South of the Kickaha Mountains, but already deep into the acres that made up the Kickaha rez, the dog that was Rabedy burst out from a shadowed forest in the between to pad across the meadow where Big Dan and his gang had killed the doe. He followed the slope of the meadow down to the bed of a creek and cast about for scent, his ears attuned to the approach of anything that didn’t belong here.

Belonged any less than he did, Rabedy corrected himself, then put that thought away. He wasn’t here to hurt anyone. He was here to make amends as best he could. Except he couldn’t help but be nervous, all the same, seeing how he was out here on his own in the green and the wild. But either the green-brees were too occupied with their own business to spy him here in their territories, or wearing a dog shape made him seem more like a greenbree himself, less like a bogan.

He found the bones first—already stripped clean by crows and foxes and other scavengers. Their scent was everywhere. But under it, the smell of the doe’s blood could still be found, an echo of scent clinging to the brush and stones. It grew stronger under the old beech tree where they’d butchered the carcass.

But the spirit of Walker’s daughter wasn’t here.

He hesitated for a long moment, knowing what he needed to do now, only nervous about attracting attention other than that of this one spirit to himself. But he had no choice.

He changed back into his bogan shape—it was so easy, once you knew the trick—and stood barefoot in his proper shape. There were no lingering bits of dog. His ears didn’t droop, but rose to their proper height. There was no tail slapping against his buttocks.

He wore no clothes either. He remembered Odawa explaining how they were drawn from one’s surroundings, molecule after molecule convinced to take another shape. Unable to master the change into animal shape, none of the bogans had really paid much attention to that part of the instruction, including Rabedy.

He was pretty sure he could puzzle it out now, but he couldn’t spare the time. He didn’t need clothes anyway, not for what he was here to do. He called out—across the meadow, up into the branches of the tree, down by the creek, anywhere a spirit might still be lingering. Over and over again, he made his apologies and explained why he was here.

When there was still no response after another few minutes of this, he became a dog once more. He exulted in the powerful muscles of this shape and sped off across the meadow and into the woods, heading for the crossroads where the fiddler and her corbae had stood up to Big Dan and taken the doe’s remains away from them.