‘So you’re making money.’

‘I suppose.’

‘And I take it you’ll use that money to pay me for whatever I can do for this fellow?’

‘And for fixing my sister’s mare. All of it.’

She turned to place her flat eyes on his. ‘Maybe, Ned West. Maybe.’ Her hand remained pressed on the quoll’s back. ‘But you haven’t been selling pelts to pay for a horse that’s only just gone lame.’

She began dabbing iodine at the wound, much less than she’d put on the mare’s hoof. At the sting of the antiseptic the quoll began to jerk. It twisted its neck, snapping at the vet’s hand, but it couldn’t reach. High, outraged hissing spat from its mouth. When the vet began to massage the meat of the wound, to rearrange the torn flesh into a neater position over the exposed bone, the hisses rose into screams, harsher than any sound Ned had heard the quoll make before. It seemed impossible for a creature of such slightness and beauty to create a sound so violent.

Ned felt his fingers trembling, his face, his thighs. He turned away, gave himself back to the leafy textures of the garden.

When the screams ceased, he looked back. The quoll was again motionless, and the vet was wrapping gauze around the wound. After three loops around the limb she tied the material off and let her grip on the quoll loosen. It was shaking. When it did not try to run or escape, she turned to him.

‘What were you saving for?’

Ned was watching the quoll shiver. ‘Sorry?’

‘The money you’re going to pay me with. What were you going to do with it?’

‘Just saving.’

‘Strange thing to do. Come here asking favours. Telling lies.’

Ned stared at her. ‘I said I’ll pay you.’

‘Not what I asked.’

‘I was going to give it to my father. Help out.’

‘I know your old man. He won’t take your money.’

‘Why do you care?’

‘Why are you lying?’

‘I want a boat.’

The vet smiled, and there was a curl of sadness on her lips. Or perhaps it was the shape of understanding. ‘Of course you do.’

Ned’s thoughts were swarming. It had been so simple: a bit of pressure, and his secret was revealed. He swore at himself. Within him there was a gurgling churn, in his throat and his organs and his pulse. He couldn’t face what he’d told her, couldn’t acknowledge what he’d revealed. He scrabbled at his pocket, tinkling his fingers through the mess of coins he’d brought.

‘How much?’

Still the vet smiled. ‘I don’t want your bunny money, lad. You can pay me with labour.’

Ned looked around the shed. Took in the instruments of her work. ‘I don’t even know how to shoe a horse.’