He was a beauty, Malach. Like a priest-warrior out of time. He wore black, and his psyche was like an old red wine, nearly black, too. Sediment, and fire.

"Hail, Imperator," said Red.

Malach glanced at her, and away. He looked at Camillo.

He said something, Malach, in another tongue. It sounded Germanic, but possibly it was not.

Red gave a tiny gasp, then pulled herself together.

Camillo glared up. "English," said Camillo. "That's the rule. The talk of the time and the place."

"You want them to hear?" said Malach. "Your soldiers'?"

Connor put down the sponge.

"Get off his back," he said to Malach.

Then Malach looked at him.

Connor felt the breakfast curdle in his gut. Jesus, Jesus—make him stop—Connor held up both his hands. "It's between you," he said.

"Yes, it's between us."

Connor stepped back. He was sorry for Camillo. But against that, there was no way to—no, there was no way.

Camillo sat doggedly in the camp. Lou had drawn away from him.

"Say what you want. Don't care."

"You will care. You are mischievous. Aren't you?"

"Too old," said Camillo.

"Excrementum," Malach said.

"I remember," Camillo said, "the snow and the horse running. And the town on fire. I remember my mother in the sleigh."

"Listen to me," Malach said. "You have your battalion here. But don't follow me. Don't follow her."

"Wicked stepmother," said Camillo.

"She goes back before your birth," said Malach, "back into the dark. Ruth."

Camillo scowled like a naughty boy wanting to spit too, but he did not. Malach had spat. That was enough.

"Past is good," said Camillo.

"The past is a chain," said Malach. "Break it. Take your historical whore with the bloody hair, and cut her throat on some wedding night of the mind. Slough her. Slough the dead."

Red's eyes were wide. She drew her jacket across her breasts and held it there.

Cardiff stood up.

"You watch your mouth."

Malach turned. He moved like quicksilver. Against the fire. There was a kind of doubled light. Cardiff was on his back.

Lou screamed. She would.

Then Camillo had Malach's arm, and Malach swung about again and slapped Camillo across the face. It was the back of the left hand, with the tarnished rings. A crimson stroke appeared on Camillo's cheek, his old man's skin.

"Laat me met rust."

Camillo shook his head. A jewel of blood flew away like a tear.

Viv hid behind Connor. He made himself extra big, to shield her.

Red said firmly, her voice shaking, "Can't you end this?"

"Yes," said Malach. "He can. You, Camillo. Take your soldaat, and go. Or stay. But nowhere near to her."

"We ran," said Camillo, "in the snow. Men, not wolves."

Tina was pulling a face as if she were going to cry, and Pig put his arm round her. Cardiff lay where he had fallen, frowning. Rose and Whisper chewed cards. Lou had sidled off toward the trees.