Malachai closed the sitting room door, his right hand clutching a large brown paper bag. With his free hand he wiped the last traces of blood from his chin and, with a contented sigh, placed moist fingers to his lips.
   Isabella looked up and smiled; her steel-blue eyes reflecting the dancing flames of the log fire. “Good meal?”
   “A young lad. Down by the sawmill,” replied Malachai as he rubbed at a wayward crimson droplet that had found its way onto the sleeve of his military-grey overcoat. “I've had better. Truth told he was rather scrawny, all skin and bone. In fact, decidedly malnourished!”
   “Mm,” murmured Isabella, raising an eyebrow. “I trust that you've saved some for the children? It's all very well them trying to exist on a diet of hamburgers, but it's just not healthy. Their complexions are suffering terribly. Have you seen Nicole's spots?”
   “A hand and lower arm. It's all that was left,” said Malachai, somewhat apologetically. He handed the paper bag to his wife and strode purposefully towards the open fire.
   Isabella placed the severed appendage on the arm of her leather Chesterfield. “Some of the fingers have been nibbled.”
   “You could make them some soup.”
   “Soup,” exclaimed Isabella. “Again! They require something with a little more substance, more body.”
   “A whole one!”
   “Nicholai is a growing boy.”
   “Yes, but a whole body! There's barely enough to go around as it is. The elders are beginning to look upon us unfavourably,” said Malachai as he stood before the fire rubbing warmth back into his hands.
   “I'm sorry; I know that you do your best for the family.” Isabella picked up the hand and made her way towards the kitchen. “I opened a bottle of wine earlier. If you’d like a glass there's still some left. It's on the sideboard.”
   “Red?”
   “Naturally.”
   Malachai poured out a glass of vintage Rhesus triple-X and sipped at it morosely. Times were hard, and the elders were prone to erratic behaviour during periods of hardship. With a saturnine expression spreading across his features, Malachai sat down by the fire to contemplate his next move. Perhaps it is time to challenge the authority of Baron Svetnovski, he mused.