Hopkin burrows deep into Bunting's hood as he is hit by the cold night air. Bunting's breath steams around them, but he is silent, or at least as silent as Hopkin has ever heard a human be. Bunting balances deftly on a branch as he scouts the forest for his beast. Hopkin hears him murmur, "Do you smell it?"

Hopkin is obliged to peer out from the warmth of his hiding place to answer, though it's hard to smell anything other than the stink of Bunting at this close proximity. His senses do not fail, though, as Plague is a different smell to Plagues than any other scent, sharper and more pervasive. He catches it faintly, a rot that sticks on the breeze. "It is to the south," he replies softly, and Bunting clambers down the tree to chase it.

Hopkin's mind is on other matters as Bunting stalks his prey. If the thing is a Plague, as Wickwright and Bunting think it must be, how did it come to be in this forest? He has never seen a humanoid Plague such as Sir Sloane in the wild, and had not considered that a Plague might grow to such a point with no Grimm. He would not feel whole without Wickwright, certainly, and if he was not going to be separated from Wickwright once the Society accepts him as a contribution, he thinks that in due time he would certainly become humanoid as well. But the thing is assuredly too big to be an excito, such as Bunting describes it, and smells too much like a Plague to be a man.

Hopkin frowns. Whatever is waiting for them in that forest smells like a Plague, but seems like an untruth.

"Bunting," he asks, and feels the giant man duck for cover.

"What is it, Plague?"

"I am a book," Hopkin corrects patiently, "But I believe the thing that you track is an untruth. The facts ring of falsehoods."

"Speak plainly," Bunting rebuffs.

"Every Plague has a Grimm, like every book has an author," Hopkin continues. "I do not know why a Plague so large would be roaming wild without one."

"Perhaps their Grimm died," Bunting offers.

"What would a Grimm be doing so deep in the Silents?" Hopkin asks.

"Well, perhaps one of the small stunted Plagues grew!" Bunting retorts. "Not every Plague needs a Grimm, and not every Bunting needs a Finch."

"You need him now," Hopkin points out, "To lend me to you."

"I do not need either of you!" Bunting storms, then catches himself, lowering his voice. "You are convenient, but I have allies of my own. Ceisiad and Marten--"

"They are not true Jawbone Men," Hopkin replies placidly. "Ceisiad's induction was not blessed by his father or witnessed by all Jawbone Men, and the Marten is a girl."

Roughly, Bunting pulls Hopkin out of his hood, drawing him close so that his warm, stinking breath fogged the brassy surface of Hopkin's skin. "Say my name, Finch book," he demands.

"Bunting!" Hopkin squeals, squirming and struggling.

"Wrong!" Bunting replies. "My name is Jeremiah Hunt."

"But--"

"My ancestor was a female Jawbone Man, and she married a man to continue the line even after Finch disgraced her publicly in front of the whole sect. She became a Hunt to save the name of Bunting, and now none of the men who might appreciate that sacrifice acknowledge it. One day Marten will have to make that same choice, and it will be a far greater burden than your being plagued is to Finch! And yet, you will not read about it in the pages of any Finch book."

"Even so, to be a woman heir is to be less." Hopkin insists. "If Bunting had a male heir then, Finch would never have disgraced either of them, you would be Jeremiah Bunting, and you and Wickwright would be partners."

"If that is what Finch has taught you to value, I would rather be a Hunt than a Finch's fool." Hopkin fears Bunting will crush him, but he sets the Plague down instead. "My ancestor was ruined for rejecting Finch's advances, which were as much against our codes as being a woman. I see how Ceisiad and Marten look at each other now, and I see the old story playing out again. These days the Society is too broken to shame them for it, and it is far better this way than it ever was when we were mighty and crushed each other for loving in error."

"But you must abide by the code to find the truth!" Hopkin insists. "The code is there because you are better than human, because you are true men!"

"No one is better than human," Bunting retorts.

"Human!"

The voice that speaks out is neither Bunting's nor Hopkin's and too late, Hopkin is hit with the full whiff of pestilence that he was too distracted to notice creeping up on them. He looks up to see a looming black-eyed quietus, wire-thin but razor-sharp and ready to strike.