Mary Evans had inherited her aunt’s cottage three weeks earlier, and the garden still looked untouched. Weeds crowded the path, branches scraped the windows, and an old apple tree leaned over the back fence. On Saturday morning, Mary pulled on her gloves and started clearing. Pip, her terrier, raced between the bushes until he stopped beside a mound of loose earth.
Before Mary could call him back, Pip dug into it. The ground seemed to move. Thousands of red ants poured out of the opening and climbed up his legs. Pip yelped and rolled across the grass. “Hold still!” Mary cried, sweeping them from his fur. Sharp pain struck her wrist as several ants bit and stung. She grabbed Pip and ran inside, kicking the door shut.
By evening, Pip had vomited twice and refused water. Mary’s wrist was swollen, but the burning felt different from an ordinary insect sting. Small blue grains were caught between Pip’s toes and scattered across the kitchen tiles. She lifted one with a tissue. It broke apart at the slightest pressure, leaving an oily blue mark. Then Pip whimpered beneath the table. Around one of the stings on Mary’s wrist, the skin had begun turning blue…