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Fearchar led Eoin to the croft entrance as the first sprinkling of rain descended on the hillside. Swept and well kept, the sill stone gleamed beneath small autumn flowers, absorbing the leftover warmth of the sun. He noted a few simple medicinal herbs and cold-weather vegetables tucked under rambling grass heads and shrubs. A hook
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The inn door hinges creaked, drawing their attention to the shaft of light brightening the dim room. Fearchar sucked in his breath. “Get tae…plague…” The beaked mask twitched toward him. Pinned under the glassy gaze, he shifted such that his chair squeaked. He had not been made privy to any conversation about the catastrophe coming.
Chapel Orahamm 