“Look at the trees,” he says.

“Like silly old gossips,” I reply. He looks at me quizzically, and we continue in silence until our tranquil walk is disturbed by a ruckus in the hedgerow up ahead.

A stoat has seized a rabbit by the back of the neck. The rabbit, fat and helpless, emits a desperate squeal as they roll together, the rabbit trying to shake off the stoat, the stoat hanging fiercely onto the rabbit’s back.

The stoat’s long, flexible body reminds me of a snake, the way it curves and twists to hold tightly to its prey as they thrash in the dirt. The rabbit is nearly twice the size of its attacker, but the stoat has locked its teeth with vicious purpose. It hangs on by the scruff, just as a mother cat would do to carry her kittens to safety.

But the stoat intends something else. It will not let go until the rabbit’s spine has snapped and its terrified eyes go glassy with death.

Easy prey. The words come to mind unbidden.

“The stoat should say grace,” Weed observes, and walks on.

The tone of his voice makes me shiver—yet, of course, the stoat must eat. I remember Father’s words: That is the way of things…. Nature always gets her prize in the end.

Keeping my eyes fixed ahead of me, I follow Weed and do not look back. After ten paces, I can barely hear the dying squeals of the rabbit. Twenty paces more and I cannot hear any of it—the tearing of sinew, the snap of bone, the ecstatic wet sounds of the stoat gorging itself—

Now all is still. There is only the rustling of the grass, the bleating of the sheep, and the soft, even tread of Weed’s feet upon the path.

Weed strides along until we reach a large circle of stones. He stops and looks around with a puzzled expression.

“What is this place?” he demands.

I know the answer, but I am reluctant to speak of such unpleasant things during Weed’s first exploration of Hulne Park. I take a breath and reply: “There was a hospital here once, many centuries ago. It was run by the monks, who knew a great deal about healing the sick. This stone circle is what is left of the place where the hospital disposed of its waste.” I pause. “The drains from the operating rooms emptied here.”

“Drains? For blood, you mean?”

“Yes, for the blood of the patients who were operated on.” I look down at the grassy depression before us. “This is where they buried the leeches that had sucked on diseased flesh, and the limbs that were removed because of infection or injury.”

To my relief, Weed seems unperturbed.

“Sometimes Father likes to look about and see if anything unusual grows from the earth,” I add.

“I see,” Weed says. “It is quiet here.”