Ned took another step. The quoll burst into a snarl, its jaws flying impossibly wide, revealing a mouth of white knives.

He had never seen one before. He’d heard talk of them—a small variety referred to as native cats, or larger ones like this called tiger cats—and knew them as poultry thieves, cannier and more vicious than even the red foxes of the empire. The only tangible evidence he’d had of their existence were the pelts he’d seen. One had been artfully stitched into a pencil case owned by one of his classmates; another was stretched across the back wall of Singline’s shop. Uncommon treasures, spotted with brilliance.

Ned stared at the quoll, at its fur, at the snowy circles brightening the brownness. He’d get a good price for it—perhaps an outstanding one. Far more than he’d get for a rabbit pelt. Singline would know who to sell it to, if he didn’t want to keep it as a partner for the one on his wall. He’d know people who’d pay good money for it, the sort of people who could turn it into one of those sleeveless garments wealthy ladies liked to pour over their shoulders.

Or he could give it to Maggie. He’d kill the pest, prise its colours free and present it to his sister as a gift. Not hawk feathers for her pillow, but a trophy nonetheless. Proof of his prowess, and a sign of how he could aid her. How talented he was.

His chest buzzed. Oh great hunter.

He laid his gun and rabbit on the ground, stepped forward, raising his left boot above the quoll. It reared back onto its hind legs, somehow widening its jaw even further, teeth needling the air. A deep, rasping scream sprang from its throat, tearing apart the morning’s silence. It rose to the height of Ned’s knee before, in an ugly movement, it fell.

Ned stopped. His boot hung high. The quoll hadn’t landed on its front paws; it lay on its side, its body an awkward comma in the dirt. Soon it twisted around to rest its mouth on one of its hind legs.

Only then did Ned see that this was how the quoll had been caught: its rear right paw was held in the mouth of the trap. Blood had dried and matted around the wound from the metal teeth, crusting and darkening the quoll’s fur. The ruby meat of the animal’s flesh showed, as did dull stretches of tendon and blinks of bright bone. It must have tried to pull its leg free during the night, managing only to scrape itself open on the unyielding metal. Now, with Ned’s boot above it, the quoll turned on itself, worrying at the rent material of its own leg. A pained chirrup leaked from the nipping teeth. Fresh blood dropped into the dirt.