Page 63 of The Lure of Wolves and Whispers

“Are you sure you’re okay to head back?” I hesitate, because she’s already nodded once.

But if it were me, even though I might never admit it, I’d want someone to ask.

The small smile she gives falters. “I’m fine,” she whispers. “I just need to lie down.”

Is it possible Aoife has never seen death up close before?

We watch her walk away. Neither of us speaks until Talon stops right outside my door. The knob creaks as I turn it, and I notice that in the shadows of the flickering hall tapers, the black metal seems… almost dull. My fingers run over the scuffed iron.

The metal is marked with dozens of tiny scratches.

A low growl rumbles from Talon’s throat. “Someone’s tried to get into your room.”

“While we were gone?” An even worse possibility sprouts in my mind. “Or while I’ve been here… before?”

While I’ve been in herealone.

Talon shakes their head, copper hair catching in the weak candlelight. “I don’t know,” they admit. “But neither one is good.” They draw something from their pocket. “Here.”

The object they offer is barely bigger than my finger. I look closer and find it’s a long, narrow triangle of wood, slim at one end and widening to roughly two inches at the other.

“Wedge it under your door,” Talon explains. “Even if the lock breaks, no one will be able to push past it to get into your room.”

I arch a brow. “And you justhappento have one handy?”

“Wolf makes them for all of us.” Talon watches me, like they’re curious about what effect the words will have on me. I give them nothing, but my fingers drift along the carefully chiseled edges of the wedge. An image of Wolf, his brow furrowing in concentration, deft fingers carefully shaping the path of a wood plane, fills my mind. Who was he before he became a Whisperer? The son of a carpenter or a craftsman?

There were so many cuts and calluses all over his hands.

I can’t keep myself from wondering again: What mistakes does he think he’s made, to hold so much of himself back?

A coal of curiosity flickers in me.

I stamp it down.

There’s no way Wolf would ever let me in. It’s all business between us—a transaction, a deal, to make us even. Nothing more.

Talon’s shoulder nudges at mine, and they open the door. “Go on. I have to send him a message. To let him know…”

“I’m not dead yet?” I say sarcastically.

Their answering look is serious. “Yes. Try and keep it that way, will you?”

A jaw-cracking yawn escapes me, and this time I don’t need Talon to nudge me to the door. I’m already right there, slipping past the frame with a shiver as I trail my hand over the scratched knob.

I hear Talon’s boots pad down the hall before I pause and call out softly for them. “Wait.”

Talon freezes, hand reaching not for the standard gardai sword at their side but for their wrists—for the gauntlet sheaths I know are under the loose sleeves of their uniform. They relax a second later, turning back to me.

I almost hesitate. But who cares if they think this is weakness or homesickness or anything else? It matters. WhatIneed to make it through all of this matters.

“Can you get a message to Finn too? Let her know I’m—”

“Not dead?” Talon leaves out the last part.Yet.

I swallow a flare of hurt at my sister’s name. Old Ones, I miss her. Just hearing her voice, seeing her laugh.

“Exactly,” I almost whisper past the ache in my chest.