‘You’re heading back to the Rookery?’

He jerks his head. ‘Got to bury the ones the Seekers didn’t snatch, before they start to stink too bad.’

‘Well, when you’re done there, come and see me in Landfall and we’ll discuss the matter of your recruiting.’ She smiles. ‘You understand all that?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘Good.’ She sits back. ‘You may go.’

The Rooks stand and shuffle towards the door, the youngest glancing nervously at Pegeen’s revolver.

‘What do you say?’ Peg’s voice stops them.

‘Thank you,’ they each mutter, before shoving their way outside.

Falco turns back to the table where Silas sits awkwardly, fiddling with the pipe that she had refused to let him smoke.

‘I, ah, think I should go check on the Charis?’ he says hopefully.

Falco nods in permission and he hurries out, not without a lingering glance at me. She laughs when she sees that.

‘You sure pick them, Doc.’ She takes a slurp of her coffee. Without the Rooks the small room seems cosier, with the stove sending out an orange fug of warmth and my belly full, the sugar of preserved fruit tingling in my blood. And yet there is talk to be had, painful though it is.

‘What happened back at the Pit?’ I ask them both softly.

Falco shakes her head. ‘We got out. Don’t ask me how. It wasn’t pretty. Would have headed for Landfall, but some pit fiends laid chase, pushed us clear in the wrong direction. Fifty klicks before they gave up.’ She sighs, setting down the mug. ‘Had to use the fuel out of Peg’s mare to get us even halfway here. Pushed the wagon hard as I could, for Boots’s sake, but…’

She trails off, staring down at the peeling tabletop. Peg holsters the revolver to put an arm around Falco’s neck, leaning their head against hers.

‘I am sorry,’ I say. ‘If I had been there…’

Falco sniffs hard. ‘No use wishing on it now.’

We sit in silence for a time, listening to the wind lap at the edge of the door.

‘I’ll go check on Gabi,’ Peg says quietly, leaving a kiss on the side of Falco’s face.

I fill our mugs from the pot on the stove and stare down into that weak, sweet brew that tastes like the ghost of coffee, waiting for Falco to ask about Moloney, and the Edge and how the General and I are alive.

But to my surprise, she doesn’t. Instead, she leans forwards with a grunt and takes a battered tin from her pack.

It’s some kind of cream, I see, smelling strongly of artificial violets. She scoops some out and works it across her strong, scarred knuckles, pushing up her sleeves to rub it into the ashy skin of her elbows. ‘Damn moon,’ she mutters. ‘Makes everything dryer than a drunk’s eyeball.’ She holds out the tin. ‘You should use some too, before you turn into Gilli.’