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“We have a problem with the people inside the mansion.”

He looks over his shoulder at the house and makes a face.

“Aye. That, at least, I understand. They’re not what one would call a jovial lot.”

“Those are blue-blood shit-heel murderous fucks you’re guarding.”

“That sounds about right. But it’s our job to guard them and I get the distinct impression that you and the ravishing winged one are exactly who we’re guarding them from.”

I come a little more out of the trees and show him my hands so he can see I don’t have a weapon.

“So, what’s your story? Are you in love with them? You and your men are willing to die for those waddling shit bags?”

“Waddling shit bags,” he says, and laughs. “And yes, since they are our employers, we are in a sense laying down our lives for them.”

“But you don’t like them.”

“They’re pompous, grandiose, puffed-up dogs. But their money is good and it comes in large, lovely piles.”

I look around for the other guards, but they’re off merrily skipping stones with the other loafers.

“What if I can pay you a lot more? Would you stand down? I’m not asking for your help. I just want you and your men to walk away.”

“That would be dishonorable,” he says. “But what are you offering?”

“Look at me. I’m in Hell and I’m alive. There’s another mortal right back a few yards and she’s alive too.”

“Yes. You could always do your traveling tricks. That’s why you were supposed to take us back to our homeland. But you didn’t, did you?”

“I couldn’t back then. But I can now.”

“How?”

“Stark,” someone calls.

I look around and see Wild Bill.

“It’s Candy. She’s sick.”

I turn back to Arwan.

“Don’t go away.”

“Run off, then, like you always do. You know where to find me.”

Me and Hesediel follow Bill through the trees. When we get back to where we left them, Candy is on her back coughing. There are flecks of blood on her lips.

I lean over her.

“You’re being melodramatic.”

She opens her eyes.

“I couldn’t find a fainting couch, so I thought I’d just take a nap here in the Shire.”

I take one of her hands. It’s cold and there’s a long gash along her middle finger.

“She must have pricked herself on one of those damned poisoned begonias,” says Bill.