Chapter 10: On the Snow

Dorian came to the mill on foot, at noon, with his hands empty.

He left the truck at the bottom of the lane and walked up through the trampled snow in his shirtsleeves.

He passed the fire pit, and the barn, and the wolves who had slept in it.

They watched him come.

Nobody blocked his path, and nobody greeted him.

Rosalind stood on the porch in her grandmother's old shawl with a mug of mint tea in both hands.

She had slept eleven hours, and her chest was a little looser.

Perrin stood at her shoulder.

Dorian stopped at the foot of the steps.

He looked ten years older than he had yesterday.

His eyes were still flat, and his hands were shaking.

"I'm unarmed," he said. "I left the truck at the gate. I didn't use the voice."

"You can't," Rosalind said.

"No."

"That's why you didn't use it."

He did not argue.

He lowered himself to his knees in the snow.

He did it slowly, in front of every wolf in the yard, and the cold must have gone straight through his trousers.

A murmur went around the fire.

Rosalind did not put the mug down.

"Get up, Dorian."

"No."

"You're making a scene."

"Yes," he said. "I want everyone to see it."

His voice cracked on the last word.

"I have something to show you," he said. "I'd like to give it to you here, in front of them. I won't ask you to read it in private."

He took a folded paper from inside his shirt and held it up.

Rosalind came down the steps, and the snow crunched under her boots.

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