Sacks of flour and barley spilled across the floor, rounds of bread gone hard as granite piled the shelves, and ropes of onion and garlic dangled from the ceiling, their bulbs withered to gummy balls inside crackling paper husks. The kitchen’s windows were broken and the garden door was cracked, inviting all the wild world to share in its bounty … yet not a roach skittered across the flagstones. The only animals in sight were the ones cut open on the counters. Dogs and cats lay there, bound to the stone counters by dusty threads of dried blood. They had not been butchered, not properly; dirty fur clung to the bodies, crusted into wild tufts around the cuts. No one had cleaned them, and the meat was still there, dried to corrugated knobs of black leather. Only the bones were missing. The animals were all small. Pets, Asharre guessed; none had the size to be a hunting hound or guard dog. Several had gray muzzles. “Bones again,” Evenna muttered as she came into the kitchen, arms clasped tightly over her chest.
