Jenny: Cry 'Havoc!'

Trailing in Aithne's wake, as usual, the boy slipped up onto the bench and sat in thoughtful silence, swinging his legs slowly. The bird-man's words struck in him an awful sort of quiet, like the way ripples swell out from a pebble dropped into a pond. The angel is coming tonight. He felt as one of the mares, or a doe, must feel, poised and tense, listening, looking, all the wide world reflecting in wide eyes - or the Guttersnipe, who could stand so and look so, and listen so. He waited for the feeling to break as it always broke for the mares and the doe and the Guttersnipe, breaking into a swift sort of action, sharp as Lord Artos' smile could be, or the winter's sliver of moon. He waited, feeling the ripples, waiting for the kingfisher to plunge into his pool...

Suddenly it seemed as though all the dogs in the valley had set to baying: a wild and eerie noise, marshlight-eerie, and overwhelmingly loud in the wake of the day's oppressive silence.

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