Somewhere behind, dogs are barking. Not the lazy bark of farm dogs. The sharp, frantic bark of animals that have caught a scent and are being urged forward.

The bells are still ringing. The chapel bells, iron and relentless, calling the faithful back to service. Calling everyone to witness what has happened.

The woods are close. The tree line is a black wall against the grey sky, and the undergrowth is thick enough to hide in. But the mud is deep, and the white gown is heavy with rain, and the dogs are getting closer.

The commune's lights are still visible through the trees. Lanterns and floodlights, turning the rain into sheets of white. Figures move between them, dark shapes against the glow. Shouting. Searching.

The fence is ahead. Wire and wood, old but patched and repaired over the years. There is a gap near the east corner, where the ground has washed out beneath the wire, leaving just enough space to crawl through.

And then, past the fence, past the fields, past the boundary of the commune's land, the road is there. The long, empty road that leads away from this place and toward something else. Toward Saint David.

The dogs are close enough now that their barking echoes off the trees. The floodlights sweep across the field, and the rain keeps falling, and the only thing that matters is the gap in the fence and the road beyond it.