Barrow Fields crows lie, strewn their eyes are

He knew something. Sam watched as microexpressions warred on the planes of Anselm's face, pulling his lips, worrying at the stitch thay kept his brows so tightly furrowed.

"It took me," the prickly wolf admitted, and it was all Sam could do not to jump for joy. He let the words hang on the air, nodding soberly as he pretended to consider what to do with the information. He had learned several wolves ago that screaming Huldra! in someone's face inspired the wrong kind of fear.

"Sam," he offered, glancing at the thing around Anselm's neck. Had she marked him for a slow death at a later time? "Have you heard of—" Sam cleared his throat quietly, and in a hoarse whisper said, "—the Huldra?"