Chapter 8: The Dinner at Stormhold

On my sixth night in Stormhold, Lucan gave a feast.

He seated me at his right hand in front of the whole court.

Three hundred Lycans filled the great hall.

Candles lit the long tables, and the air smelled of roast venison and smoke and wine.

I wore a green dress the seamstresses had cut to fit me in a day and a half.

It left my shoulders bare.

I had never worn anything that left my shoulders bare. I did not hate it.

"You are staring," Lucan said, low, without turning his head.

"At the venison."

"The venison is behind you."

"Then I am staring at nothing."

His mouth twitched.

Ashgrove had been quiet since I crossed back.

The guard held again, because I had returned of my own will.

Lycan patrols walked the north fence every night, and the rogues had not shown their faces.

My brothers had not been quiet at all.

Three letters had come to the sea-gate that morning. Lucan had handed them over without a word.

Rowan's was one line, in his hard square writing. *The pack asks after you.*

Cade's was not there.

Drew had written six lines, and three were crossed out.

Ellis had written two pages, and the second was a recipe for lemon bread.

Under it he had added: *You used to love this, I think. Tell me if I'm wrong.*

I had read it three times.

"You are smiling," Lucan said, "at a recipe."

"Don't look at my mail."

"I read it over your shoulder on the stairs. It was an accident."

"It was a very deliberate accident."

"The best kind."

Then a woman across the table put down her cup.

She was tall and silver-eyed, and she had been looking at me since the soup.

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