They ran down the hill toward the line of walkers.
There were fourteen of them. They were walking out between the dim white stones of Westhollow and up the far slope toward the gray house. They walked slowly and calmly, like people going home after a long day's work. Nobody spoke. Nobody looked back.
Tarren was running fastest of all.
"Mira!" he shouted. "Mira! Stop!"
One of the walkers was a young woman with dark hair tied back. She did not turn around. She did not even slow down.
Almond reached the line first and caught an old man by the arm. The old man stopped. He looked at Almond with gentle, puzzled eyes.
"Let go, son," he said mildly. "I'm only going home."
"That isn't home."
The old man smiled. It was a kind, patient smile. Then he gently pulled his arm free and kept walking.
"Marcus!" Almond shouted.
Voice.
Stop, Marcus said, into every head on the slope. Stop walking. That house isn't yours. Go back.
