"They took two sheep and a dog." Surena's eyes cut toward the field. "And they did not spill."
She didn't need to explain. Farmers spill when they butcher. Wolves spill because they are messy by design. Only two kinds of things do not spill when they feed: the ones with dishes and the ones with rituals. Neither sounded like a neighbor coming over to ask for a cup of flour.
Lyan glanced toward the line of willow that traced the ditch. "Where?"
"By the broken birch." Surena shifted the weight on her feet. "I went as close as I dared. I brought a bit." She pulled a small twist of cloth from her belt, undone it with two fingers, and held the bundle out. Inside was a smear of gray where meat should have been red. It had dried almost at once into a color that made the eye skitter.
