The Widow would often wail as well, and because she was the richest person in Chough no one ever told her to stop. If the Widow thought there was a thief on the roof, Mosca knew that her wails would be heard all over Chough. But the Widow had been wailing all afternoon, ever since she had learned the truth about Clent, and perhaps that had worn her out. After a few minutes the veins of light dimmed and vanished. The Widow thought it was one of her own cats on the roof, and had gone back to bed.

A clamber down the waterwheel of Dogger’s Mill, a scramble across the roof of the Chide household, and then Mosca was wriggling through the fence that separated Lower Chough from the Whitewater plain. The fence was little more than a row of spiked iron railings driven into the rock, to let out the water and keep in the children and chickens, both of whom had a way of falling into the rapids, given half a chance. The metal spokes bled rust trails across the white stone around them, and pointed outward like spikes around a fort. They were spiked to discourage wild dogs and poachers.

Emerging from the fence, Mosca rubbed the rust from her cheek. There was thistledown fear in her throat, her chest, and the center of her palms. The spikes were also meant to keep out Brackle and Grabspite.

Brackle had a chest like a barrel and skin that looked as if it might have belonged to an even bigger dog, with great black jowls that wobbled when he barked.

Grabspite had a long, low lope, as if he had learned it from watching the wolves. He had a wolfish look about his narrow muzzle and he could outrun a deer.

The two dogs belonged to the magistrate, as far as they belonged to anyone, and protected the lower border of Chough during the hours of the night. Mosca had seen them by daylight any number of times, but somehow it was very different to know that one or another might suddenly bound out of the woods and bear her down in a flash of teeth.

What was that? A bush dipping a curtsey, or an animal crouching low to watch her? Was that a lean, pointed face with a long jaw?

Mosca cupped her hands under Saracen’s weight and lifted the goose up above her head. Startled, he cycled with his feet, the rough but clammy webs chafing against her arms. His great wings spread wide as he tried to find his balance. When Mosca lowered him again, the wolfish face among the trees was gone.

In Chough, Brackle and Grabspite were regarded with superstitious terror. The villagers feared the bullying of the blacksmith, who feared the wailing of the Widow, who feared the might of the magistrate, who, in his own dry-as-parchment heart, feared his two terrible dogs.