Chapter 9: The Silent Link

Dorian Hartwell lay awake in the biggest bed in the pack house and listened to nothing.

For thirty-one years there had been a sound in his head.

It was the pack, three hundred minds at the back of his own, a low tide of kitchens and nurseries and night-watch.

He had never noticed it until it stopped.

Now the house was silent, and so was his skull.

Pippa slept beside him with one hand under her cheek.

He got up without waking her and went down through the dark house in his bare feet.

The great room was empty, and the fire had burned out.

The kitchen was empty.

The long hall upstairs where the families slept had every door standing open.

He stood on the landing and called into the quiet, the real call, the one that had never failed.

Nobody answered him, and nobody came.

He put the heel of his hand against his eyes.

It was only a cold night, he told himself. They would be back by morning with their heads hanging.

They had only gone to be near her, and she would be back in his bed by the end of the week.

He went out onto the porch and down the path to the Gathering Hall.

He did not know why.

The big doors were unlocked.

He pushed one open, and the cold of the stone came out to meet him.

At the far end of the long table there was a light.

It was a single candle in a jar, on a placemat, in front of an empty chair.

It was the Luna's chair, the one with the high back.

Rosalind had sat in it at every dinner for four years.

Somebody had lit it tonight.

Somebody had set a clean plate at the place, and a folded napkin.

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