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Thomas braced himself, knowing whatever was inside was going to be bad, but even so, the horror of what he saw froze him into place.
Celyn was right. The family was there. They were all dead, and hanging in a neat row from the central beam of the house’s roof, their clothing stiff with blood. More blood pooled on the floor beneath them, soaking into the wooden planks, the air thick with the metallic tang of it.
Thomas’ gaze jumped over them, able to bear only brief snatches of detail. They had been arranged by age, with the youngest, a boy of about three—or two maybe, it was hard to tell—the first in line, the first to be seen when the door opened, followed by a woman—the mother? Two other adults were behind her, women, judging by the clothes, which is all he had to go by as parts of
