“This is a miracle!” The Warden sighed. Her fingers came away with a handful of dry reeds.

Ark wasn’t too sure about the miracle side of things. He looked around and saw that he’d landed in the middle of a straw cradle. As he’d punched through the roof, the thatch had also come away, cushioning his fall. “I was trying to grab …” It was coming back to him now. His left hand uncurled to reveal an object shining black in the candlelight. A feather. A raven feather, its quill viciously sharp.

“What?” said the Warden.

“Nothing.” How could Ark explain that a feather nearly killed him? It didn’t make sense. Hold the feather, grab the weather, woe betide me, Lady hide me. The chant came back to him. That’s what he was doing. Holding a feather.

Before he could hide it away, the Warden’s hand shot out, fingers touching the vane.

“Sky preserve us!” she shuddered, her fingertips recoiling in shock. “This is not possible.”

“What?” said Ark.

“A gift. And there was I beginning to lose all faith. But this is a dark matter indeed.” A frown carved itself into the reverend’s brow. “There is danger and death folded within its softness.”

Ark felt the feather. The quill was sharp, but it wasn’t exactly going to kill him! “If it’s a gift, who did it come from?”

The reverend ignored the question and fell silent, her blind orbs of white trying to see something beyond her vision. “As you are invisible to me, when the time comes, darkness will help to hide you.”

“Right …,” said Ark, his head aching. Goodwoody was spouting riddles again.

“Are you in trouble, my boy?”

Ark noticed the lining of bright red silk peeking out from inside the Warden’s cloak. For the Holly Woodsmen, such bold color worn inside the kirk was almost heretical. But who else would keep the shrines spotless, the figurines waxed and polished, the candles trimmed and lit? What could he say to her? He’d already told Mucum and put him in danger. “I’m fine,” he lied, continuing quickly, “apart from a few bruises. I guess I’ll be a bit stiff in the morning.” It was the best he could do. “Please. You haven’t spoken with me. I can’t explain now.”

The reverend smiled sadly. “But the feather has spoken to me! You must trust in your instincts. And know now that you are not alone.”

That was no answer. He slid the feather silently into his bag, feeling frustrated. “I’m afraid there’s a hole in your roof. You’ll be in trouble.”