And still it isn’t over. Another shot sounds — the fifth, the sixth? — rips a hole in the door the size of a fist. Then the whole coach buckles and leaps. It is as though even the wood and wheels are trying to get away from the shooters. For a breath it stops, gathering strength. Then it leaps again, tilts, topples. The next moment the very ground has given way and they are falling, rolling, her scream drowned out by those of the horses. The impact throws them into a tangle of limbs and breaks open the coach like a conker: sunshine above, the play of sun and cloud.

It is only when she sees the trees that she understands what has happened. She should have thought of it before: she knows this road, has ridden it a hundred times. Across from the old windmill, running parallel to the road, is a sharp dip — almost a ravine — that drops some seven or eight yards, down to the edge of a forest below. In mortal terror, the horses must have dragged them off the path. Three hang dead within the harness now, two bleeding from gunshot wounds, the third with its head twisted backwards atop its broken neck. It’s the fourth horse that keeps on screaming. Two of its legs are broken, spill out of their knee joints like limp flippers. When she starts moving, it is to get away from these screams. Next to her, Charlie is already pulling Thomas’s body out of the wreckage. It takes courage to turn and help him lift it up over his shoulder. She is glad she finds this courage and gladder yet she isn’t asked for more. They run for the trees, away from the attack, Thomas’s head, chest, and arms dangling limp down Charlie’s back.

The forest is dense. There is no obvious path and, near the edge, shrubs cut their clothing to shreds. Fifty steps in, their progress improves. There’s older growth here, tall trees that throw mighty shadows. They eat too much light for shrubs to grow along the forest floor. Dead leaves swallow their boots up to the ankles; their crackle follows them, the forest’s whisper, showing their pursuers the way. Neither she nor Charlie suggests slowing down.

They have to stop eventually. The weight of a second body becomes too much for Charlie. It is astonishing he has borne it for this long. He staggers and drops his burden; falls down next to it. When Livia slides to her knees beside him, she finds Thomas’s blood has soaked Charlie’s jacket, at the small of his back. It is impossible to think of him now as Mr. Cooper.

“Is he alive?” Charlie asks. He has to speak through his panting breath, sneaking the words out in between inhalations. It gives an odd, dispassionate quality to his voice, like he is too exhausted for emotion.