Chapter 12: The Log

Hattie got a towel around Tilda's shoulders and a mug of tea into her hands.

Tilda wouldn't drink it.

She sat at the long table in the Westpoint hall with the leather book on her knees.

The wolves of that pack stood around her in silence.

"I didn't know," she said.

"I want you to hear that first."

"Go on," I said.

"Three nights ago I woke up and Nolan wasn't in bed."

"I found him in the study with the safe open, burning pages from this book."

Her voice shook.

"I took it out of the ashes when he left. Only the front pages burned."

She opened it.

The pages were thin and ruled, and the first line was in a neat, slanting hand I had known since I was nineteen.

It was Nolan's writing.

Caleb leaned over my shoulder.

I felt the heat of him against my back, and I made myself ignore it.

The entry was dated the night my parents died.

"North patrol stood down at 11:00, per N.P.," I read aloud.

"North gate unlocked from inside, 11:40."

"Key given to W. at the creek."

Under it, a second line, in a different, heavy hand.

A signature.

"H. Wardlaw," Caleb said.

"My father."

"A bargain," Tilda whispered.

"He told me he was going to bring peace to the shore."

"He said the north pier would go to Westpoint if they stopped raiding our boats."

"It was a trade," I said.

"They get the pier. He gets a seat."

"He never said anyone would die," said Tilda.

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