Chapter 7: A Place at the Table

Jarrett woke at ten past seven with his arm still across my waist.

He lay there a moment.

"No fever," he said.

"No fever."

"I slept eight hours."

"You snore."

He laughed, a real laugh, the first I had heard in weeks.

Then it faded, because we both remembered what day it was.

"I'm going down to the hall," he said.

"To do what?"

"To tell them."

"Tell them what, Jarrett?"

"That I'm not taking the vow."

I sat up and pulled the quilt over my chest.

"And the wound?"

"I'll find another way."

"There isn't one."

"Then I'll find it faster."

He kissed my forehead, hard.

I wanted so badly to believe him that it scared me.

We walked down the ridge trail together in the cold morning light.

At the bottom, the whole pack was standing in front of the hall.

Eighty wolves in coats, quiet, in a half circle on the grass.

Winifred stood at the top of the steps.

Calla stood beside her in a long white dress.

It wasn't the vow dress, I realized.

It was a plain linen shift, the kind a healer wears to give a blessing.

She had her hands clasped and her head bowed, and she looked like a saint.

"Alpha," Winifred said.

"Elder."

"We have waited all night for you."

"I was occupied."

Nobody laughed.

"The pack is concerned," Winifred said, "for your health, and for your honor."

She lifted her cane toward me.

"And for the girl's."

The half circle turned to look.

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