Molly Doolin is wearing tight black silk pants and a white silk blouse open at the throat to show a tiny silver reap charm: Oriza with her fist raised. In her own right hand, Molly holds a sharpened dish, cool blue titanium steel painted over with a delicate lacework of green spring rice. Slung over her shoulder is a reed pouch lined with silk. In it are five more plates, two of her own and three of her mother’s. Her hair is so bright in the bright light that it looks as if her head is on fire. Soon enough itwill be burning, say true.

“You can do what you like, Eamon Doolin,” she tells him. “As for me, I’m going to stand right here where they can see me and shout my twin sister’s name so they’ll hear it plain. They may ride me down but I’ll kill one of ’un or cut the legs out from under one of their damn horses before they do, of that much I’ll be bound.”

There’s no time for more. The Wolves come out of the dip that marks the entrance to Arra’s little smallhold patch, and the four Calla-folken can see them at last and there is no more talk of hiding. Jamie almost expected Eamon Doolin, who is mild-mannered and already losing his hair at twenty-three, to drop his bah and go pelting into the high grass with his hands raised to show his surrender. Instead, he moves into place next to his wife and nocks a bolt. There is a low whirring sound as he winds the cord tight-tight.

They stand across the road with their boots in the floury dust. They stand blocking the road. And what fills Jamie like a blessing is a sense of grace. This is the right thing to do. They’re going to die here, but that’s all right. Better to die than stand by while they take more children. Each one of them has lost a twin, and Pokey— who is by far the oldest of them— has lost both a brother and a young son to the Wolves. This is right. They understand that the Wolves may exact a toll of vengeance on the rest for this stand they’re making, but it doesn’t matter. This is right.

“Come on!” Jamie shouts, and winds his own bah— once and twice, thenclick . “Come on, ’ee buzzards! ’Ee cowardy custards, come on and have some! Say Calla! Say Calla Bryn Sturgis!”