s going on?” asked Jayne.

Becky set Syd’s backpack down at her feet. “I’m so sorry, Casandra. Troy. I don’t know what to say.”

“Thank you,” I said, though I was still too numb to say it well.

“But I didn’t want to go to the wake,” Becky said, panting, breathless, and barely pausing for air. “And my mother. We were already fighting. Because of Cressyda. Syd. She always told me Syd had it out for me. That everyone had it out for me. And I blamed everyone for everything. But. When I saw what they did to Syd. Just for being different. And I thought I was different. But I’m the same as they are. And I didn’t want to mourn Troy’s death. I didn’t want to pretend. Not with all of them. I saw him blow you back, Cas. And Jayne, I saw you, too. I’m sorry for being on the wrong side all this time.”

Becky fell into my chair, and I sat on the armrest, patting her back. “It’s okay,” I said. “We’re going to make it so that there aren’t sides anymore.”

“It’s not okay. I took her things. You were there. The things I called her. I hurt her.”

“You gave her back the journal. She needed that more than anything else.”

“Listen, I brought it all back. I don’t know what it’s for. I don’t know what’s going on here. But I know it’s big. And whatever it is, I want to help.”

I offered her a blue handkerchief I’d found in Syd’s room. “That means a lot, Becky. But I don’t want to put anyone else in danger.”

Jayne sighed. “She’s a big girl, Cas. Let her make her own decisions. We know what the Bishop is now. He’s no vessel of the Spirit, just a vindictive, greedy cleric. And we now know the lengths he’ll go to protect what he’s built. But there will be no more blood. We can’t allow him to slaughter the Survivors, here or anywhere else.”

I must have frowned at her.

“What do you see?” the Deacon asked, sitting down in an armchair.

“All I see is blood. A thousand different roads there, but I can’t see any way around it.”

“Maybe it’s simply the day, coloring everything,” he said calmly. Jayne nodded. Becky looked at me blankly.

“You have to listen to me,” I said. The Bishop had lifted the curse, but he was right: it seemingly made no difference.

“Have any of you eaten yet?” Becky asked. She picked up the backpack and set it on the kitchen counter. She pulled a carton of eggs, some herbs, and some bacon from her own pack.

“We had all this in our clay coolers. But I can start up the generator. Maybe a meal will help you think better.”

We needed Becky as much as she needed us. I shook myself out of my own head. “Of course we need your help. And yes, we’ll eat.”

As if on cue, both Jayne’s and the Deacon’s stomachs growled.

Becky brandished a spatula at Jayne. “So what’s next? We arrest the Bishop?”

“There are a few flaws in that plan,” Jayne said. “I’m no longer the Sheriff. I don’t know what to do with him once I arrest him, providing we
could
overpower him. And, according to the Governor, I don’t have any authority. Hell, I probably never had any authority.”

“Len’s headed back to the Survivor camp, right?” Becky asked. “Maybe he’ll convince them to stay away.”

I shook my head. “I’m sure Syd and Len have tried that angle. If Mangold believes there’s a chance to retrieve Nelle, he won’t pass. It’s coming, no matter what we do.”

The Deacon leaned back in his chair. “We’ve been at war for a while now, we just didn’t see it. Now we’ve got nothing to fight with.”

Something swelled inside me. An idea. A good one. “We still have one gift.”

Jayne looked at me. “He’ll avoid me. I’m the only one who has anything that can go up against what he stole from Cal. The question is, can I get close enough?”

“Maybe there’s a way,” I said. It was a big thing to ask of her. Too big, maybe. I closed my eyes and saw myself in a room with the Bishop, fuchsia flame dancing over our heads. But it was our only choice.

I put my finger to my lips.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Syd

It’s a good thing Paul takes guard duty that evening, standing sentinel over his precious statue, because when Len unexpectedly arrives back at the camp, he’s in rough shape. He’s drunk and sobbing and barely coherent. Paul brings him to me, and Linsey leaves us in private next to the fire, a kindness I will remember to thank him for tomorrow.

I make some tea, though Len demands something, anything harder. I try to hug him and he pummels me, not hard, not serious. “Let it out,” I say. I’m hoping it helps to get him using real words again. I’m shaking, though, frightened of what must have happened for him to be this upset.

Len stands up and puts his hands in his front pockets. When he draws them out, there are tiny flecks of paper interspersed with dirt. His breathing is less ragged. He inhales and tries a couple of times before he finally gets it out. “He’s gone.”

“Who’s gone?”

Len thrusts his hands at me. It’s my note, torn into tiny pieces. Troy. No. I must be misunderstanding.

“What do you mean
gone
? Where did he go?”

“Don’t make me say it. Dead, Syd. Troy’s dead.”

Suddenly I can’t feel my fingers. I can’t feel anything. He can’t be dead. Just this morning, he was very much alive, and I sent him a note to tell him to forgive himself. That I understood split loyalties. That he would always be a part of me because of the night we’d spent. And that maybe someday. Well.

It didn’t matter anymore.

“Did he even read it?” I ask, holding Len’s hands as I examine them. He shakes his head.

“Okay,” I say, letting go. I expect for tears to come. I expect to feel sad. Instead, it’s a gnawing void. A headache that feels as if I’m losing my mind.

I gesture to the fire, and watch as Len pours words and dirt into the flames. We sit for a long time, holding hands. Linsey comes with blankets, banking the fire and making fresh tea.

At some point, Len falls asleep and Linsey carries him to my tent.

“Why are you so good at all this stuff? With people, I mean.”

“Well, we all had lives before this, didn’t we, love?” Linsey says.

He’s right, and part of me resents it. I was someone once, too. I take a seat on a nearby tree stump and look up at the stars, wheeling bright in the night sky. So much brighter than they once were, and for the first time, I hate them for it. The night deserves a shroud.

The night terrors come for Len. He screams inside the tent, and I’m not sure what to do. I know this is why he drinks. Someone must want to sleep enough to give up their stash.

I try James first.

He pokes his head out of the tent, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “Did you come to join me?”

“I came to see if you had any whiskey, anything, really. Len is—”

“An alcoholic? Yeah, Cas. He needs a lot of things, but whiskey isn’t one of them.”

“You don’t know anything about anything. Just help me.”

“You’re the one at the door of my tent asking for a drink in the middle of the night.”

“Look, I’m sorry. It’s just we lost someone. Len lost . . . it’s just really complicated.”

James is up and out of the tent, having closed the space between us. He’s making slow circles with his hand on my back. “I’m serious. Let him dream. Stay with me tonight?”

“Yes. I’m here because the last guy I fell for just lost his life, and I’d like to come to your tent and work it out like the whore you all keep calling me.”

“I didn’t mean it like that, Syd. Come on.”

“What is it with you men? You want to protect me, or screw me, or run my life for me, or console me. You want to tell me who to be and how to handle things. Just shut up already. I don’t need you. Not my father. Not Pi. Not Troy, not you.”

“Stop,” James says. His voice is charged, like a thunderbolt. “You came to me.”

“I don’t want you.” I am yelling now, and I can’t help it. “I don’t want any of you!”

“We don’t want you either,” someone yells from a tent.

“Quiet down,” James says, taking my upper arm. His grip is too tight.

I pull my arm away, but I can’t get free. “Let go.”

“If you promise to calm down,” he says.

“Screw you, James.”

“Evidently not,” he says, with a chuckle.

I slap him. Hard. But for some reason, the return hit comes as a surprise. I hardly see it coming, solid and quick. My nose cracks and the stars in my head are brighter than the ones in the sky. I wonder briefly if I’ve even healed from the punch Perry landed at the goodwill dinner. At least the pain in my head matches the pain in my chest. At least I have that.

“For god’s sake, James,” Paul says, coming up the trail from the clearing. “What did you do?” He collars James with one heavily muscled arm and drags him back into the clearing.

Linsey limps over, sleepily, waving them away. “Here, let me have a look.”

“I’m fine,” I say, trying to fend him off with the hand not holding my nose with my shirt.

“I’m gonna help you, love,” Linsey says. “Just let me see.” He sets my hands in my lap, gently. But at this point I’m finished fighting.

“You’re a man, too,” I say, the tears starting again.

“I’m afraid so. But I’m also your friend.”

Linsey resets my nose with a bit of count-to-three-but-go-on-two. Then he packs my nostrils with clean cloth.

I’ve calmed down a bit, and he hands me a cup. “I’ve given Len a flask of Mangold’s. Now, you be a good girl and drink this.”

I drink whatever it is he’s given me, and crawl into the tent next to Len—who is finally quiet—as Linsey stands watch. He promises to stay there through the night.

I dream of my mother. Coming back to life as a silver horse.

Len and I are awake as the pink dawn streaks the horizon. We follow Linsey to the fire. Len brings wood in from the lean-to, and I carry water for boiling. The three of us drink tea in reflective silence, taking comfort in each other’s company.

Mangold marches into the clearing. Which rings strange, as I’ve never seen him up before noon, let alone dressed and at the cooking fire. “It’s time to get going. Syd, Len, there’s work to do.”

Linsey waves a giant paw sadly. “Careful with yourselves, now.” He turns back to the fire, but we’ve already seen the fear lurking in his eyes. Len squeezes my hand and then falls in behind Mangold.

“Wait till you see it,” Mangold is saying. He prattles on until we reach the clearing. The morning sun is bright, and when I look down, I see bright blood staining my shirt. I pause, ducking behind Len while I try to get my nose to stop bleeding. Though he’s ignored me so far, now Mangold looks at me, nudges Len out of the way and really looks. “I only remember the one black eye. What the hell happened to you?”

Len looks at my face, too, pushing my hair off my forehead. He strides ahead, to where James is kneeling down by the side of the sculpture with a wrench. Len pulls James up by the collar and winds up.

Paul is between them before Len can let loose. “We don’t have time for this right now.”

“It’s okay,” I tell everyone, even though it’s not. Right or wrong is not high on our list of priorities. We are on a mission to murder someone—for a good reason—but it’s murder all the same. We can’t mess this up. We can’t get caught. We can’t get dead.

The sculpture has turned out beautifully. The front half of the car has been sculpted with the City’s skyline, the metal on the bumper burnished smooth as the waters of the Sound. The roof has been decorated with the mountain range between us, metal inlaid with chunks of granite, and blue spruce boughs down the back window, the Basalt made soft running into the low beauty of New Charity on the trunk, the back bumper filled with a burnished representation of the town’s gates: two stallions, front hooves in the air, facing one another. In war. In strength.