Chapter 17: Torin's Mother

Torin came to the creek at dusk, with the letter in his fist and no coat.

He stood on the pack bank and did not call out.

Merrick went down to the water and said, "Come across."

Torin crossed.

It was the first time a Brackwell had set foot on MacNeil ground in nine years.

He sat on the cabin step and held the page out to me.

"I can't read it twice," he said. "You do it."

"It's yours."

"Please."

I took it and unfolded the soft brown paper. The handwriting was small and neat and a little hurried.

My Torin. If you are reading this, your father is lying to you about the way I died, and I'm sorry.

The gold is not a gift. It took me years and your birth to understand it.

My wolf goes to him a little each winter, and when it is empty, so am I.

Don't kneel to anyone who tells you to. Don't let him tell you that being loved by a crowd is the same as being loved.

I am not afraid. I am only sorry I won't see you grow up.

I stopped reading. My throat hurt.

Pippa had gone quiet on the porch rail.

Torin took the page back. His hands were steady.

"I was ten," he said. "He told me she was sick. I sat with her dress in my lap, and I believed him."

"I know," Merrick said.

"I'd have knelt to Lorna on the night of the ceremony. I'd have knelt to anyone he picked."

"You nearly did."

"I did, Merrick. I stood there and clapped." He looked up. "Is there a way to take that back?"

"No," said Merrick.

Torin nodded. He folded the letter very small and put it inside his shirt, over his heart.

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