Hugo handed his crossbow to the girl, and he took her badge between his callused fingertips. The exchange reminded him of something from a distant time and place. As Hugo watched the girl sight down the tiller, he knew he had to instruct her in its use. He should find her a proper target. But he was so tired. The thought a few moments ago about his shoulders made him relax them again, and then he realized he’d been clenching his stomach since he’d landed on this continent.

The people who were approaching must have been making noises. They must have been tromping through the snow, they must have been yelling a Dobry vyecher his way. The hoes and shovels they were carrying, the rusted pitchforks that shook up and down with every step they took, must have clanged against one another at least once or twice.

How strange it was, so deep into a winter that would not end, to find a perfect moment of quiet. He knew it would lift in less than a heartbeat, less than a second. If he could only take a snapshot of this moment and make it last, he would remember that he had felt it, and it might mean something later. He breathed slowly. He smiled. He closed his eyes.

Ironside spent that evening in Shredmehrenga, where the billeting was American. Yet another man characterized the weather as so cold you could hear your spit crack when it hit the ground. After the cuckoo clock (a rarity, and in fact a gift from the village blacksmith, who had trained in Lucerne) chirped midnight, Ironside had the pony sleigh set up. Then, because he had a heart, he dismissed the groom, who had taken a shine to a young widow nearby.

Ironside traveled alone behind his pony, reclined like a baby in bulrushes.

It was a clear night. This one was illuminated by that fantastic full moon as bright as if hewn from polished silver, and swollen, looking ready to burst. Ironside recalled childhood astronomy lessons. There was the Sea of Tranquillity, there the Sea of Serenity. The rhythm of the pony trotting ahead of him along the flat and comfortable trail, the way the sleigh runners made an amiable rumbling along the hard-packed snow, left him drowsy and reflective. He missed his wife. He was muffled entirely in furs, except for a small band across his eyes.

Ironside was asleep. The pony stumbled, and, simultaneously, there was a pinging like a hammer rapping against a stone block. The sleigh went off its course, startling Ironside upright, and his animal, with a groan, fell into a shallow bank of snow.