Excerpt: Woven

...Weaver carefully unwrapped the blankets, pausing each time the child stirred in its fever dreams. As the coverings came off she could smell the slightly minty odor of low mountain fever. The infection was a death sentence in the winter, the only known cure grew only in the spring and dried flowers lost their potency soon after the first snows. Now, late into the winter, all they could do was wait for the child to die...