“Ma’am,” he addressed her. “As you know, I knew the Sheriff briefly, in both his guises. Are you sure he’d really want you to risk your life, let alone his only son’s, by staying here?”

She met his eyes straight on, without fear. “In the town my husband founded? Where else would I go, Mister Rook?”

“Well . . . many places. There’s a seat left open amongst us, for example, for every outcast.” And here he indicated Berta, Clo and Eulie, just settling down behind him. “My intelligencers inform me you’re scorned, accorded not even half the respect you merit — but we’ve more women than men in our councils, Missus Love; hell, we’re ruled by a Lady, and a most powerful one. We’d grant you authority fitting your mettle.”

“You’re ruled by a devil in woman’s shape, whose laws designate any without witchery in your city as no better than slaves . . . though even those with witchery seem like as not to wind up on her altar, sooner or later.” Switching her uncompromising glare to Fennig and the girls, she continued: “Those in Satan’s service meet only one end, however long it takes: They’re eaten by their master, body and soul. Are you sure you’re all far too useful ever to be made a meal of?”

Clo’s eyes flashed. “Ye little limb!”

Berta and Eulie, meanwhile, had turned their mutual attention on Catlin, who was scuttling backward with hands flung up, calling (predictably enough) on Leviticus, 20:27. Eulie gave a girlish laugh. “Cute, ain’t he, sissy? Like somethin’ off a band-box!”

“A real wedding cake swell, all right — doll-faced little fake priest, playing at toy soldiers. But we’ve no time for diversions, do we?”

“Just as well . . . for him.”

Sophy blinked at Clo, just noticing her condition. “God Almighty in Heaven, you foolish girl, did you actually bring yourself out on a mission of war while great with child?” The surprised indignation in her voice was so sharp that Clo actually flushed, putting one hand over her bulging stomach as if to guard it, even as her temper touched up the higher; her hair lifted, lighting from inside, with greenish St. Elmo’s fire.

“And what’s that there in your own arms, woman?” she snapped back. “Fine place for a mite like him, on the very line of battle!”

“The Lord is my buckler, sorceress, just as He was for Mesach — Gabriel’s, as well.”

“Oh yes? An’ it’s my man can see where best t’make that buckler crumple, he only cares to look for it; can’t ye, Hank Fennig? Well?”

But Fennig, after staring Missus Love up and down, just shook his head. “Can’t see a thing, not where she’s concerned — there’s somethin’ in the way. Though as to whether it’s divine in origin . . .”

“It is.”

“. . . she’s covered. Looks like the ball’s back in your court, Reverend.”

Sophy nodded. “If your business is with me in primary, then let be done, and go. You and yours are not welcome here.”

“Unwelcome, in the very town of Bewelcome itself? Some might call that a hypocrisy, ma’am.” Folding his arms, Rook cocked his head to one side, “Tell me, though, for I’m curious . . . do your Mayor and your new Reverend — hell, anybody in this town, save those keeping silent out of loyalty — happen to know how you and the Sheriff weren’t actually married yet, as such, the first time somebody killed him?”

Sophy Love coloured, furiously, and though Langobard — who’d finally managed to sit up — seemed too flummoxed to grasp anything of what he’d just heard, the little band-box preacher whipped ’round to shoot her an absurd glare, so offended it made Rook want to laugh.

Face bright red but voice icy calm, the Widow wrapped her child — who seemed to register her agitation, his sobs skipping an upward key — yet closer, and replied: “We were bound in God’s eyes, as you well know, having seen inside of Mesach’s head. But perhaps such distinctions are lost on the faithless.”

“Without doubt. But then again, God don’t really get a vote, come election time — you either, I’m guessin’. So . . .”

From behind Rook, by that heap of splinters where the town hall’s threshold had once lain, a third voice intruded. “Whatever you’re ’bout to say next, Rev, I’m fairly sure Missus Love don’t want to hear it. And that’s why I’d step away from her, if I was you.”

It was a deep voice gone somewhat flat with all too rational fear, yet steady as any soldier’s under fire, and Rook smiled to hear it.

“Hello, Ed,” he said, turning to greet his former employee, who looked about the same, if wetter. Beard no longer neat-trimmed, his muttonchops bristled, almost reaching his duster’s collar; rain sprayed from shoulders and hat alike, while Rook and the others stayed bone dry, safe within their intersecting power-bubbles.

“Heard you got reinstated,” Rook said. “Pinkerton see fit to forgive you your many sins?”

“Probationally.”

“Ah, yes. That do sound like the Law, don’t it? For they sometimes feign to forgive — but never forget.” Eyes homing in on the vague flash of grey barrel-metal, then, he asked, “Ain’t a gun you got there, though, is it? I only ask out of concern for your health, which prompts me to warn you how those don’t work too well, on me. Or could that be something the Professor over there dreamed up?”

“It might.”

“You don’t say! Tested it out, as yet?”

Morrow swallowed, sig

hts kept admirably steady on Rook’s midsection. “Nope. But I’m favouring trial by fire, right about now.”

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