Anne’s report on the search party isn’t a hopeful one. None of the men who went into the forest have returned. One of the hunting dogs showed up, but it was missing a long strip of fur, as if a large tooth or claw had ripped off a narrow piece of its hide.
“It’s just as well that you can’t go into town right now, Sybil,” Anne says. “I’ve never seen people act like this before. Dinnia refused to serve me in her shop, and a child threw a rotten apple at me as I was leaving the village.”
“They’re frightened,” I reply.
“But they’ve lived for years knowing about the creatures that inhabit Wormsloe,” Anne protests. “That’s why everyone goes to the Donnegrass Forest to hunt. The most they’ll do in Wormsloe is chopping a bit of wood along the fringes. Maybe a hunt on Delegation Day, but that’s all.”
“The place feels different lately,” I say. “Something has changed, and that change is creeping outward.”
I consider telling her about the giant wolf. When I first saw it, I should have proclaimed its existence to everyone in the area. But I suppose I didn’t really believe my eyes until the secondsighting, or I thought it was essentially harmless, or I felt vaguely protective of it and awed by it. Maybe all of those reasons contributed to my silence. And now Herron has gone mad, and he could be dead.
Since Mama is staying overnight with Essienne’s children, Anne and I are on our own. We’re both grown women, and Mama’s absence shouldn’t make me nervous. But the storm worsens, and the night is full of strange sounds—crashes and howls that don’t sound quite like thunder or wind. Anne comes downstairs in the wee hours and curls up in the armchair with a blanket. Neither of us speak. We simply take comfort and courage from each other’s presence.
Near dawn, the storm breaks, but with the lessening rain comes a snuffling sound outside the windows. My heart seizes up in my chest, and my throat constricts in terror, too tight to draw breath. The sounds are unmistakably bestial and undeniably immense.
Anne is sound asleep. I almost wish she would wake up so she can bear witness to the sounds and reassure me that I’m not going mad. I swear there is something enormoussniffingagainst the curtained window.
It can’t be the demon-wolf. Why would it leave the forest? What purpose would it have for coming here? Can it smell me or sense me?
Heavy footfalls send a faint tremor through the house, and I clutch the blanket with both hands to keep from screaming. It’s so dark I can barely make out my sister’s shape in the armchair.
“Anne,” I whisper through the gloom. She doesn’t stir, and I don’t dare speak any louder in case the creature hears me and decides to crash through the wall.
A low whine, barely more than a whistle of wind, reaches my ears. Then there’s another faint trembling of the ground, receding into the distance, as if the demon is prowling away.
A gust of wind scours the house, shaking the windowpanes and skating along the eaves, whistling in the cracked gutter. Was I half asleep? Maybe all I heard was the dying storm, and my imagination turned it into something else.
I drift into sleep again. When Anne and I wake, we pass the morning with breakfast, chores, tea, and books. It should be a pleasant time, but I can’t shake off the sense of dread that plagues me, and Anne is unusually subdued as well.
By the afternoon, I feel as if I might go mad if I stay in the house any longer.
“I’m going outside to wait for Mama,” I tell Anne. “She should be back soon.”
“I’ll come with you,” Anne offers, looking up from her quilting.
“I need a little time on my own.”
She nods, unbothered. “Be careful with your ankle.”
“I will.”
She brings me my shoes, and I put one of them on. The brace Beresford procured from me is sufficient protection for my injured foot, and besides, no boot I own would fit over it. Since the day is damp and chilly, Anne helps me don my cloak and arranges the hood over my hair before she returns to her sewing.
Jamming the crutches under my arms, I do an awkward hop-and-swing down the hall to the front door, then pick my way along the front walk, staying on the paving stones and avoiding the muddiest spots.
I’ve nearly reached the road when I spot movement near the path leading out of Wormsloe. Several men and dogs are walking along the dirt track. Two of them are supporting a third, who slumps forward as if he’s barely conscious. The dogs are all on leads, tethered by their masters. Rather than bounding and snuffling, the animals seem cowed and cautious.
The desire for information overcomes my caution. Jaw tense, I advance with my crutches, eating up the space between me and the search party.
My gaze fixes on the pair helping the wounded man. One is Reeze, the tanner, and the man in the middle is his brother-in-law Gavarne. On the other side of Gavarne is Omer, the blacksmith.
Gavarne’s head hangs low while the other two drag him along. He’s babbling, incoherent with fear, though I’m able to pick out a few words like “monster” and “wolf.” Marduc walks behind them, his face grim.
“What happened?” I call out as they approach.
The search party halts, and my heart shivers with sudden apprehension. I’m facing a group of haggard-looking men with fear in their eyes, and I’m suddenly the target of their full attention.
“Death,” moans Gavarne. “Death and smoke, shadows and smoke and teeth. Towers of teeth, wretched, wretched!”
