“Margie Hale’s mad as a cut snake,” she said. “Once, she chased Chris and me clear into the bush—remember how light-footed Chris was? But we only lost her by pretending to be the bone horse, clattering in the trees, until we freaked ourselves out. Almost didn’t find our way back to the road. Chris said he did see something, but I bet it was a wild dog. Or a pig.” For a moment, she had relaxed, but now her face tightened. The trees bent over Carter’s Crossing; the town had fallen asleep and would never wake again.

“What did you do to her?” I asked. Trish shook herself and went on.

“You’d said Old Pinnicke told you—he’d say anything; he was ranting about traps this morning—there was a graveyard behind the shed where she buried her husbands,” she said, with pleasant reminiscence. “We were going to dig up a skull—and get a look at Margie Hale while we were at it. Even that was your fault.” She sniffed. “I’m surprised the boys weren’t more irritated by you.”

Too many questions. I retreated to the certainty of my mother’s lessons: We neither dignify nor indulge vulgar curiosity, do we, Bettina?

“Surely, you know I wouldn’t tell such a tale, don’t you, Patricia?” I said at last, gently as my mother.

Trish opened her mouth, closed it, shrugged uncomfortably—I thrilled with the triumph of being on firmer ground.

“Don’t answer her,” said Gary, returning to stand between us. He gave me a quick narrow glance before going on. I looked over him at Trish and felt a disconcerting familiarity. Gary Damson puffed up proud as a bantam between the two of you. Whose voice had that been? Not my mother’s.

Gary was still talking. “She said a couple of rough bushies stop by occasionally; the man you saw—or someone like him. But if he wanted supplies she couldn’t order or hold, they might have gone to Casey in Runagate to collect them. They come in from further west. And I said we’d deliver Gwenda Sage’s mail.” He waved a slightly dirty package of envelopes, rolled into the same home catalogue my mother subscribed to.

“Sage?” I said, tilting my head to see the cover: lamps with beaded fringes. My mother would like those. “Like the postmaster?”

“Mr Sage’s sister,” said Gary. “I don’t think they’re on speaking terms.”

“We aren’t running errands,” said Trish.

“It’s the cost of info from Margie,” said Gary, shamefacedly. “They don’t get on. She said Gwenda likes to keep an eye on comings and goings. She could know more, but you might have to talk to her, Trish; she doesn’t have much time for … my sort.”