Chapter 37

Too much had gone on this morning, and the sun was only just up. Wil hadn't known he'd even cared about Locke, but her death was having some kind of effect on him, though he wasn't sure what kind just yet. Perhaps it was simply because it had almost been him, very well could have been him, if she hadn't been built like she was and standing right in front of him. Standing right in front of him and arguing with him.

And damn it, why did that make Wil flush and want to bow his head?

He wasn't dead, and he was glad. She was, and he hadn't killed her. If it had been a choice between him or her, he would have chosen the same, so why did the fact that he *hadn't* chosen it feel like some kind of lame excuse? Why did he keep staring at the toes of his boots as though they held some kind of answer?

Maybe because he *was* a mutinous little badger. It appeared Siofra had got at least one thing right. Even Millard had named him so.