I felt certain this scene, this gruesome tableau, was the very reason the soldiers were afflicted by the pox in the first place. So much death and suffering of the King’s ‘sword’, so they were reduced to flakes of ash, to flakes like snow.

I needed Ignatius’ book if I had any hope of pre-empting the ritual.

We returned to the main building and I was glad to be away from the trees. We passed the rows of empty tents. None of them were fastened with red rope, but then events had gone beyond that. A quarter of the dragoons dead, before they’d even made it to the border, before they’d even seen a southern tribesman. The King would not be pleased.

Pitzmun excused herself to fetch me the list of dead officers. I waited beside Tabitha, stroking the mare’s side – more for my benefit than hers. She was solid and calm and dependable. I felt I was none of those things. The ashes had shaken me. Someone was keeping them frozen like that, among the trees, though I didn’t fully understand how. Or, more worryingly, why. It seemed to be a kind of punishment, as if the soldiers hadn’t suffered enough under the sorcerous pox. But why? Was keeping those ashes in place necessary for the ritual? That seemed unlikely. Instead, it felt more like a kind of cruel punishment – punishing the soldiers and, perhaps, me.

Pitzmun returned and gave me a slip of paper with the five names. Five officers, one of whom had a sweetheart in the town of Drekenford. I recognised none of the names, of course, and Pitzmun said her own officer was blessedly still among the living. She expressed this with such an earnestness I almost offered her a fatherly embrace, but managed to stop myself before I embarrassed us both.

I led Tabitha to the gate and bid the Cornet farewell. ‘At least I won’t be meeting any carts on the track this time,’ I said.

‘Carts, sir?’

‘From the town. A strange woman, she said she was coming to help you with the pox.’

‘We’ve had no visitors from town. Not at night, nor during the day, which I would say is just as well.’

‘But… I spoke to her. I couldn’t have imagined it – Tabitha didn’t like her horse, she kept stamping the ground.’

‘Perhaps she turned back,’ Pitzmun said.

‘Perhaps.’ I looked down the dark track.

‘Safe journey, sir.’

The gates of the fort closed behind me. I tried to calm my nerves. I led Tabitha along the track, between the ash-less trees, with one hand on her bridle and the other gripping my pistol.

23rd October 1721

Alexsander woke to find himself staring down the barrel of my pistol. I had left it on the bedside table; carried it all the way from the fort, through town, into the inn, and up to my room. I had still held it as I undressed, shifting my aim from the door to the desk, where the bible lay in silent judgement. I didn’t trust any written word in that room. If it weren’t for the ettiene he would have come to jarringly, sitting up in bed, pistol in hand. I have never professed to be a good night-brother.