Urdon Pov
Freda sat right on the low footstool to my left, her hand resting flat on my knee while her fingers picked at a loose thread in her wool apron. Across the pine table, Elder Silas sat with his black wool cloak unbuckled at his throat, his thick fingers turning the heavy iron seal of the territory ledger over and over on the wood boards.
"The fever began when the river went dry in November."
Silas did not look up from the seal, but his grey eyebrow twitched upward a fraction. "The dry creek does not rot the flesh of a shifted wolf, Urdon."
"The water in the upper pools turned yellow," Freda added, leaning forward to trim the tallow wick with her small bone knife. "The sheep died in the reeds first. Then the three hunting wolves went down with the black spots on their bellies before the first snow hit the chimney logs."
"The black spots are not a natural sickness."
