Chapter 23: The Pin

The old man did not look at Vane.

He walked to the guest chairs and stopped in front of Winifred Lowell.

"The pack met again last night, after you left the hall," he said. "It stayed until four."

"Did it, now," said Winifred.

"A hundred and ninety voted. Eleven abstained. Nobody voted for you."

The boardroom was so quiet that I heard the ventilation.

"You sold a daughter of this pack without her word or ours," the old man said.

"You tricked a girl into a witness line. You locked a hall on a pregnant woman."

"I did it for the pack."

"You did it for the lane."

He held out one worn hand, palm up.

"The elders have taken your seat. Give me the pin."

On the lapel of her cardigan there was a small silver wolf's head.

I had seen it every Sunday for two years.

Winifred looked at his hand.

I watched the kind face leave her.

What was left was narrow and white and quite plain.

"Twenty-two years," she said.

"Yes."

"I held that pack through three bad winters. I paid for the hall roof."

Her voice rose.

"Who do you think put casseroles on every table when the boats didn't come back?"

"We know what you did," said the old woman, quietly. "That is why it's hard."

"I built that pack."

"And you sold a piece of it."

Winifred's fingers went to the pin.

For a moment I thought she would refuse, and the whole room thought so too.

Then she unfastened it, and the clasp clicked, and she put it into the old man's palm.

"There," she said. "I hope it keeps you warm."

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