The grasses bent beneath his horse's hooves, the sky open above him, and Feivel felt at peace.

His ears itched as they healed, and it was dangerous to be on the plains without his earrings in, but they would retard the healing process too much. If he returned them to their positions in his ears now, they'd never rest properly again. So he wore them around his neck with a piece of corded leather. It was all he could think to do to stop the tribesmen from shooting him dead.

The first three days, there had been nothing to worry about. They had still been on the outskirts of the plains, far from anything remotely resembling civilization as he knew and loved it. But now, as they started to turn north, they were going to start encroaching on territories, and he wanted them as safe as possible, if not for himself, then at least for the women. Most tribes wouldn't bat an eye at shedding the blood of a female Those That Stayed.

So he had to go find the tribes before the tribes found the women.

And he had to pray that between the lot of them, they could fend off any rogue attackers.

Far enough out on the plains, Feivel brought the whistle to his lips. He knew this was the territory of the Purple Feathers and the Red Feathers tribes. He and Gershwin had come from the Dusk Feathers tribe, far to the north. That was one he was glad to be avoiding.

As he blew on the whistle, he couldn't help but wonder why the plains were so quiet out here. Usually, one could see the herds of bison wandering on the horizon, huge black smudges as far as the eyes could see.

He sounded on his whistle again, and again there was no answer. He waited, far out there on the plains, far from the women and the girls, far from the only horses he knew, far from the work that needed to get done. He couldn't say he missed the constant stress of the last week and a half, but he did miss knowing exactly where they were going.

He knew his Lady didn't want them on the plains. If she wanted these girls and women slaughtered, she would have left them well enough alone. She needed them somewhere across the plains, but whether this was to the West or to the North, he couldn't begin to guess. And she wasn't in a very chatty mood this week.

He sounded on the whistle a third time, and again there was no answer. He furrowed his brow and considered this for a long time. There was nothing for it, then.

He dug his heels into his horse's flanks and wheeled it round and set it thundering back towards the camp. He could only hope the travelling would go as well as it looked. But he wasn't betting on it.

Morning came and Camphor wandered down out of the mansion and into the streets. He had been fighting off the pull since yesterday night, when they arrived in the town. This morning, he awoke more in his own head than he'd been in quite some time.

And that meant only one thing.

He was dimly aware that he had felt Vera in the streets as he walked through last night. Now, he was dead certain. And there was only one thing to be done.

The two of them could not stay simultaneously, and while Camphor intended to leave as soon as possible, Velma might not make that possible. In that case, there would be problems. Fatal problems. For one or both or more of them.

Still, it brooked a meeting with his Maker.

He followed her feeling that surged through him, overriding the pull of the ring. It led him silently through the streets to a little workshop above a storefront. He walked in, uninvited, and made himself comfortable until she awoke.

Vera was not like the other Makers. She slept. She ate. She drank. She did not release herself of the binds of mortality. She chose to act in these ways, even though her body and mind did not require it. She always had, as long as Camphor had known her.

But it was towards noon before she'd awoken, and by that time Camphor had bothered to venture into the shop downstairs, buy a book, and park himself at her table to read. He was nearly finished the book when she awoke, and the look on her face was utterly priceless.

"Surprised to see me, Vera?" he asked, not looking up from the book.

"Surprised you're still Making, more like."

Camphor smiled coldly. "Better than the alternative."

"So you say."

She was always trying to talk him out of this way of life, while he still had years left. Camphor wasn't about to risk it. No way in the world.

"How long you been here?"

"Two caskets now."

"Isn't that risking it a bit much?"

"Oh, you know me, Camphor. I've never been quite the norm as far as Makers go."

"Oh, I know you, Vera. You've always worked outside the rules. I can't say I'm surprised. Just working as the voice of reason."

She sat down, sleep having a remarkable effect on her crystal blue eyes, making them look brighter, more alive than he'd ever known them to be. She scrubbed sleepily at her white-blonde hair, her red lips swollen and soft. She was a vision, at once younger and older than he.

"You didn't come to check in on me, though," she purred.

"Didn't I?"

She reached a hand out to him and snapped her fingers expectantly. "I leave you alone for almost twenty years, and what do you go and do?"

He put his hand in hers, and she turned it over, inspecting the ring on his hand with a puckered look on her face.

"Baby, what is this?" she asked quietly, looking up at him with eyes full of what he wouldn't begin to hope were tears of sympathy. She was a little too manipulative for him to hope that she might begin to feel sorry for him.

"What's it look like?"

"It smacks of Fate."

Camphor shifted in his seat. He always hated how much she could read him. It was eerie and completely unsettling.

"It's just a ring."

"Baby, it's fused to your skin!" Vera snapped, her eyes widening as they snapped up to look at him, her fingers trying to find the seam between skin and metal. It wasn't there. She could look all she wanted. "What happened?" she slapped down her other hand, running cold fingers over the masses of scars that streaked across his skin. "What did you do?"

Camphor snatched his hand back.

"Start talking, Baby," she breathed, and gone was all the honey from her voice.

"It's complicated."

"It's not complicated. I remember this ring. This is from that temple by your little ashes-to-ashes homestead."

He shifted again. "Look, Vera--"

"Don't you 'look, Vera' me, Baby. What did I tell you? What did I tell you about messing with her now that you're one of us?"

"I didn't have a choice," he snapped. "You think I wanted this?"

"You didn't have to go in there," Vera drawled, melting out of her chair and into her kitchen, where she set a kettle on to boil. "Tea, Baby?"

"Don't 'Baby' me, Vera."

She turned a sweet smile paired with deadly eyes at him. "How are your boxes going, Baby?"

"They're fine."

"Really?"

"Really. How are yours?"

"Two months ago," she purred, tapping her fingers on the table. They sat until the kettle sang, and Camphor didn't feel any better about anything. "I saw you're staying with Velma."

"Yeah."

Vera laughed, then. "Good luck getting away from her. She's a little... you know. Woo~oo."

"Really."

"Buried three in the time I've been here."

"I think that's a sign you've been here too long, Vera."

"You try climbing down this stupid mountain with an axe and a couple nails that've served you well. It's not so easy as climbing up. But you're going to have to. You can't stay."

"Neither can you."

She shrugged. "I've got another year before they get suspicious. I'm still good. I figure one more box, then I'm out of here."

Camphor let out a deep breath.

"You've gotten into something troubling, Baby. She's got plans for you, and you know that Parker won't stand for it. Someone's going to have to tell him."

"Someone could just forget," Camphor ventured.

Vera laughed again, a harsh, grating, derisive sound. "Or."

"Or?"

"It's not so easy as that, Baby."

Camphor rolled his eyes.

"He likes for me to check in with him."

"What are you, married?"

Vera's smile was full of razorblades. "Don't you have a couple mortals to be caring for?"

Camphor stood up and sighed. "I'll see you later, Vera."

"Maybe," she sing-songed. "Hope you get out of Dodge soon, Baby."

He closed the door behind him and hurried down the stairs. It was all true enough, he told himself, so there was no point in hurting nearly so much as he did now. At least he knew she was still honest. There would be no shot in the dark; he hoped he'd see it coming.