Bina's hand twinges and itches and the Hound opens her mouth. It is not a roar, or a scream, for the Hound is as silent as ever. It is, Bina thinks, an unveiling. Above the rain, in a wave, rises the smell of burned stone.



For a second, as the unlight paints the street in a colour that is not entirely real, Bina can feel the Hound's eyeless regard. It is only for an instant, but the hounds head tracks to her window and holds there in a moment, perhaps, of acknowledgement, but then she turns away.

Above all else, Bina remembers, the Hound is a creature of purpose, and her job here is not yet done.

Notes