As my skin goes icy, my dog thunders up the path from a completely different direction, jumping up to plant two muddy paw prints on my thighs. I groan, shouting, “Off! Down!” The other noise, scrabbling, snuffling, was probably just a rabbit or a lost goat, but it’s still going, and I find myself letting go of Max so I can listen, more frightened than any rational person should be.

The second my hand leaves his collar, Max sprints ahead again. I chase him straight to the clearing.

Not just the clearing. The stone.

I walk slowly closer, not daring to breathe for fear of what I’ll smell. It’s still sticky and red. I don’t want to know what they did yesterday, but I have to. I live here too. I need to understand.

Max jumps in front of me, paws scrabbling against the tithe stone until he’s standing, licking the red, over and over, frantic.

I tug him back, again and again, a scream lodged in my throat. “No! Stop it. Bad boy, bad dog! Leave it!”

When he finally succumbs, staying down, I look at his brown muzzle, stained maroon, and recoil a few steps, sickened, before I suck in a breath and smell it—sweet, cloying, rotting.

It’s fruit.

John steps past me to peer down at the tithe stone.

“Ah, jam,” he says. His finger hovers like he’s tempted to confirm. “Someone must have had a picnic.” He shoves his hand back into his pocket and chuckles. “Not the place I’d pick! Another reason we need a bigger plaque here.”

He kicks at the little oxidized rectangle the National Trust finally provided a few years back.

I turn away. I can’t catch my breath. Not blood, of course not blood. I crouch, petting the spot on Max’s back over and over where I’d dragged him forcefully away. No harm done. Poor guy just wanted some jam. Way better than what his nose usually burrows into.

So this was the ritual I saw. A simulation of sacrifice—only a simulation. It shouldn’t unnerve me at all. There is nothing as innocent as jam, but despite my relief, I still feel desperate to get out of here. The memory of that thrumming moaning sound they all made yesterday is replaying in my ears as if it’s coming up from the earth even now, asking me to join in, keen loud enough to rend my throat apart.

I clutch Max’s collar and stand. “The package is secure. Shall we?”

John starts off in a sideways gallop. “I’m just going to fix that fence post quickly while we’re here, if you don’t mind. Won’t take but a minute. Then we can grab Charlie and Emma and tackle the fun stuff.”