The lamp travelled further out across the boards. Clear at first, swaying in steady rhythms with the horse’s gait, then finally, and to Peter’s relief, faint until it was swallowed by the mists.

“Keep going,” he whispered to the intruder. “Don’t look back.”

Peter lowered his arm to his side. After a few moments the glow had almost disappeared. He started to make his way back across the bridge, when Cooper suddenly called.

“Peter? Pete!”

The lamplight stopped moving. It hovered in place. Predatory. Patient. A hawk on the wind, alert to the sound of prey on the ground below. But for a moment at least, it didn’t seem too interested in taking the bait and stayed exactly where it was, faint inside the mist. Then it turned.

The intruder brought their horse back around and the glow brightened. Peter held his breath, paying little attention to the burn of sulphur in the back of his throat, and watched the lamp take shape. It was an orb of some kind, swinging from the end of a staff. Cooper called out for a second time and the orb lowered, leaning into the sound, deeper into the direction of his voice this time.

Peter’s throat tightened. “Be quiet, Cooper,” he whispered. “Just be quiet a damned minute.”

Quickly, he ran on soft feet back along the bridge to the timber stepping stones. He strode out on to the first and the light stayed where it was. He crossed the third, went on to the fourth and turned back again. The orb held its position. Reassured, Peter leaped back on to the boardwalk and turned. Steam folded across the stepping stones behind him, covering his path. The cabin had gone. He swung back round to look for the orb. The intruder had gone too.

“You better quit runnin’ off like that,” said Cooper, emerging through the steam holding Peter’s wolfskin out. “Here. Put this back on before you catch your—”

“Ssh.” Peter raised his forefinger to his lips. “We’re not alone.”

“Nah, they’re fine. I sent ’em on their way.”

“No, not the Restless Ones. Something else. Coop, there are two dead bodies near the cabin back there.” In his mind’s eye, Peter saw the crib hanging in the silence, but chose not to amend the number and quietly cleared his throat. “Coop, I think they were Returnees.”

Cooper withdrew, lowering his head so spills of blond hair partially covered his face. He just stood there in silence, the dark pools of his eyes glowering. It hurt him. Learning of another Returnee’s death always hurt. And it didn’t seem to matter that they’d made it in time to help every other person before this. For the first time since they’d set out in Rider’s name to tell people of a place called Wranglestone, they had come too late.

Cooper cleared his throat. “We should bury ’em.”