Inglefrith was at his wits’ end. He’d been searching for Mallinger for a week – so had his other children, the neighbours… Fusterbury was a big place, and although some searchers had ventured out into the wild country, none had dared go too far out of fear of the wolves that prowled there.
Sitting at his modest dinner of spit-roasted rat, he tried to keep his spirits up for the sake of the other kids, but inside every nerve ending tingled with dread. Mal was in the terminal stages of the disease. There was nothing to be done for him, but you needed to be with your family at a time like that. If he’d gone looking for help elsewhere, he wasn’t going to find it. Mal needed to be back here now – but what if it was already too late?