"Here, try this. I picked the tenderest ones especially for you, so I guarantee they'll taste good." The old priest carried a clay pot wrapped in a damp cloth to the table and filled each guest's bowl with a generous portion of hot soup. "Well? Did you find what you were looking for?"
"Thank you for your help. These documents are very important; they'll help the Monastery understand this land." Dominic scooped up the peas at the bottom of his bowl, shoveled a spoonful into his mouth, and chewed mechanically.
The peas had been picked that day. Crisp, tender, and sweet, they needed only a little salt to taste wonderful. But he had no appetite at all.
His spoon stirred the soup, clinking against the rim of the bowl. The froth swirled toward the middle, gathering into a shape that invited speculation.
A sudden wave of dizziness hit him, making him nauseous and dry heave. It was as if the thing being stirred wasn't pea soup but the soft tissue inside his skull, where a dull ache throbbed.
"Young man, you don't look well." The priest quickly supported Dominic's upper body, keeping him from pitching headfirst into the bowl. "If you're not in a hurry, you'd better rest for a few days before setting out.
"Mountain trails leave no room for carelessness. Monte left us too soon because of one, and I'd only been here a few years at the time.
"The whole village went up the mountain to search for days, but sadly, they couldn't even find his remains."
The priest felt Dominic's palm and forehead. They were frighteningly cold, and tiny beads of sweat seeped through his skin, which was clammy as an eel hauled from icy water.
It was a very bad sign. Most patients who had