Chapter 6: Mustard and Salt

Ianthe screamed for Odalie and got down on the stones beside him.

His whole body was jerking.

His eyes were open, and they were trying to find her.

"Mustard," she said. "Odie, the mustard pot. And the salt. And the big jug, with warm water. Run."

Odalie ran.

Ianthe's mother had kept dogs when Ianthe was small, great clumsy hounds who ate anything.

She had taught Ianthe what to do when one ate something it shouldn't.

You have to make them bring it up. Fast, before it gets any further in.

Odalie came back with the jug sloshing and the mustard pot clutched to her chest.

Ianthe stirred two big spoons of mustard and a fistful of salt into the water with her fingers.

"Hold his head," she said.

"Ianthe, he'll bite."

"He won't. Hold his head."

Odalie got down and held it, trembling, and Ianthe prised his jaws apart with both hands.

They were a trap.

He could have taken her fingers off at the knuckle.

He let her pour the whole mess down his throat.

He choked and heaved and kicked, and Ianthe held on to his ruff and kept talking.

"I know. I know. I'm sorry. It's disgusting. Bring it up, you stubborn thing. Bring it up."

He brought it up.

All of it, on the yard stones, the meat and something greenish with it that smelled like a ditch.

Then he lay still, breathing in long rattling breaths.

Papa had come out in his nightshirt with a candle.

The three of them got the wolf into the kitchen on a blanket.

Ianthe laid him in front of the hearth and banked the fire up high.

Papa held his candle over the paper the meat had come in.

He didn't say whose doing it was. Nobody had to.

"Go to bed," Ianthe told them. "Both of you."

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