‘That’s impossible. Even if it takes millions of years for light to cross space, it gets to us eventually.’ He sounded close to panic, and no matter which section of the sky they checked, it always appeared blank. ‘And that, that is not our moon. It’s got none of the right craters, seas, anything. Where are we?’

‘We’ve come further than we thought, that’s all. It’ll be okay.’ She didn’t mean to try and sound reassuring. It just came out, as if it was the right thing to say at that moment.

Dalip stared wide-eyed at her, and she could hear his breathing, fast and shallow at first, slowly subside into something more normal.

Then he nodded, and looked at the ground so he didn’t have to look up. ‘It’s what we do now that counts.’

‘I guess so.’ She took one last look at the moon and started back to their camp under the trees. A wolf called again, and this time she didn’t mind it so much. It was probably the least strange thing, including her own presence, about where she’d ended up.

Dinner, suspended over the fire, was ready, and she was ravenous.

6

6

Dalip woke up with a hand over his mouth. He started to shout around the fingers, to simultaneously rise and push himself away, when he realised it was Stanislav.

The canopy above was outlined in silver moonshine, and enough leaked down to cast shadows. The fire had burned low: the red glow from the embers shifted slightly and a trail of sparks twisted upwards. Arranged around the circumference like the hours of a clock, were six fitful sleepers – five now.

Stanislav raised his fingers to his lips in an exaggerated gesture, and Dalip realised that there was something in the woods behind him. He didn’t need to turn around and look, he could feel it at his back, watching him, hot and hairy and hungry.

The only weapons they had were sticks, and his kirpan, which was more ornamental than not: blunt, as Mama had called it. He was supposed to use it to defend himself and others – that’s what the Guru said – but he’d never needed to do either, until now.

His hand rested on the hilt, and he drew it, trying not to make a sound. It was a tiny thing compared with his grandfather’s foot-long sword, but it was all he had and he felt better for holding it.

Stanislav rose from his crouch. He was holding a stout branch, with a heavy knot of wood at one end. The way he moved it easily from hand to hand showed he was no stranger to improvised clubs. He was testing its weight, how it would move and how hard he’d have to grip it to stop it slipping when he used it.