She slept, wrapped in a blanket from the sack. She woke, cold, stiff, her hands and legs aching, and her back too.

She was free.

She lay smiling at the sky. A pigeon strutted past her, fat and grey with a white stripe about its neck. Rosellas landed, cheeping, on a branch above the pool, then two by two, dropped to drink, then flew up again to stand watch for their companions.

Finally she realised she was hungry. She was used to eating first thing each morning now. She sat. The rosellas vanished, shrieking alarm.

Rosellas were good eating, but she had no net to catch them. Easy to make, but it would take her days to do it alone. She needed food now.

There was plenty of food around, of course, even daisy roots — sheep had not come here — but daisy roots needed to be baked. She had forgotten she could not spark up the fire this morning, in case someone recognised the smokeless shimmer in the air. But at least the rabbit had filled her the night before. She ran her hand over grass stems to harvest the seeds, to chew, though too many raw ones would make her ill.

She sat for a while, listening. The bird chatter had dwindled as the sun rose. The tree leaves whispered; a branch creaked. A wallaby thudded up to the pool, drank, noticed her — wallabies were the most stupid of all animals, so they were lucky their meat was too strongly flavoured to eat, unless you had nothing else.

She kept listening. Could there be people near? Her people? But she heard no echo of voices, no children’s cries. Nor did she hear hoofbeats. Possibly, probably, anyone who’d followed her away from the house could not have made out the hoofprints on the rocky ridges and so might have missed the way she went. Possibly, probably, she was safe from them, at least, as long as she stayed far enough away. But the further she went the less she would know about the land, about the people.

She had no choice. She needed distance, no matter what the cost, to be safe.

The horse watched her sitting there. At last she stood and gave him the last johnny cake. He accepted it and let her untie him; he even allowed her on his back again. This time he headed downhill.

He’s going to the river, she thought in alarm. It must be the next source of water, and possibly grass too. But any place along the river here would be Drinkwater land. She nudged his side with her knee, once, twice, then harder. He whickered and tossed his head. She tried again. ‘Please! Please, horse. It is dangerous for us both down there.’

Did he understand the words, or tone of voice? At last he began to walk, unwillingly, up the next ridge and down.