“Excuse me,” said a voice, and the Dark One turned to look over its shoulder.

A young Hasid was standing in a doorway across the road, warm light streaming past him into the street.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” he said. “But we need a tenth man for our prayers.”

The snow was thickening now, and with horror, the Dark One began to remember.

“Psalms,” said the Hasid, and then, gesturing upward to the bedroom window above: “For the Rebbe.”

Like a flash of blue lightning through the thick evening snow, memory shot through the Dark One’s mind:

The Rebbe.

His kindness.

His friendship.

His fall.

It was all the Dark One’s fault.

“Will you join us?” said the young Hasid.

“Please,” said the Dark One. “Please, lead the way.”

Chapter Twelve: Strange Navigation

Lilith was displeased.

The Lileen were huddled close around their injured Sister—licking, purring, condoling—but Lilith stood aside, staring deep into the forest between Tupik and Zubinsk.

She was terribly displeased.

In the blinking of an eye, an old gray lady rose from the knot of cats and settled in beside her.

“Will we go to war?” said the old lady.

Lilith sighed. “Something ought to be done,” she said. “If Dumah is permitted to treat our Sisters in this manner without fear of repercussion…”

“Yes,” said a second Sister, rising also from the huddle of comfort on the snowy forest floor. “We must teach him a lesson.”

“Indeed, we must,” said Lilith.

“But it would be foolish to make war with Dumah,” said a third Sister. “One might as well gossip with Belial, or bargain with Mammon.”

“It would be difficult, yes,” said Lilith. “Perhaps even foolish. But is there any stronger rebuke than that spoken in the native tongue?”

“Dumah is Silence,” said the first Sister. “What language does Silence speak?”

“She means war,” said another. “War is Dumah’s tongue.”

“It is,” said Lilith. “And he is eloquent.”

“If only we had taken Rokhl in Zubinsk….”

One of the gray Sisters spat. “We should have taken the Bluma girl when we had the chance.”

“Perhaps,” said Lilith softly. “But she may yet be the solution to our problem.”

“Oh?” said a gray lady. “How’s that?”

Lilith was silent.

After a long moment’s thought, she turned back toward the grove and spoke:

“My Sister.”

The knot of comforting cats parted to reveal a lady in a torn gray shift, bruised and battered, lying in the snow. Her eyes were red with tears, and one of her legs was badly broken. “Yes?” she said.

“Why do you think they want the Bluma girl?”

The broken Sister sat up, wincing. “I do not know for certain. One of them spoke of a great weapon.”

Lilith’s eyes narrowed. “What weapon?”

A Sister spoke: “Perhaps they mean to use Bluma as we meant to use Rokhl—as a living vessel.”

Lilith grimaced. “Perhaps.”