The western village of Strathmore was a place of grey stone and grey skies. The plague had hit hard here, harder than anywhere else. The narrow streets were quiet, the only sounds the hacking coughs of the sick drifting from behind closed shutters and the creaking of wagon wheels on the uneven cobblestones.
In the small village square, a makeshift aid station had been set up under the shade of a few gnarled trees. A long wooden table sat under a canvas awning, piled high with the medicine packets Marissa had prepared with such foresight. The scent of boiling willow bark and mint hung heavy in the air, a sharp, clean smell fighting against the odor of sickness and damp earth.
