A Rat on the Back, Part 1

The town of Thimblecross, it was said, had many hearts. The heart of the curse on the valley was undoubtedly the black castle, abandoned after the last Harrow disappeared a generation ago. The heart of the woods, it was said, was a hidden copse where the shamblemen met under the full moon. Alric the hunter was supposed to know where it was, but then again, Alric never said that himself. Tumm claimed to have been to the moonlight moots of the shamblemen, but he was always vague on the details. Only the mine-knockers knew of the heart of the mountain.

The human heart of Thimblecross, however, was the inn at the village square. The inn had no name. People simply called it the Thimblecross Inn, or Tilly's Inn. All hopes, tragedies, stories, and problems flowed through the town to the large, auburn-haired inn owner and reeve-by-default, Tilly Greer. When she wasn't about the town solving problems and disputes, she loomed behind the counter of the inn with a patient acceeptance. Thomas, her pleasant-mannered husband, orbitted around her, cooking, serving, and cleaning.

One frosty day in late autumn, a farmer trudged into the inn with a long face. He politely ordered a mulled ale before laying his woes upon Tilly. Something had eaten one of his sheep. The thing had opened the barn door, dragged the bleating animal out, and disemboweled it in a tree just off his lot. Tilly listened. She leaned on the bar, and she nodded. The sturdy oak creaked beneath her.