She put the spurs back where she had found them, got up, and looked at the shelf to the right of the desk, handy to Pat Delgado’s smart hand. Here was a line of leather-bound ledgers, a priceless trove of books in a society that had forgotten how to make paper. Her father had been the man in charge of the Barony’s horse for almost thirty years, and here were his stockline books to prove it.

Susan took down the last one and began to page through it. This time she almost welcomed the pang that struck her as she saw her father’s familiar hand—the labored script, the steep and somehow more confident numbers.

Born of HENRIETTA, (2) foals both well Stillborn of DELIA, a roan (MUTANT) Born of YOLANDA, a THOROUGHBRED, a GOOD MALE COLT

And, following each, the date. So neat, he had been. So thorough. So...

She stopped suddenly, aware that she had found what she was looking for even without any clear knowledge of what she was doing in here. The last dozen pages of her da’s final stockline book had been torn out.

Who had done it? Not her father; a largely self-taught man, he revered paper the way some people revered gods or gold.

And why had it been done?

That she thought she knew: horses, of courses. There were too many on the Drop. And the ranchers—Lengyll, Croydon, Renfrew—were lying about the threaded quality of the stockline. So was Henry Wertner, the man who had succeeded to her father’s job.

If my da was here—

But he’s not. He’s dead.

She had told Roland she couldn’t believe Fran Lengyll would lie about her father’s death... but she could believe it now.

Gods help her, she could believe it now.

“What are ye doing in here?”

She gave a little scream, dropped the book, and whirled around. Cordelia stood there in one of her rusty black dresses. The top three buttons were undone, and Susan could see her aunt’s collarbones sticking out above the plain white cotton of her shift. It was only on seeing those protruding bones that Susan realized how much weight Aunt Cord had lost over the last three months or so. She could see the red imprint of the pillow on her aunt’s left cheek, like the mark of a slap. Her eyes glittered from dark, bruised-looking hollows of flesh.

“Aunt Cord! You startled me! You—”

“What are ye doing in here?” Aunt Cord repeated.