Bluma shrugged. “Because if you wanted more time with him, I think you should’ve gotten it.”

Yehuda Leib averted his eyes and began to chew at the inside of his lower lip. “Bluma,” he said. “I’m going back.”

“What?” said Bluma. “To Tupik?”

“No,” said Yehuda Leib.

For a moment, she considered asking him where, then, he meant to go.

But they both knew.

“Why?”

“Because,” said Yehuda Leib, “he’s a bully. And a tyrant.”

“Who is?” said Bluma. “Your father?”

“No,” said Yehuda Leib. “The Dark One.”

“Oh, I know her,” said Bluma.

And though they spoke of Death with different words, neither noticed. For everyone knows: those who walk in the shadow of Death can see only its nearest face.

“You do?”

“She tried to catch me in Tupik.”

Yehuda Leib’s expression fell.

“Oh,” said Yehuda Leib. “Oh, Bluma, I’m so sorry.”

Bluma shrugged and slotted her hands into her pockets.

“What are you going to do?” said Yehuda Leib. “Keep running?”

She shook her head. “There’s no running fast enough.”

At this, Yehuda Leib nodded.

“And what about you?” said Bluma.

“I’m going to get my father back,” said Yehuda Leib. “I’m going to fight against the Dark One. And I’m going to win.”

Yehuda Leib’s eyes were blazing. Bluma had never seen such determination in her life. Idly, hand in her pocket, she ran the pad of her thumb through the basin of her spoon.

“Good,” she said. “Then I’ll come with you.”

Yehuda Leib grimaced, and then, after a moment, he spoke. “All right.”

This took Bluma by surprise. She’d been prepared to argue, to explain how no one on their side of the Cemetery had ever managed to evade Death before, how she had reason to believe there were beings in the Far Country who had the resources to help her.

“Aren’t you going to try and talk me out of it?” said Bluma.

Yehuda Leib shrugged. “Do you want me to?”

Bluma shook her head.

“Then what good would it do?” said Yehuda Leib.

And softly, in the empty aloneness the spoon had begun to carve out inside her, something warm began to flicker and glow.

Yehuda Leib was not yet prepared to leave—his thoughts were fixed on a set of shadowy windows above a nearby general store—but daylight was in short supply in that season, and neither he nor Bluma relished the thought of setting out after dark.

At first Yehuda Leib suggested meeting back up by the wrought-iron gates of Zubinsk’s main cemetery, but Bluma was resistant—that place made her skin crawl.

“No,” she said. “I bet it’s still packed with them.”

Yehuda Leib was not so sure, but Bluma was adamant.

“But how else can we get back in?” said Yehuda Leib.