Miriam stood up. “You have an hour to make up your mind whether you’re going to talk to me, or whether you’re going to talk to the Clan’s interrogators. If you talk to me, I won’t need to hurt you. I may even be able to keep you alive. The choice is yours.”

She glanced at Brill. “Keep an eye on him. I’m going to check on Olga.”

As she opened the door she heard the prisoner begin to weep quietly. She closed it behind herself hastily.

Miriam keyed her walkie-talkie. “Anyone out there? Over.”

“Just me,” replied Olga. “Hey, this wireless talkie thing is great, isn’t it?”

“See anyone?”

“Not a thing. I’m circling about fifty yards out. I can see you on the doorstep.”

“Right.” Miriam waved. “I just read our little housebreaker the riot act.”

“Want me to help hang him?”

“No.” Miriam could still feel the hot wash of rage at the intruder in her sights, and the sense of release as she pulled the trigger. Now that the anger had cooled, it made her feel queasy. The first time she’d shot someone, the killer in the orangery, she’d barely felt it. It had just been something she had to do, like stepping out of the path of an onrushing juggernaut: He’d killed Margit and was coming at her with a knife. But this, the lying in wait and the hot rush of righteous anger, left her with a growing sense of appalled guilt the longer she thought about it. It was avoidable, wasn’t it? “Our little housebreaker is just a chick. He’s crying for momma already. I think he’s going to sing like a bird as soon as we get him to the other side.”

“How are you doing?” asked Olga. “You came through badly.”

“Tell me about it.” Miriam shuddered. “The cold seems to be helping my head. I’ll be ready to go again in about an hour. Yourself?”

“I wish.” Olga hummed to herself. “I never had that headache pill.”

“Come over here, then,” said Miriam. “I’ve got the stuff.”

“Right.”

They converged on a tree about five yards from the hut. Miriam stripped off a glove and fumbled in her pocket for the strip of beta blockers and the bottle of ibuprofen. “Here. One of each. Wash it down with something, huh?”

“Surely.” Miriam waited in companionable silence while Olga swallowed, then pulled out a small hip flask and took a shot.

“What’s that?”

“Spiced hunter’s vodka. Fights the cold. Want some?”

“Better not, thanks.” Miriam glanced over her shoulder at the hut. “I’m giving him an hour. The poor bastard thinks I’m going to give him to Angbard to torture to death if he doesn’t tell me everything I want to know immediately.”

“You aren’t going to do that?” Olga’s expression was unreadable behind her bulky headset.