The air smelled cold, and something else, something Mila found familiar but out of place.

'Mama,' she whispered. 'What's that smell?'

'What smell, lovey?'

'It smells like,' Mila paused, considering. 'It smells like the kitchen, when cook has fresh rabbits.'

Mama didn't say anything but she looked at Papa.

'I smell it,' said another voice from within the circle.

'Me too.'

'Carrion?'

'Perhaps. The scent will carry when the air is ...