The Patchwork Woman stood in the courtyard admiring Coldharbour Farm.

The grey sky shifted. Flecks of crystal-blue twisted through the bleakness. A gentle breeze scurried through the flagstones, blowing dried leaves and dirt towards the shore.

Erin walked up the hill, passing Twelve's cross, marvelling at the differences in the sky, and the wind in her wild hair. Part of her wondered if the world was changing again, fixing itself, or had it always been this way? Had she been away for so long that she'd merely forgotten?

"It's nice here," The Patchwork Woman said. "Homely. I'm going to like it."

"This is my home."

"And now it's ours."

Erin's hands balled into fists.

"So," The Patchwork Woman said. "Where do you make the scarecrows?"

Without saying a word, Erin led her to the barn.

The Patchwork Woman stalked back and forth looking at the sheets of metal, engine parts, nuts and bolts and crews, wooden struts and beams, clothing, saws and drills and mallets, and the items with disturbing faces marked on them.

She crossed her arms. "Is this all?" she said.

"Yes," Erin said, adjusting her glasses. "I can probably make ten scarecrows. A dozen at the most with the parts I have. Is that not enough?"

The Patchwork Woman moved closer. "Would you consider twelve scarecrows an army, little girl?"

"My Ma once told me: a person that fights for something they love is worth more than a hundred hired hands."

The Patchwork Woman snorted, pacing aggressively. Finally, she slowed, whipping her cloak tight around her slender body. "Can you make them love me?" she said, eyeing the hotchpotch, odds and ends, brick-a-brac collection of spare parts.

"Love you?"

"Yes, love me. I want to be adored!"

"Ye-es," Erin smiled slowly.

"Truly?"

"They will love you as only a child can love a mother."

The Patchwork Woman's shoulders widened, her head tilted high and proud. "You will be The Mother of Scarecrows."

"Yes," the woman hissed. "Yes, I will."

Erin bowed her head. "As you wish."

Snapping her fingers, The Patchwork Woman swept past Erin, heading towards the farmhouse. "Then let it begin!"

Erin spent her days and nights working tirelessly: bending, sawing, hammering, soldering.

Creating.

Making warriors for The Mother of Scarecrows was exhausting work. When sleep finally took her, Erin collapsed in the hayloft, twisting and turning in nightmares about the different ways The Patchwork Woman might remove the skin from her bones, the plight of Number Twelve, and the poor abandoned Socks on BootHill.

The barn had become Erin's home. A sanctuary away from The Patchwork Woman and the wickermen. They left her alone for the most part, going about their own busy routines, preparing Coldharbour Farm for whatever was to come.

The golems stood guard either side of the yawning barn door.

Erin had heard of golems before, but never imagined for one minute that she'd ever meet one. Again, her brother's dorky fascination with Dungeons & Dragons and Terry Pratchett's Discworld had paid dividends.

They didn't chat much, just stood and stared. But, when asked a direct question, they tended to answer. The large one was called Hank, the thin one, Shun. They sounded more like nicknames than birth names.

Erin wondered who had built and named them.

Hank and Shun didn't know.

Erin's swiftly constructed scarecrows were positioned against the back wall of the barn, between the haybale fortress and her creation-station. They were functional, but lacking the personality, time and care that her original dozen had been given. Erin was desperately trying to eek out another three from the remaining scraps, but materials were becoming scarce.

Swinging a hammer into the shoulder socket of a headless scarecrow, the fight nearly left her. Was this army of scarecrows enough to buy time, to stave off her inevitable death and torturous skinning? She shuddered every time she thought of it, finding a new compassion for the sufferings of rabbits and chickens and pigs.

Everything seemed so bleak.

Impossible.

Insurmountable.

Slamming the hammer into the scarecrow's shoulder socket again did her the world of good. She rallied. Perking up. Talking to herself. And, as she worked, Erin concluded that all Twelve had to do was escape from BootHill, travel across The Endless Blue to Coldharbour Farm, destroy the golems, ravage the wickermen, foil Loren's plans, and put The Patchwork Woman in the ground.

That wasn't much to ask, was it?

Standing back, she looked at the array of mediocre scarecrow's she had built and what would come next. Her thoughts returned to her brother Clyde.

A devious smile crept across her lips.

Striding through the barn door, Erin crossed the courtyard. As she walked she could feel the burn of the golem's red eyes on the back of her neck like laser-targets.

There was a buzz of activity everywhere. Wickermen were hauling large logs off The Black Peril. Others were building a platform on the far side, positioning the logs in a large circle. It reminded Erin of the cookfires she'd built on camping trips with her family but on an industrial scale.

Lookout towers were erected at each compass point, scanning the water in every direction. Fences stood along the shoreline between each tower, topped with coiled barbwire.

Erin darted through what was quickly becoming a fortified island, scowling at Tomas and Jack as she went, and entered the farmhouse.

The Patchwork Woman had taken up residence in the living room. She clearly liked it in the same way Twelve had. The only change she had made was the ceiling. There simply wasn't one. She'd ordered the wickermen to remove it, creating a lofty space like a royal court.

The Patchwork Woman was sat on Erin's parents bed, surrounded by broken furniture and crumbling masonry, staring at the painting of The Haughty Jinx.

"Inspiration," she said, as Erin hung in the doorway. "For your little sailboat, right? I can see it now. You must have spent weeks building that thing. Shame it burned so fast."

Erin swallowed hard.

"Twelve built Lazarus actually."

The woman laughed. "A scarecrow built a seaworthy vessel. Whatever next?"

"Twelve is a very surprising—person."

And Twelve was a person, a real person. Even though she was made of inanimate things and brought to life by— well, Erin wasn't sure what— she was definitely real. As real as anyone she'd ever met.

The Patchwork Woman swung her legs off the bed, a medley of skin and stitches flashed into view before she quickly concealed them beneath her dark gown.

This was the first time that Erin had seen The Patchwork Woman's feet. What lived at the ends of woman's legs were not feet in a traditional sense but more akin to slippers. She had no toes. Not one. Just rounded blocks of patterned skin and that disgusting black stitching.

"It's rude to stare," the woman snapped.

Erin didn't care.

"I need more parts for the army," she said, curling her hair behind her ears.

The Patchwork Woman waved her on.

"I'll be upstairs. Collecting—things."

"Fine. Just make it fast. The wickermen have lots to do today. I don't want you under their feet."

Erin nodded and swept up the thin, wooden staircase, moving swiftly into her bedroom. Darting to the bedside cabinet, she dropped to her knees and pulled the bottom drawer out. On the carpet, hidden beneath, were two plastic pouches. They were stuffed to the brim with red reels of paper, each punctuated with hard, black dots.

The contents had once belonged to Clyde who'd secretly stored them on a shelf he believed Erin couldn't reach.

He was mistaken.

Erin's father had forbidden her from playing with the paper-reels, saying that they were too dangerous, and she was far too young for such things. So, when the coast was clear, Erin snuck into Clyde's room and removed a reel here, a reel there, stockpiling her very own arsenal. However, once The Many Years Storm struck, she'd inherited the lot. Her treacherous cunning and thievery had been for nought.

She grabbed one of the pouches and turned it over in her hand. There was a faded label fixed to the reverse.

It read: Cap Gun Explosives. Handle with care.