She released his hand. He glanced down at the imprint of her fingers and thumb upon his skin. He waited for the marks to fade, but they stayed, like burns.

‘I’ve never asked you this before,’ he said, ‘but can you see, you know, the moment?’

‘Of a man’s death?’

‘Yes.’

‘No, I cannot.’

‘Then how can you be sure?’

‘I see shadows, clouds. They draw nearer and nearer, until finally the person is swallowed by them.’

‘And these shadows, can they be dispelled?’

‘Sometimes,’ said Zorya. ‘I’ve watched sick people get better, and then the shadows retreat, but they’re always present. They never go away, not entirely. The shadows are with us when we come into the world and they are with us when we leave.’

‘And mine?’

‘Yours are very close now, and very black.’

‘What about Spiridon and Radovan?’

‘I can’t tell you that, but you were never going to live to be old, Zivco.’

‘Not like you.’

‘No, not like me.’

‘May I ask one more question?’ said Zivco.

‘Of course.’

‘Do you ever see your own shadows?’

‘Lately I have begun to glimpse their approach,’ said Zorya, ‘but they are not just shadows. A figure walks among them.’

‘What is it?’

Zorya shivered.

‘It’s a girl.’

Chapter LI

Gavrilo Dražeta’s head hurt, and he had vomited on himself. He was slumped in his favorite armchair, his hands secured behind his back. He had a vague memory of being dragged across the floor of his home and into the living room, but it was more a recollection of movement than actual images. His wife was sitting on the couch opposite, her hands also tied. Behind her stood a huge man with a heavily scarred forehead. In his right hand, he held a long knife. His left rested almost possessively on the head of Dražeta’s wife.

A second man entered from the kitchen. He was carrying a glass of water, which he now placed to Dražeta’s lips.

‘Here,’ he said, ‘drink. It will make you feel better.’

Dražeta drank, because he really did feel very bad. He thought he might be sick again, but he managed to keep the water down. He’d taken blows to the head in the past and hadn’t enjoyed the experience. He knew it would take him days to recover from this latest concussion, assuming he was allowed to live.

The glass was placed on a side table and the second man returned to view. He was smaller than his companion, with sallow skin and a neatly trimmed beard. He wore a dark suit and a crisp white shirt without a tie. He moved an upright chair so that it faced Dražeta without obscuring his view of his wife, and sat down.

‘Gavrilo Dražeta,’ he said, ‘killer of Muslims, Croats, and Kosovar Albanians, among others. You’re a wanted man.’