Page 49

I try to say Mel’s name, and the first sound hurts.

I cover my mouth with my good hand.

Then I do what I did the first night here. I take my hand off my mouth, curl my fingers into the fur, and reach for my wolf.

Nothing comes. Not a crack, not an ache, nothing to brace against.

It’s dead. Not somewhere I can’t reach it. Dead. Whatever was on that bolt killed it, and I’ve been lying in this den waiting for it to come back.

The first sob gets out loud, and I don’t even do anything about it.

He’ll hear. He hears everything from wherever he’s gone.

The next one bends me over my knees, and the one after that, and when my shoulder starts to tear I get the edge of his cloak between my teeth and bite down. It doesn’t help the shoulder.

Tears run off my chin onto my knees. The cloak’s wet through where my mouth is. I stay that way until my back aches too, then ease down onto my right side.

The bowl is still beside the pallet. I can see the spoon over its rim, a little broth dried along the handle.

I lie there until the light’s gone.

When I shift my good hand beneath my cheek, my knuckle touches the stone flake tucked under the fur. I draw it out and hold it loosely against the bedding.

I set the flake down and leave my hand on the fur.

Chapter 10

Her eyes follow me from the inner bend to the hearth, but she doesn’t lift her head.

I sat in the passage all night getting ready for her to ask about the door again. Give me one stupid reason. I gave her the reason yesterday, at the hearth. There are graves in this mountain, and I won’t risk them for a walk to a rock. I had it ready to say again the first time she said my name this morning.

She hasn’t said it.

I set the water pot down. Her foot wraps lie where she dropped them last night, one folded under the other, and I step over the loose tie and crouch beside her. Her supper bowl’s still full, and broth’s dried on the spoon handle above the rim.

I pick up the bowl and turn it toward the light. The meat I put near the edge is still there. “You haven’t eaten.”

She blinks, looking past my hand toward the hearth.

Not even a no.

I wait with the bowl between us. Then I take it away.

There’s fresh meat in the cache, and I cut it finely with my left claws and put it into the water, keeping the fire low while it cooks.

When the broth’s ready, I bring her a fresh bowl and set it beside her good hand, with the spoon turned toward her. “This one’s warm.” She can reach it without sitting up.

Her gaze moves to the bowl.

The dry wood under the overhang needs breaking up. I leave her breakfast in reach and go out, closing the slab behind me, and break wood until the sun’s on the stones. It doesn’t need this much, but she might eat if I’m not standing over it.

Inside, she’s still lying with the cloak drawn to her chin. I put the wood down and kneel beside her pallet. The spoon’s still turned toward her hand, and when I lift the bowl, its base is cold.

Hitto.

I let a long breath out through my nose. “It was ready when I left.”

She looks at the rim, then at the place where it stood.