After washing the blood from his hands, he walked over to a steaming cauldron to add the marrow and brain. He took up a long wooden staff, dipped it into the cauldron, and slowly mixed the ingredients. Then he leaned over the top and inhaled, using his well-trained sense of smell to analyze the concoction's progress.

Something wasn't quite right. Leaving the mixing staff in the cauldron, he walked back over to the table and picked up a leather-bound journal.

He thumbed through its pages, searching for the formula he needed. Ah, there it is, he thought. He ran his fingers down his own handwritten notes. When at last he found what was lacking, he walked over to the side of the glade that sheltered one of his many herb gardens. Fully mature gingercrinkle had a violet blossom and a clean, crisp scent, but it wasn't the blossoms he was interested in just now. He selected what he deemed to be the best example and pulled the plant from the ground.

After carefully cutting the root away, he carried it over to the stream and washed it. Then he used his mortar and pestle to grind it up. He measured out just the right amount and put it into the cauldron. Then he banked the coals, removed the mixing staff, and placed a circular lid over the cauldron's top so that his creation might simmer overnight.

There was only one more thing to do before he left the glade. He lifted the corpse from the table, carried it to the edge of the cat's circle, and unceremoniously tossed it in.

She showed little interest in it, having just eaten the muscle he had given her. Still, the body he had just tossed to her was large, and he knew that he would not have to worry about feeding her for several more days.