By These Ten Bones by Clare B. Dunkle Page B

But the werewolf inhabits a living human, and the human has to stay living. If a werewolf were a werewolf every night, how long would its person survive? A few nights, maybe. Then it would die of exhaustion or be caught and killed, and with its host dead, the werewolf inside it is dead, too. Unless it becomes one of the undead. My book isn’t sure.”
    Maddie thought about Paul in his fever, half delirious even now. He must be sick around every full moon. That deathly pale face, those long white fingers. A poison was drying up his blood. He couldn’t survive it night after night. It would be too much for him.
    â€œHow does a person become a werewolf?” she asked. Lady Mary was reading her book.
    â€œOh, it’s classic,” she replied absently. “It comes from a bite, just like the mad dog’s bite that makes others go mad. It’s like a very strange illness.”
    â€œThen what’s the cure?” demanded Maddie.
    â€œThe cure?” murmured the old woman. “A werewolf is killed, and his body is burned, just like a mad dog. Or the werewolf is burned from the start, burned to death, taking care of both requirements at once.”
    â€œBut that’s no cure!” gasped Maddie in horror.
    â€œIt’s a good idea. It prevents new victims from becoming werewolves—assuming the poor burned fools were werewolves to start with.”
    â€œSo there’s no way to heal a werewolf,” concluded the girl bitterly.
    â€œI honestly don’t know if the book tells,” answered Lady Mary. “I’m still rereading it. I don’t see why you’d be so upset about it,” she added with a smile.
    Maddie felt numb and miserable. “Why wouldn’t I be upset to know that some people find out burning to death is their only cure?”
    Lady Mary’s smile slipped, and a shadow appeared in her eyes. Maddie felt cold at the sight of it. “I know just how you feel,” whispered the proud old woman. “You’d better be going now.”
    Maddie came home through the dim, wet twilight to find Paul asleep. She stood by the settle to look at him. Bone-white and thin. Sick with an illness that had murder as its goal and burning as its only cure.
    She heard Black Ewan’s dogs barking excitedly, and Little Ian’s dog joined in. Men’s voices hailed each other in the darkness. Her mother jumped to her feet, dropping her knitting, as James Weaver ducked under the doorpost and unwrapped his wet blanket from his shoulders.
    â€œAh, wife,” he said, kissing her, “have you any food for a hungry man?” He spotted the sleeping Carver. “What ails the lad now?”
    â€œHis fever’s back,” replied Fair Sarah, taking eggs from the basket and meal from the chest. “He wandered for two days out of his mind before Father Mac found him by the loch. It’s a mysterious illness. The boy never seems to grow stronger.”
    The next morning was Sunday, and the townspeople were all in Mass together. Father Mac reminded them of the reasons they had to thank God. The grain was out of the fields, the men were home safe, and Lachlan was well again. But some were bent on other business that morning. They had no time to waste on thankfulness.
    Carrying her basket to Lady Mary after Mass, Maddie walked by a knot of bystanders. Black Ewan was among them.
    â€œMaddie, come here,” he called. “You’ll not take another bite to that fiend yonder. If she wants her food, she can come out and face us.”
    The girl hesitated. Black Ewan had been telling her what to do her whole life. He was the one who made sure that everyone worked and everyone received a share.
    â€œShe’ll be waiting for her breakfast, surely,” she pointed out. “It’s late already.” But the farmer took the basket away from her.
    â€œHorse, call the others,” he ordered. “It’s time we talked about this,