I had unclasped the locket taken from Henry Muldon’s neck. The night before I’d spent time in my tent inspecting it, then fastened the thing to a long leather string because it felt talismanic, and I needed all the help I could get. I was lying on my cot. It was very early morning and I was absent-mindedly trying to gain purchase on the locket latch with my filthy, chipped thumbnail.
The locket itself was heart shaped and of a heavy gold – not a cheap trinket – and on its front, engraved into the metal, was a scrolling pattern that mimicked vines; I did not recognize the flowers and did not feel inclined to waste time deciphering what they might be. For all I knew they were some imagined Edenic blossom only located along the waysides of the goldsmith’s cortex. I wished suddenly that I ha
