Everything is wrong here. The three of them should not be here, and should not be, as they are. Crowhame and the Dark Carnival declare the other to be wrong, and perhaps both of them are correct, but how terrible the argument, here for all to witness. Lucien, the Professor, they belong somewhere other than between the two. And whether or not they make it there? It ought not to depend on a gangly fox with no name. But here is Coleman, riding in Sasha - so big now! So grown-up! - the rain hissing off her hide, iron whining, low and curious. Here is Wolf, a bundle of unbreakable twigs, and here Wolf will be, even if she is gone a year and a day. All of them, huddled around an upturned cart; this is right, and maybe that will be enough.

You’ve never seen her smile like this, Coleman. She’s only ever had the two; smiles atop smiles, when she is too lost in her books to think, and smiles atop fear, when she thinks it’s the safest way for her face to be. But when you look at her now, she has found something new to build a smile upon. “Words, Coleman. All that I’ve ever had.” She pets Sasha, on the tippy top of her head, right in the space where a fox might like to scurry and cling to. “We’ll have some more passengers soon. I think, you should get ready to leave, Conductor.” Out she goes, from safety into the downpour. Stops. And looks back, square at your cabin, Coleman. 

“Wormwood wasn’t your fault.”

And there’s a second chain. That’s not enough words to explain how she could say them with such certainty. So she’ll have to say more. She’ll have to come back.

She steps into the wavering boundary of Crowhame, and of all the books in all the pockets in all her cloak, she reaches for the one she’d never read before. Tempted to, on many an occasion. Peek ahead, at what she might find in the depths of the Heart. But if she did, would she ever make the journey herself? Would it be another fox who discovered a perfect, precious name? Or would she read some terrible prophecy, and live the rest of her days crushed by it? So it went. 

She flips to the one spot that was safe to read. Or, rather, the one spot it was safe to flip to. The present. Her present. Still being written. Not quite ready to read. And what would she write? What could she write? Just about anything. The second reason she’d never opened it. 

The right words still elude her. Which, wasn’t to say she had no words. Always too many to choose from. But as it was with Wolf, and as it was with Coleman, she opens the book of a book, and the words pour out of her...

[i]Peace! Peace! The Jackdaw walks the woods!

Unlatch your doors! Uncover your treasure-vaults! Let all that is precious to you walk free in the black rain! 

Sit, sit, and do not watch for her. Do not wait for her. You waste your time. You waste your worry. Peace, peace. She who has no name, how will you recognize her? What cry will pass your lips, to give her form? Frustrate the robber, but the word is not thief. Resist the enemy, but the word is not foe. Welcome the friend, raise the daughter, abide the neighbor, obey the king, suffer the Flayed, forevermore be the present, but the word is nothing, and the word is Jackdaw.

Nothing to bind. Nothing to catch. You will not see her. You cannot stop her. Everywhere, nowhere, anyone, no-one. 

Peace! Peace! The Jackdaw walks the woods![/i]