Charles Warren had opted not to play in the game. Instead, he fumbled and stumbled around on his own at the edge of the river, until he got too sore and too tired to keep it up anymore. He shook off the last bit of snow from his latest fall and clumsily skated over to where Ann Thorn stood cooking at a large portable grill.

The silent and all but invisible servants of the night before were excused from duty on the lake today. It was as close to true informality as the Thorns ever got. Ann was cooking vast quantities of hot dogs, hamburgers, and strip steaks over a charcoal fire with the speed and expertise of a great short-order cook. Whatever she had been before she met Richard, she had not been a dilettante at cooking for a crowd; she knew what she was doing here.

Seeing Warren approach, she called out to him: 'What'll it be?'

'Hot dog,' Warren said, puffing.

Ann speared one expertly and poked it into a bun.

‘That's all?'

‘That's all to start,' said Warren. 'I'm famished. I might have to eat this entire spread.'

He gobbled up half the hot dog in one gulp, then paused long enough to load relish, catsup, and onions on what was left.

'I read about your reporter friend in the papers,' said Ann. 'I know it's useless to say I'm sorry, but I am.'

Warren nodded his appreciation. 'I couldn't believe it when I heard the news,' he said. 'I can't imagine how it happened…' But Ann had already turned away to watch the game again.

Warren swallowed the rest of the hot dog, then surreptitiously reached for another.

Neither of them noticed the enormous black raven that settled in the branches of a tall, dark tree twenty feet away, regarding them with cold and piercing eyes.

Out on the ice, Richard shot a clear pass to Damien, who stopped it neatly with his stick before sweeping it away and speeding on down the ice toward the goal. Atherton, playing defense, stumbled forward to intercept him, clumsily weighted down with the bulk of his heavy, makeshift cold-weather gear.

Damien charged on ahead, controlling the puck with confidence, enjoying the speed and the finesse with which he was moving. Not for one second did he doubt that he'd be able to dodge the older man. He headed straight for Atherton, traveling very fast, making it look as if he was going to run right through him. Atherton slipped and slid and struggled to hold his position on the ice. He cringed and closed his eyes in exaggerated anticipation of a major collision.

At the very last possible second. Damien executed a perfect pirouette around Atherton and sped away. As he did, the ice gave slightly under his weight, leaving a hairline crack in his wake.