Chapter 6: The Mill Burns

Nolan and I rode to the mill without a lantern, because the fire gave all the light we needed.

The Moonmill stood on the north bank with its big wheel turning in the dark water.

Forty men stood in the yard with torches, and Ronan sat his horse at the head of them.

My two old tenants stood in front of the doors with pitchforks.

Behind them stood the whole night shift, fourteen millhands with buckets, and not one of them was moving.

"Last chance," Ronan called. "Open the doors, or we burn the grain and you can have the ash."

"It's not your grain," the older tenant said. His voice shook, but he did not step back.

I slid off my horse and walked between the pitchforks and the torches.

"Alpha," I said.

Ronan's head turned.

The fire lit his red hair orange.

"You've got the whole law on your side," he said. "I've only got my men."

"You've got my flour in your hands, and it's not yours to burn."

"I'm taking back what my pack built!"

"Then take it by the road you signed," I said. "Send a letter to the Court."

"The Court is on your side."

"The Court is on the side of whoever's telling the truth, and you aren't."

He leaned down from the saddle, close enough for me to see the veins in his neck.

"Get out of the way, Althea."

"No."

He put his heels to the horse.

I didn't move.

The horse shied.

Ronan pulled it up hard, swore, and swung down from the saddle.

He wasn't looking at me now. He was looking at the long wall of the mill, where somebody in the yard had already thrown a torch.

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