CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The diaries in the Vicarage were more than just informative. Like speech they represented a higher form of communication; structured language, however fragile, amid the hot, chaotic flush of bestial urges. They couldn’t hope to tame the hunger that filled Lynnwood; that much was obvious from the volume of literature shelved in the study, the steady accumulation of centuries of guilt. Nor could they explain how or why these urges surfaced beyond Lynnwood’s starving origins, and those were mere suppositions. Freya found solace in their pages nonetheless. They reminded her that she wasn’t alone. Not now or ever. Hundreds had felt the stirrings of that same hunger; an innate dissatisfaction with the strictures of Lynnwood, of life, where they couldn’t run, or pant, or gorge t
