Bearclaw Valley a descent into the maelstrom

The child doesn't seem to understand her. They move themself, wiggling one paw and then the other. Orson's brow furrows, trying to glean what the child was attempting to communicate to her. It was like a game of charades.

Perhaps, like their mother, they were mute. Hereditary? Unlikely. More like upbringing. Och, look, she moved the muskrat's head, tilting it towards Avicus. No breath, she breathed, exaggerated, then shook her head. Dead.