‘It’s not that.’ I let the cloth fall to the floor. ‘I swore that I would save lives, not take them.’

‘A man like Joliffe doesn’t give a damn about what you swore.’ He looks at me through the smoke. ‘You did what you had to, Ten.’

‘You’re still calling me that.’ Wearily, I sit down beside him and when he offers the pipe, I take it. ‘Why? You know it isn’t real.’

‘Real or not, it’s what you told me, that first day.’ He shrugs. ‘I can call you Low, if you prefer.’

‘It doesn’t matter now.’

Slowly, the terror and pain ebb from me, the century fills my head, making everything soft and distant.

‘I should go,’ I murmur at last, but don’t move. Silas’s arm presses against mine, so that I feel the warmth of his skin through the threadbare shirt.

‘I don’t want to be alone,’ I say. ‘Not tonight.’

‘And tomorrow? Will you leave?’ He traces a pattern on my knuckles. ‘I meant it before. If you wanted to stay on the Charis…’

There’s no good answer I can give. Instead, I turn towards him, so close that I feel his breath on my cheek, sticky with smoke and liquor. I lift a hand to touch the fading bruise on his eyebrow. In turn, he reaches out to brush a hand across my scalp, the scars on my temples.

‘Who are you?’ he whispers.

I lean in and meet his lips.

* * *

I’m back in the desert, in a storm of sand, and around me something terrible is happening. Cries, screams. One by one, figures appear from the murk, some fumbling for guns, others peppered with blood and burns. I look behind me and see Pegeen, lying empty-eyed; Falco spinning to the ground, lit up by a hail of charges; the General, face down, blood seeping from her middle. I watch the Charis crash horribly into the sand, all the trash and clutter of the flight deck spilling out around Silas’s lifeless body.

A figure looms above me, her eyes dark and merciless as a raptor’s, her hands gloved in blood…

I open my eyes and the dream fades. I’m shaking, my naked back slick with cold sweat. What have I seen?

Silas stirs in his sleep, reaching for me. I look down at his shape in the sheets, wishing that I could separate this small corner of reality from the rest, tear it away as easily as paper and live within it, forgotten.

But I can’t. Quietly, I pull on my clothes and boots and slip from the room.

The saloon is silent. It’s dark outside, but I sense that night is losing its grip, beginning the slow slide towards morning. When I open the back door, the wind picks up, like dogs that have been waiting for someone to come, tangling about my ankles. I breathe it in, wondering why I’ve left the comfort of Silas’s bed.

‘It’s as I thought.’