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ishly a-blink at her from their table, “that y’all are having such a great time here! You’ve all been so kind and generous t’us, I wanted—” She hesitated; then her jaw firmed. “I wanted,” she went on in a quieter voice, “to sing you something, in return. A song . . . my mother always loved.”

As time grows near, my dearest dear, when you and I must part,

How little you know of the grief and woe in my poor aching heart.

’Tis blood I’d suffer for your sake—believe me, dear, it’s true;

I wish that you were staying here, or I was going with you.

I wish my breast were made of glass, wherein you might behold

Upon my heart, your name lies wrote in letters made of gold;

In letters made of gold, my love—believe me, when I say

You are the one I will adore until my dying day.

The blackest crow that ever flew would surely turn to white

If ever I prove false to you, bright day will turn to night.

Bright day will turn to night, my love—the elements will mourn.

If ever I prove false to you, the seas will rage and burn.

On this last line, she let her struck-silver voice soften and fade away. And in the instant of silence before the hall erupted in praise, Chess let out a long, shuddering breath; he felt dazed, exhausted. The pull of the mind-web was a stabbing pain through his skull.

But Morrow’s grip eased, voice kindly once more. “You all right?” he asked, words pitched low, beneath the noise.

“I will be, we can git, right this minute.” Chess brushed at his face, impatiently. “That’s always assuming you didn’t break my damn arm, tryin’ to hold me still.”

“Very . . . pretty.”

The harsh, low voice might almost have been Rook’s; for one gut-wrenching instant, Chess half thought it was, before realizing it entirely lacked Rook’s hypnotizing resonance. Yet it cut straight through the revel, sent the crowd spilling back over each other’s feet as its owner reared up, just suddenly present, in their midst.

At the sight, Chess’s mouth went dry, and stayed that way. Like he’d swallowed a mouthful of salt.

The man—whom nobody had seen enter—was tree-tall, broad-shouldered but lankier than either the Rev or Morrow, skin a-gleam with an ill patina like dried sweat, or hoarfrost. His hair made a crusted fringe, one short pigtail still left hanging; his torn and threadbare clothes were streaked with the same white that cataracted his eyes clear across, leaving him only the pinpricks of pupils to see through. And on his chest, where a lawman’s vest once might have hung, the cross-cut icicle remains of a six-pointed tin star gleamed sharp.

That’s not him, though; ’course it’s damn well not. Man’s dead, I saw it done. It . . . It just can’t be.

“But, even so—” The figure lifted a lengthy hand Yancey’s way, forefinger poised to shake, officious as any preacher. “—I’d far rather you’d let the other song reach its due conclusion, Missus.”

Yancey, near as white as her own dress, swallowed hard. Yet managed, without visible qualm: “I . . . I don’t hold with taking requests without some prior acquaintance, sir.”

“No?” Impossible to tell, given his voice’s ruin, if the question held any true amusement for him. “Then let me be known: My name is Love. . . .”

Sheriff Mesach Love, that was, as the gasp rippling through her wedding party confirmed; decorated Bluebelly war hero, gentleman born, his privilege shelved in favour of church-raising and homestead-building. Mesach Love, who’d been dealt a fate suffered by none since Lot’s wife—widower to a murdered wife, father to a murdered son.

Late, in short, of Bewelcome township.

“. . . and I have come a long and tedious way to seek out either Reverend Rook or his creature, Pargeter, recitation of whose life’s works you so sweetly interrupted here—having sworn, no matter which of them I found, to deliver final judgement upon him.”

At this, Kloves stood out—laid one hand on Yancey’s arm, while the other sought for and found one gun-butt, sure as Christmastime.

“Even supposing you’re who you say,” he began, “might be your misfortune’s got you all turned around. I’m Marshal for the jurisdiction; this is my wedding feast, and that’s my wife you’re speaking to. If the Rev were anywhere hereabouts, let alone his fancy-boy, I’d know it.”

Love narrowed his praise-burnt eyes, and set his bitter mouth. “I smell them, Marshal.”