The white fog of flour hung suspended in the heat of the hearth, curling around the rafters like midwinter chimney smoke.
Below the center beam, the three-legged hound backed up two paces, its dragged stone stump leaving a broad, chalky trench across the floorboards. It lowered its wedge-shaped slate skull, its iron neck pins creaking under the strain, and drove its broad front shoulders squarely into the base of the upright oak post.
The entire ceiling groaned. A shower of dried moss, cobwebs, and oak shavings rained down on Prit’s hunched shoulders.
“Master Vey!” Prit shrieked again, his claws digging deep into the oak grain. His red fox-fur earflaps fluttered as he kicked his legs higher, trying to tuck his curled shoes onto the beam. “It is striking with mechanical regularity! The beast has no regard for the structural integrity of the roof! Tell it that this post was inspected by Master Dene! Tell it the timber is under sovereign lease!”
“I told it nothing on Night One, Prit!” Noll shouted through the flue, throwing every ounce of resonance he could muster into the stones. “I was bleeding into the lime! I told a passing fox that a hound slept in the wall! I never said it was trained! I never said it knew the difference between an imp and a poacher!”
