The nights were getting colder as they came to the last island in the reserve--at sunset they were shuffling through dark, dark copses of trees, with the sunset blazing orange at their backs. Hawk tucked his wings around himself. Teige--less bothered, it seemed, by the evening chill--consulted the map gleefully in the wan light.

They fished for their dinner in a glassy sea where the horizon had blended into the dark sky. Hawk, standing very still in the shallows as he waited for the fish to wander his way, heard a shout and looked up in alarm. Teige was splashing around, holding his makeshift spear aloft, a fish wriggling helplessly on the end of it. He grinned madly and pointed to it. Hawk returned the grin.

The day seemed reluctant to let go--or maybe now they were close enough to civilization to see the lights of distant airports and stadiums bleaching the horizon. Stars were poking through like pinhole lights in velvet, fading further towards the earth, where the sky went paler and silvery. The land around them had flattened out some into a rocky steppe, completely dark but for the glow of their own campfire.

Teige stood surveying the night coming on. Hawk stroked the fire. "Never gets old, does it?" he said, and the immense silence was broken. Teige glanced at him.

"Actually," he said, "I think I'm getting burnt out on this 'majesty of nature' lark. I'll be glad to get to Leigh tomorrow."

He plonked himself down beside Hawk, who looked at him in surprise. "Huh? And just when you've almost learned to gut a fish proper."

"Call me spoilt, all right," Teige said, unruffled, "But I miss having meals I didn't have to de-bone myself."