Chapter 8: The Chain

Corwin's POV

I waited until my wife's breathing went slow and even.

Then I eased my arm out from under her and slid out of the bed an inch at a time.

She turned over and reached for the empty place.

I put my pillow in it, and she hugged that instead.

I stood there longer than I needed to.

There was a letter in my coat pocket, folded in four, that I should have shown her three weeks ago.

I told myself I would show it to her tomorrow.

I had told myself that for three weeks.

Perrin was waiting at the foot of the back stairs with his boots in his hand.

"Snow's stopped," he whispered. "Moon's up. The patrol is out, but they're looking outward."

"Lock?"

"I brought my father's bolt cutters. Don't ask."

"I wasn't going to."

We went out through the kitchen and around the black bulk of the lodge, keeping to the wall.

The cellar doors lay flat against the foundation, two slabs of old oak under a drift.

The padlock was as big as Perrin said.

He held the cutters against the shackle, looked at me, and I nodded.

The steel gave with a dull snap in the silence.

We both froze.

Nothing moved in the yard.

I lifted the left door and a breath of cold stale air came up out of the dark.

It smelled of damp stone and old fear.

"Boss?"

"I'm fine. Light."

Perrin handed me a flashlight and I went down the stairs, taking each step carefully.

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