“We can build houses from the slate,” Tess suggested. She was sitting up in bed, propped up on pillows. Her fever was down and her eyes were clear once more, but her arm was not looking good. Her fingers were starting to look like black sausages, and the whole limb was swollen and a blotchy pattern of red and purple, and the wound itself was still oozing. A big dog was curled up on the end of the bed, like a giant, furry foot warmer.
Some chairs had been dragged into her room and were arranged in a semi-circle next to the bed. Daniel, George, Lesley, and Spence sat like an audience in the court of an injured queen.
“We don’t have cement,” Lesley pointed out the obvious.
“We don’t need cement. Do you think they had poured concrete when the built the old slate village over on Lake B
