In the northwest, the red line of sunset had gone a gorgeous ashes-of-roses shade. Tian was in the barn with the animals, aided by Heddon and Hedda. The younger twins were in the kitchen. The giants, Tia and Zalman, stood at the far edge of the dooryard, looking off toward the east, not speaking or moving. They might have been monoliths in a National Geographic photograph of Easter Island. Looking at them gave Eddie a moderate case of the creeps. Still, he counted his blessings. Gran-pere seemed relatively bright and aware, and although his accent was thick—almost a burlesque—he’d had no trouble following what the old man was saying, at least so far.

“I don’t think the years between matter that much, sir,” Eddie said.

Gran-pere’s eyebrows went up. He uttered his rusty laugh. “Sir, yet! Been long and long sin’ Ah heerd that! Ye must be from the northern folk!”

“I guess I am, at that,” Eddie said.

Gran-pere lapsed into a long silence, looking at the fading sunset. Then he looked around at Eddie again with some surprise. “Did we eat yet? Wittles n rations?”

Eddie’s heart sank. “Yes, sir. At the table on the other side of the house.”

“Ah ask because if Ah’m gonna shoot some dirt, Ah usually shoot it d’recly after the night meal. Don’t feel no urge, so Ah thought Ah’d ask.”

“No. We ate.”

“Ah. And what’s your name?”

“Eddie Dean.”

“Ah.” The old man drew on his pipe. Twin curls of smoke drifted from his nose. “And the brownie’s yours?” Eddie was about to ask for clarification when Gran-pere gave it. “The woman.”

“Susannah. Yes, she’s my wife.”

“Ah.”

“Sir…Gran-pere…the Wolves?” But Eddie no longer believed he was going to get anything from the old guy. Maybe Suze could—

“As Ah recall, there was four of us,” Gran-pere said.

“Not five?”

“Nar, nar, although close enow so you could say a moit.” His voice had become dry, matter-of-fact. The accent dropped away a little. “We ’us young and wild, didn’t give a rat’s red ass if we lived or died, do ya kennit. Just pissed enow to take a stand whether the rest of ’un said yes, no, or maybe. There ’us me…Pokey Slidell…who ’us my best friend…and there ’us Eamon Doolin and his wife, that redheaded Molly. She was the very devil when it came to throwin the dish.”

“The dish?”

“Aye, the Sisters of Oriza throw it. Zee’s one. Ah’ll make her show’ee. They have plates sharpened all the way around except fer where the women hold on, do’ee ken. Nasty wittit, they are, aye! Make a man witta bah look right stupid. You ort to see.”