Despite the darkness, Wynn recognized me, rising to his feet to greet me.

“The warrior,” he said fondly.

His voice was thin, melting in his throat. His body was no longer strong, weakened from a lack of air and food.

“I’m someone else today,” I informed him.

“Who would that be?” He was thoroughly confused.

I grinned, then slipped off my cloak and stood before him. “I’m you.”

NONE of the sentries took note when two women went through the gate, one barely noticeable, cloaked in gray. They were accustomed to us leaving the fortress at this hour, when the dark was drifting across the sky, when the curtain between the day and night splits open to angels and demons alike. They failed to notice that when Yael brought back kindling she returned alone, lingering at the wall to gaze over the mountains, where the hawk soared, circling back as though he might return, before he disappeared into the falling dark.

In the tower, I waited until I knew Wynn would be free, repeating the psalm of protection. Shivitti Adonai l’negdi tamid. I have placed the Lord constantly before me. I was glad to know it was the season when wild onions grew, when rabbits would be venturing out to eat new grass. Perhaps he would manage to survive in the wilderness so that he might find his way back to the country of the stag.

No guard came to the door I’d unlocked for his escape. I left unnoticed, wearing the tunic I’d brought along so that I might once again be a boy, easily thought to be among those who helped guard the tower.

THE WAR came closer in the shimmering month of Tammuz, when we tended the grapevines and the air itself smelled sweet. Great flocks of birds flew overhead, returning from the grasslands of the south, pelicans and storks, swifts and kestrels. There were flocks of people as well, crossing the desert before they could be captured, a tide rushing in advance of the Tenth Legion. Some of the wanderers came to us. When they pleaded for mercy, they were allowed to set their tents in our orchards, and the fruit that fell in all four corners was allowed to them, as commanded by our common law. The stragglers were not the only ones who were famished. Fallen fruit and flatbread were barely enough to feed our hunger. I went beyond the wall and caught songbirds in nets made of string. When I grew tired of hunting like a girl, I took my bow and shot pheasants to place upon our table.

No one said a word when they saw me walking in the plaza with a bow on my back; perhaps they believed the weapon was my brother’s and that in his absence I was caring for what rightly belonged to him. Most likely they thought I only meant to clean the arrows I carried, for their tips were edged with blood.

Despite the fact that my mother had mourned my sister and now considered her among the dead, I brought pheasants to the Essenes whenever I could. Nahara was not dead to me. I often spied her among the modest, hardworking women. I thought of how she would follow me through the grass in our other life, how I would send her running home to our tent, swooping behind her like an owl, making her laugh. I thought of the years when we had slept on one pallet, often dreaming the same dream, so that even before our eyes were open we could chatter about our night visions. I had always yearned for her father to be my father so I might be her sister in every way. Now I was afraid she would run if I dared to speak to her and beg her to return.

After I presented the game birds, I went to sit beside Nahara on a wooden bench outside the goat house. Together we plucked the pheasants. Soon there was a circle of shimmering brown and green feathers at our feet.

“You can still hunt,” my sister said pointedly. The Essenes did not believe a woman should touch a weapon, or take a life.

“When no one’s watching.” I grinned, hoping she would join in the joke of who I used to be. Instead she shook her head. My sister, whose dreams I had shared, whose breath was the same as mine, whose true father was a secret to her people, found my actions shameful.

“The Almighty watches.”

I felt the stab of her judgment upon me. “I bowed to give my prayers to Him. He watches that as well.”

“We’re on the threshold of the end, yet you act as though the days will go on forever, one like the other.” It was as though my sister had become my teacher and I had failed to learn my studies. Nahara was convinced we were walking through the End of Days and, like her Essene teachers, believed it was foolish to be consumed with the details of daily life. Those who refused to accept the truth that the world as we knew it would soon be no more would shortly be apprised otherwise.

The fabric of my sister’s tunic and shawl was threadbare, for there had been no time to mend the weaving and, from what she said, no purpose in doing so. If it was the End of Days, then my sister’s tunic would be her funeral garment. She confided that her people no longer slept. There was too much work to be completed on their scrolls, which revealed God’s truth, and too little time to do so. Perhaps this was the reason she looked pale. She was so slim the bones below her throat seemed to be rising through the flesh. She said that her people often prayed throughout the night, waiting to see if the sun would rise again and if there would indeed be another morning.