Chapter 5: The Dowager

Norvaine House was the coldest building Ianthe had ever been inside.

Every mirror in the great hall was draped in grey crepe.

The servants wore grey armbands, and they walked as if somebody upstairs were dying and had asked for quiet.

The tall footman led Ianthe and the wolf up a staircase wide enough to drive a cart up.

The wolf climbed it beside her on his sash, limping a little, his claws clicking on the marble.

"Her Grace the Dowager Duchess," the footman said, and opened the double doors.

The drawing room was enormous and dim.

At the far end, in a carved chair built for a much larger person, sat the smallest old woman Ianthe had ever seen.

She had white hair braided up, a sharp chin, and a silver-headed cane across her knees.

"You're early," she said.

"You told me not to be late, Your Grace."

"Early is a kind of late. It means you sat outside in the carriage worrying." She lifted the cane and pointed. "Bring it here."

Ianthe walked the wolf down the long room.

Halfway, he stopped.

She felt the sash go tight in her hand.

Then it went slack, because he had walked right past her.

He crossed the rest of the carpet on his own, slowly.

The Dowager didn't so much as blink.

He stopped in front of her chair.

Then he lowered his great black head and laid it in her lap.

The room went very quiet.

The Dowager looked down at him.

Slowly, she put her small hand, all knuckles and rings, on top of his head.

"Well," she said, and her voice had gone strange. "Hello."

He shut his eyes.

She sat there stroking the fur between his ears.

Her chin had gone very tight.

"He's got manners," she said finally. "More than my grandson."

"I'm sorry about your grandson, Your Grace."

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