She smiles in relief. ‘And then you were safe, Dad. You were all safe. It couldn’t find you.’
He shakes his head sadly. ‘Yes, love. But we weren’t us anymore.’
‘There was no other way, Dad. No other way.’
‘You don’t know that,’ he says.
‘Don’t say that,’ she screams. ‘Don’t youdare!’
She pushes him two-handed in the chest and he sprawls to the floor. Moves to stand over him, her hips casting sharpened shadows.
‘I don’t regret it for a second, Dad. I’d do it all again. We’re free. And we’re going to stay free.’
He looks up at her from the floor, her flushed cheeks and clenched fists.
She glances at her hands, at him, shock flitting across her face, and slowly lets them fall.
He makes a note of that. Levers himself to a sitting position, ‘What do you mean, stay?’
She offers him a hand, lifts him with steely ease. Straightens his clothes, brushes imagined dust from his shoulders.
‘Stay free,’ she says, her voice banked low. ‘Stay nameless. We have to.’ She sits again. ‘It’s the only way to be safe.’
He sits next to her, tentatively, leaving a little distance. ‘That could be tricky. A lot of people want their names back.’ He pauses. ‘Iwant my name back.’
She shakes her head. ‘It can’t happen. The eye will find them. Strip them. Stripyou.’
He shifts his shoulder carefully, opens up a space for her. She settles her head under his arm.
‘There are others, you know?’ he murmurs. He waits, then decides to risk it. ‘Fallon …’
‘He’s already lost,’ she mutters. ‘If it hasn’t taken him already, it will soon.’
He runs a hand down her arm. ‘Nonsense, Fallon’s fine.’
She smiles sadly. ‘You can’t prove that.’
Crowkisser turns to face him and crosses her legs. Fumbling for the bottle, she struggles the stopper loose and pours. ‘You think it’s not patient? Not clever?’ She drinks deep with barely a flicker, waves the cup. ‘Sure, first it gorges. Fast and messy. Like a starved child. But,’ she raises a finger. ‘But why rush now? We can’t get away. It’s filled itself so’ – she stops, coughing – ‘so incredibly full from the south that it has the luxury of time. We,’ she says unsteadily. ‘We don’t.’
Shroudweaver reaches out his glass, his mind half on her words, half on her mother’s mannerisms moving her hands. Outside, the fires have fallen to embers, and the camp is slowly filling with the sounds of people crumbling into sleep. Someone’s fucking, hard and low and breathless, and he smiles a little at that sweaty little comfort. Shipwright’s shadow lingers briefly against their tent. A moment for her to listen and hearing their voices, move away, but not too far.
Crowkisser pours, empties the bottle down to the dregs andtwists it thoughtfully in the light. ‘I used to hate this stuff. All those greasy little fishermen in their fishy little cottages.’ She half-laughs, then sits down woozily, holding the glass up between thumb and finger, and sniffing it. ‘But now, now it tastes like home.’
Shroudweaver sips. ‘It reminds me of my father. He loved this. Loved anything with a fire in it.’ He smiles. ‘He would’ve loved you.’
‘You’re drunk,’ she says.
‘I have to be,’ he replies.
She smiles, and for a little while they let the smoke hang in the air, watching the shape of the flames, the shapes of each other.
Eventually, he forces himself to speak. ‘We can’t stay like this forever.’
She shoots him a look, half-angry, half-sad. ‘Like this?’
He nods. ‘Hiding. We can’t stay hidden forever. Even if I did agree with you.’
She makes a noncommittal noise.
