CHAPTER EIGHTThe good weather holds. It’s almost like June, when we would get out our sundresses and our sandals and go for an ice-cream cone. There are three new bodies on the Wall. One is a priest, still wearing the black cassock. That’s been put on him, for the trial, even though they gave up wearing those years ago, when the sect wars first began; cassocks made them too conspicuous. The two others have purple placards hung around their necks: Gender Treachery. Their bodies still wear the Guardian uniforms. Caught together, they must have been, but where? A barracks, a shower? It’s hard to say. The snowman with the red smile is gone.
“We should go back,” I say to Ofglen. I’m always the one to say this. Sometimes I feel that if I didn’t say it, she would stay here forever. But is she mo
