Sitting on the bench next to Shrike, Beatrice had spent the last few moments shuffling her feet as close as she could to the sharp-edged anchor that lay in the bottom of the boat. One good swing with something like that, she'd calculated, would cause considerable damage to one of those sickly white Fen heads. She slipped a foot into a loop in the anchor rope and started to pull it slowly towards her.
The nasty smirk on Shrike Fen's face suddenly turned sour. He thrust his bony hand in Beatrice's direction. She winced as the jagged edge of one of his nails caught her just below her eye.
"Try something like that again, Madam," Shrike hissed, "and I'll drown one of those brats right now. I need only one for my purposes, you know. That, very conveniently, leaves a throwaway, doesn't it?" Shrike Fen lashed out with a handful of sharp nails again, this time hooking Little Jolly by the collar of his blue terry cloth sleeper and wrenching him from Beatrice's arms. Shrike swung the baby far out in front of him, as if he couldn't bear to be any closer to it, then dangled the struggling infant over the side of the boat, just above the waves. The cold, dark swells of water licked at the tips of Little Jolly's toes. Shrike let out a cruel cackle as the baby began to cry. Beatrice struggled to stand up, but Shrike held her back with his other arm. "Remember this, Madam!" he shrieked, just before he swung the baby back at her. "Etch this picture in your foolish head! The next time I will not be so generous!"
Beatrice fell backward onto the bench, clutching both of the babies close to her. A thin line of blood trickled down her cheek. She tilted her head sideways and tried to rub the stickiness away with her shoulder. She had almost managed to soothe Little Jolly to sleep when Winston started to fuss. "Keep those squawking brats quiet!" Shrike screamed at her.
