The white-hot sun still shimmered well above the horizon as Irenya tied her water bottle to the saddle and mounted. She arranged the blanket over her head and shoulders. The wind had dropped. Bergen hadn’t tied or gagged her. ‘Unless you give me no alternative, little bird.’
Later, Irenya was grateful for the blanket; the desert nights were freezing. The moon rose, a huge silver disc so close she felt she ought to duck. Stars, silver on black velvet, hung just above her head, waiting to be plucked at will.
An idea—a stupid, suicidal idea—came to her. Her first response was to thrust the giddy notion away, but it remained. The scared part of her screamed a warning. This is madness. Don’t do it … Play it safe … Another part said otherwise. So what if I die in the attempt? I’ve been dying s
