“The crows brought his body home – a miserable and treacherous journey. The dead are a heavy weight to carry.”

Carrying the corpse through the dank air of the woods. I try not to think about it.

“Jack refused to have anything to do with the crows from then on, and now I suspect no one knows he was ever involved. I am probably the only one. If Mayor Longsight knew, he would reconsider his blind trust of Jack. And, as for why Jack risks it all and goes to the hall of remembrance each night? Well, Davey Minnow never had a weighing of the soul ceremony. He was forgotten.”

That word, forgotten, still stuns my soul.

Sometimes when I think about Dad I can only remember what he was like at the end, and the guilt I feel for that weighs me down like a million white stones. He’s not that wrinkled man who could hardly speak, whose breath smelled of decay and whose eyes were frozen lakes. He is more than that – a lifetime more. A lifetime of his laugh, his voice telling me a story or teasing Mum. His fingernails cut neat and short for his work; his broad, capable hands. The hands that held mine when I was learning how to cross roads; that held mine when I wanted him to show me how to draw; the hands that held on so tightly when he knew he was going to die. It always comes back to that – my thoughts and memories always reach the end point, no matter how much I try to send them back to the beginning. It is that whole life that needs to be remembered. I still yearn to find his book and read it again. Maybe Mel will help me, like she said.

Jack Minnow is not that different from me. His father a crow, by all accounts a good man. And yet…

If the injustice of his father’s death and status as forgotten has been eating him from within all this time, no wonder Jack Minnow has barely anything left of his own soul.

Chapter Twenty-eight

The closer we get to Saintstone, the more we pick up our pace. We both dread what we will find on our return.

It is the middle of the night by the time we arrive, and the echo of our horses’ hoof beats is all I hear; there is no screaming, no weeping, no sound of battle or destruction. We walk with our horses and return them to stables that are empty, the sounds of them drinking and the clinking and creaking of tack being removed, the sweep of brushes – they are all so loud against the backdrop of quiet that it feels conspicuous. On foot, we head to the centre of the town, treading carefully as though we are creeping up on our prey.

Homes are shut up as usual, sleepy and calm, and I begin to wonder whether Sana has tricked us after all. But then we walk around the corner into the square, and we stop.