“Oh, I’d heard,” said Gwenda. She sounded, of all things, satisfied.

“Meanwhile, Mrs Scott and Tina here—” Trish gestured at me, with habitual disgust. “Well, you didn’t know her before. But the man—men—we’re looking for might be able to explain what happened. It would help Tina. And Mrs Scott.”

“Never met a helpful Scott,” said Gwenda Sage. “Met a few who helped themselves.”

“My father just left,” I whispered, fiercely. It was important that he had chosen to go, although I couldn’t say why. Strong emotions weren’t attractive, but I clenched my hands until my short, presentable nails dug into my skin.

“Who ever really disappears?” said Gwenda Sage. “Things change, that’s all. Damsons like everything neatly fenced in. Things change, but that’s not the same as leaving.”

“Miss Sage,” began Gary.

“Hush,” she said. “I’ll tell you what I know, though it’s precious little. But first, I have something to tell this Aberdeen girl. She can tell her father. He won’t listen to me—not even my own brother ever listened to me—but he’ll listen to her.”

“He won’t,” said Trish.

Gwenda ignored her. “It’s about what really happened in Woodwild.”

“You’ve told him before,” said Trish. “Dad’s not superstitious. All we want to know—”

"Who said anything about superstition?” said Gwenda. “Pay attention.”

Trish’s nostrils narrowed; her eyes were wide.

“Manners,” I whispered, hastily.

With a gusty sigh, Trish slid down among the patchwork cushions.

We were chasing the thinnest chance that the stranger who wrote monsters knew where my brothers were. If we refused to listen, Gwenda might not tell us where to find him.

The pull homewards to Runagate (where Sages were kindly and rational) was strong. I could give up, go back to my mother, be comfortable, stop trying to take my life into my own hands. I needn’t see Trish, slouching inelegantly, or Gary, leaning forward with his blunt features intent, again. They would be happier without me.

I wanted to leave, very much. But it would be rude. I sat quietly, hands folded in my lap.

GWENDA’S STORY

THE SCHOOL IN THE WILDERNESS

Nothing is as it was (said Gwenda). Once, when you were too small to care, when I was Gwenda Alleman, there was still a town called Woodwild. It made the third point of the triangle of Runagate and Carter’s Crossing. Woodwild was larger than Runagate, and looked down on it, in elevation as well as spirit: it still had two pubs, a grid of comfortable streets under leaning ironbarks, a grocery store and—outside of town on a side track, in its own paddock—a school. OUR CHILDREN ARE OUR FUTURE, said the sign outside.