“I do,” said Mammon. “We are on our way. But navigation in the Far Country is not the same as it is in the living lands: things do not remain where they are put. Lord Dantalion resides deep beneath the Dead City; the Dead City lies beyond the Gallows, and the only sure way to find the Gallows is to flee from Death.”

Yehuda Leib shook his head. “But I have no desire to flee. I mean to break in.”

“Oh,” said Mammon, “I know.” And with a toothy grin, he turned his beady little eyes on Bluma.

He didn’t have to say a word.

Swiftly, Bluma turned and fled.

—

It wasn’t long before Mammon and Yehuda Leib caught up with Bluma.

Bluma heard the rattling of the pram as they drew near, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to care. It felt as if there were something huge on top of her chest, something so heavy that she could never hope to lift it off.

Death.

Death was always coming.

She could not catch her breath.

“Bluma?” said Yehuda Leib.

Bluma was shocked by the nearness of his voice. She turned her head to face him, but she could not remember what he had asked.

Her eyes were wide. “What?” she said.

Yehuda Leib nodded and reached out his hand. “Come on.”

With a soft tug, Yehuda Leib helped Bluma to her feet, and they began to pace slowly over the snow.

“Are you all right?”

Sudden tears filled Bluma’s eyes. “I don’t understand,” she said. “I don’t know how you can go toward that place on purpose. It hurts.”

Yehuda Leib gave a heavy sigh. “It’s just…,” he said. “That I don’t think I have a choice.”

“Of course you do,” said Bluma. “Of course. You could get as far away as possible.”

“Yes,” said Yehuda Leib. “But someone very smart once told me that there’s no running fast enough.”

Bluma made a sound that had not yet decided whether it would be a chuckle or a sob.

“There are just so many things I still need to know.”

“Like what?” said Bluma.

Yehuda Leib’s cheek bunched up, his lips tightening. How could he possibly manage to answer this question sufficiently?

Because he wanted to know so much: what his father had liked to eat and drink, say, or which colors had appealed to him, what songs he’d known. He wanted to watch his father build a fire in the family hearth, wanted to see him in a fight. And there were questions, too, questions that he wanted to ask: What had his father’s childhood been like? Had he, too, been an unpopular boy? He wanted to know where his father had traveled, what he had seen, which battles he’d fought in; he wanted to know why he hadn’t come back home as soon as he possibly could.