She stood, staring. A tremor ran through it, something more than the ruffle of its coat in the wintery air.

All the stories her mother had not cared to tell her, the stories Linda had begun to read to her own daughter, bristled along her spine. Wild woods—oak or deodar or cedar, depending on which of her mother’s histories she chose to plumb, for she wasn’t on a sure footing with Winston’s family’s stories yet—where nightmares stalked their prey; stories to keep children from wandering, to brighten the lights of home. Abruptly, they made unwelcome, visceral sense. Linda scrabbled desperately through them for advice. Don’t visit your grandmother was unhelpful, and too late.

She thought through the contents of her pockets: bus ticket, chewing gum, comb. The pocket knife Winston gave her before they were married, engraved LS and too stiff for her to open quickly, even if she could have done much damage with it, was in her bag. And the letter, with Keep on the path written so heavily she could feel it from both sides of the paper.

Keep on the path, even if golden-silver death watched you with green glass eyes, beautiful fur showing every line of its ribs.

“Good boy,” said Linda, and stepped forward.

The fur shifted on its back like grass in the wind.

There was nowhere to run. No vehicle had passed them on the white dirt road from Carter’s Crossing; to each side of the world trees piled paper-dry onto the horizons. But ahead ought to be Sylvie Spicer’s house. Besides, in those nearer trees Linda might find a handy branch.

She fitted her foot carefully into the track. A long, low vibration started in the creature’s throat.

Linda gripped the handle of her bag, ready to swing it, and stepped again. The animal jerked forward, quicker than Linda wanted ever to remember. A metre away, it stopped, head down.

“Damn, you’re fast,” said Linda. She rubbed one sweating palm against her coat. “But you’re not coming any closer. Are you trained? Not to let trespassers in? Sit!” she said, experimentally. Nothing happened.

“If you’re Sylvie Spicer’s idea of a guard-dog,” said Linda, lifting her chin, “she has a few things to learn about hospitality.” She brandished the letter. “I’m family. I’m invited, I’ll have you know!”

At her next step, she heard grass cracking under her foot and wrenched her gaze away just in time to catch herself, step down on dirt instead. When she looked up, the creature was on the other side of the path. She hadn’t heard it jump.

“Watch me,” said Linda, forgetting she was an adult, and a mother. “I grew up walking park railings.”

The animal flitted over the ground like a shadow, always at the corner of her eye, keeping a steady distance. Linda didn’t put a foot wrong.