“She must be stopped,” I say. My voice sounds tired. “Longsight’s new teachings have, for the first time in years, distracted the people from their hatred of the blanks. If ever we were to broker for peace, it is now.” I look to Mel, because there is more to the story – her dreams, the prophecy of the sisters, my rapidly cohering mark. But she shakes her head, ever so slightly. “Tomorrow we will visit Featherstone and we will be heard. Whether Sana will listen is another matter.”

They are silent for a while, thinking. And then, at last, Tanya nods.

“If there is a chance for peace, then we must take it. But Sana is very far gone with her hatred. We know what she is capable of.”

Mel nods. “And yet, we can but try.” She rubs her eyes. “Leora, we must sleep – we have much work ahead of us.”

“I’ll take you to her myself, in the morning,” Oscar says and stands. Mel raises an eyebrow and smiles at me.

“He’s brave, your Oscar,” she murmurs as we walk together towards our sleeping area.

And, as I lie there, I let those words swirl deliciously in my mind. My Oscar.

Chapter Twenty-five

The early morning in a forest is a strange time to be human. It is the time at which you are most aware that you don’t belong – this territory is owned by the others. Birds trill and caw in a cloud of sound and squirrels are at their most brave. A fox waits us out along a path, standing its ground while we step by, all big feet and noise. A pheasant ignores us and a magpie flutters over our heads, the beats of its wings making my heart race.

Mel has been collecting twigs and sticks, putting them into her satchel as she walks. When we cross the stream, Mel passes the horse’s reins to Oscar and, paying no attention to our confused faces, dips a bucket she brought from the camp to collect water. Oscar and I lead the horses while Mel walks, swaying with the weight of the bucket. We are close now, so very close.

Featherstone is still asleep when we arrive.

The sky is pink and scarlet when Mel walks up the slope towards the ever-burning fire. The bucket of water laps as she walks. When she reaches the top, she turns and looks down towards the village. With her feet planted, the pail of water in her hand and the fire raging behind her, she is the silhouette of a goddess: a flaming deity of warning and judgement.

The man who has been tending the fire through the night goes to Mel, but when he sees her skin he runs towards the settlement. Her marks are extraordinary in the firelight – the burnished tales of Saintstone. Her ink is like molten metal, like weapons being forged, like silver in the crucible. Like war, like peace.