Spider's ankles were still hobbled, and he could barely walk. Pins and needles pricked his hands and his feet. He hopped from one foot to another and tried to look as if he was doing it on purpose, some kind of dance of intimidation, and not because standing hurt him.
He wanted to crouch and untie his ankles, but he did not dare take his eyes off the beast.
The stake was heavy and thick but was too short to be a spear, too clumsy and large to be anything else. Spider held it by the narrower end, where it had been sharpened, and he looked away, out to sea, intentionally not looking at the place the animal was, relying on his peripheral vision for information.
What had she said? You will bleat. You will whimper. Your fear will excite him.
Spider began to whimper. Then he bleated, like an injured goat, lost and plump and alone.
A flash of sandy-colored motion, barely enough time to register teeth and claws as they blurred toward him. Spider swung the stake like a baseball bat as hard as he could, feeling it connect with a satisfying thunk across the beast's nose.
Tiger stopped, stared at him as if unable to believe its eyes, then made a noise in the back of its throat, a querulous growl, and it walked, stiff-legged, back in the direction it had come, toward the scrub, as if it had a prior appointment that it wished it could get out of. It glared back at Spider resentfully over its shoulder, a beast in pain, and gave him the look of an animal who would be returning.
Spider watched it go.
Then he sat down, and untangled and untied his ankles.
He walked, a little unsteadily, along the cliff edge, following it gently downhill. Soon a stream crossed his path, running off the cliff edge in a sparkling waterfall. Spider went down on his knees, cupped his hands together, and began to drink the cool water.
Then he began to collect rocks. Good, fist-sized rocks. He stacked them together, like snowballs.
"You've hardly eaten anything," said Rosie.
"You eat. Keep your strength up," said her mother. "I had a little of that cheese. It was enough."
It was cold in the meat cellar, and it was dark. Not the kind of dark your eyes get used to, either. There was no light. Rosie had walked the perimeter of the cellar, her fingers trailing against the whitewash and rock and crumbling brick, looking for something that would help, finding nothing.
"You used to eat," said Rosie. "Back when Dad was alive."
"Your father," said her mother, "used to eat, too. And see where it got him? A heart attack, aged forty-one. What kind of world is that?"
"But he loved his food."
"He loved everything," said her mother bitterly. "He loved food, he loved people, he loved his daughter. He loved cooking. He loved me. What did it get him? Just an early grave. You mustn't go loving things like that. I've told you."
"Yes," said Rosie. "I suppose you have."
She walked toward the sound of her mother's voice, hand in front of her face to stop it banging into one of the metal chains that hung in the middle of the room. She found her mother's bony shoulder, put an arm around her.
"I'm not scared," said Rosie, in the darkness.
"You're crazy, then," said her mother.
Rosie let go of her mother, moved back into the middle of the room. There was a sudden creaking noise. Dust and powdered plaster fell from the ceiling.
"Rosie? What are you doing?" asked Rosie's mother.
"Swinging on the chain."
"You be careful. If that chain gives way, you'll be on the floor with a broken head before you can say Jack Robinson." There was no answer from her daughter. Mrs. Noah said, "I told you. You're crazy."
"No," said Rosie. "I'm not. I'm just not scared anymore."
Above them, in the house, the front door slammed.
"Bluebeard's home," said Rosie's mother.
"I know. I heard," said Rosie. "I'm still not scared."
People kept clapping Fat Charlie on the back, and buying him drinks with umbrellas in them; in addition to which, he had now collected five business cards from people in the music world on the island for the festival.
All around the room, people were smiling at him. He had an arm around Daisy: he could feel her trembling. She put her lips to his ear. "You're a complete loony, you know that?"
"It worked, didn't it?"
She looked at him. "You're full of surprises."
"Come on," he said. "We're not done yet."
He made for the maitre d'. "Excuse me-. There was a lady. While I was singing. She came in, refilled her coffee mug from the pot back there, by the bar. Where did she go?"
The maitre d' blinked and shrugged. She said, "I don't know-"
"Yes, you do," said Fat Charlie. He felt certain, and smart. Soon enough, he knew, he would feel like himself again, but he had sung a song to an audience, and he had enjoyed it. He had done it to save Daisy's life, and his own, and he had done both these things. "Let's talk out there." It was the song. While he had been singing, everything had become perfectly clear. It was still clear. He headed for the hallway, and Daisy and the maitre d' followed.
"What's your name?" he asked the maitre d'.
"I'm Clarissa."
"Hello, Clarissa. What's your last name?"
Daisy said, "Charlie, shouldn't we call the police?"
"In a minute. Clarissa what?"
"Higgler."
"And what's your relationship to Benjamin? The concierge?"
"He's my brother."
"And how exactly are you two related to Mrs. Higgler. To Callyanne Higgler?"
"They're my niece and nephew, Fat Charlie," said Mrs. Higgler, from the doorway. "Now, I think you better listen to your fiancée, and talk to the police. Don't you?"
Spider was sitting by the stream on the cliff top, with his back to the cliff and a heap of throwing stones in front of him, when a man came loping out of the long grass. The man was naked, save for a pelt of sandy fur around his waist, behind which a tail hung down; he wore a necklace of teeth, sharp and white and pointed. His hair was long and black. He walked casually toward Spider as if he were merely out for an early-morning constitutional, and Spider's appearance there was a pleasant surprise.
Spider picked up a rock the size of a grapefruit, hefted it in his hand.
"Heya, Anansi's child," said the stranger. "I was just passing, and I noticed you, and wondered if there was anything I could do to help." His nose looked crooked and bruised.
Spider shook his head. He missed his tongue.