Twelve hours later Carmen found herself in the same thicket she had spent the night in when Ward and Lightfinger were imprisoned in Bedlam.

When she had left home it had been wholly dark. There was not even a moon to light her way. She had crept out of the house, the unloaded barking iron in one pocket of her coat, twelve rounds of ammunition in the other. Grim had woken, and wanted to know where she was going. She told him.

(You'll need my help, Carmen)

(I can't risk it. If something happened to you -)

(And if something happens to you?)

(We have to be inconspicuous)

(You know I'm better at that than you. Half the time you don't even realise I'm here.)

That had hurt. But Carmen had stuck to her guns, and in the end Grim had stalked dejectedly off into the house. She wondered if he would be vindictive enough to wake her parents and foil her plans, but he hadn't done so.

It occurred to her that only a year ago she wouldn't have thought twice about bringing him. What had changed? She loved Grim as much as ever, but sometimes she just wanted to be left alone – not have him prying into every aspect of her life, or acting haughty when she did something he didn't approve of. He used to sit on the rim of the bathtub as she took a bath and they would chatter away in their heads, but lately she had taken to closing the door behind her. She knew Grim was slinking around outside the door, but he didn't yowl to be let in, and when she came out he would be gone. He never said anything, but she could tell he resented the change. Perhaps he had thought she would never grow up.

Ward arrived at Killing Field shortly after Carmen. He was wearing a thick lined coat that reached down to his knees, and carrying a thermos of blackleaf. He gave her a cup. She took it with a sleepy smile. They barely spoke, but settled in to wait for the sun, huddling together in the pre-dawn chill.

Now the sky was turning greyish-pink behind the city, the spires solidifying before the lightening sky. The bellies of the fat clouds that hung like dirigibles over the hills of Georgica were turning rosy. They were like the dream-clouds of mythology. Birds, which had begun to chirp in a reluctant way, like spots of rain, now began to sing and quarrel steadily, and when the sun's golden rind first broke over the horizon their chorus rose like a symphony. The city was suddenly painted with colour: shell-like pinks, tans, and ochres. The dour walls of Bedlam blushed, and dew sparkled on the barbed wire.

The rumble and clatter of a wagon rose from the direction of Flag Wood. Carmen caught a glimpse of it at the edge of the wood: its open tray was loaded with what looked like barrels, though a sheet of torpin had been thrown over them. It was drawn by a drass. The driver was small, and so huddled up with clothes that there was no telling who it was. Then the wagon was gone again around the back of the prison. To all appearances it was heading up the road that led out of the city, in the direction of the Western Marches.

Carmen took the barking iron and cartridges from her pockets. She loaded the six-shooter slowly. She didn't put it back in her pocket, but laid it on a rock beside her. Ward gave her a nervous smile, then turned back to watch the prison.

Time dragged out like an anchor chain. A thin fog rose from the ground all about them, curling up into the still air. The sun, well clear of the horizon now, shrank as it rose; Carmen felt its warmth for the first time and shivered.

The explosion came a second later.

Ew gross, sorry about that.