Duval stops his horse. ‘If I was at all religious, I’d say that God had smiled on this country.’ He twists in the saddle. ‘Recognize where we are?’

I steer my pony alongside his and look around.

‘The schoolroom is just over that ridge.’ He turns his pony with a slight movement of his wrist. ‘It’s built right into the cleft of the mountain, virtually undetectable unless you know exactly what you’re looking for.’

‘How come I saw it then?’

‘You came an unusual way.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You followed your gut.’ He nudges the horse and we walk on. The sun disappears behind sporadic clouds. Nevertheless I can feel the dry air sucking the moisture from my body. I take surreptitious swigs from the water bottle in my saddlebag. Duval, I notice, leaves his untouched.

‘How’s the leg bearing up?’

‘Fine,’ I tell him, but when he’s not looking I slip my foot from the stirrup and prop it up on the saddle to alleviate the throbbing. Still, it’s strangely hypnotic riding a horse and as time goes by I begin to zone out and am almost disappointed when the chestnut breaks rhythm and tosses its head. Duval has stopped again.

‘Where are we?’ I ask.

The desert looks different under cloud. Unfinished. As though all associated plant life has been designed specifically to require the sun on its face before revealing its true colours, and without it there’s no shimmer from the garnet crystal in the rock and no spiky shadows to bulk out the cacti. Even the flowers look like they’ve had all their brightness washed out of them. Nevertheless the three crosses in front of us rise stark against the sky like bone-white sentinels. They’re only crude – painted pieces of wood nailed together and jabbed into the earth. Two are unmarked except for a date but the third is inscribed with a single name:

Estella.

And beneath it: en paz.

Estella, in peace.

Duval leans back in the saddle, the reins slack in one hand. ‘You asked me why I do what I do,’ he says. ‘Well this is why.’

21

‘Why are you having a romantic dinner?’ Jack asks. He scrunches up pages from the National Enquirer into tight balls and builds a teepee of logs around them.

‘I’m not.’

‘Why are you lighting candles then?’

‘I like candles . . . and, um, they save on electricity.’

‘Okay, I’ll turn out the lights,’ Emmy offers.

‘No, don’t do that,’ I say quickly. ‘I mean not yet.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because we won’t be able to see.’

‘But we’ll have the candles!’

‘Yes, but they won’t be enough.’

‘Wait a second,’ Jack re-examines, ‘did you or did you not claim that the candles in question were to be lit in order that electricity might be saved?’

‘Yes, but . . .’

‘Just answer the questions yes or no, Mrs Coleman,’ he says wearily.