Chapter 16: Good Morning, Rhia

The cook took me up the north wing stairs while the sky was still grey.

Hester was stitching Corbin on the study sofa two floors below. He had passed out before the second needle.

"I cooked in this house before he was Alpha," the cook said.

"I'm going to tell you what I saw, and then you can think what you like."

"You don't have to."

"Yes, I do. Nobody asked me five years ago." She stopped at my old door. "Look at the wood."

I looked.

At the height of my shoulder, the grey paint had worn away.

There was a pale patch the shape of a man's open hand.

The grain showed through it, polished smooth.

I had lain behind that door every morning of four years and never once looked at the outside.

"He came every dawn," the cook said. "Rain, snow, the winter his father died."

"He put his palm there and stayed until he heard you stir."

"I know. The Stone-keeper said he was feeding."

"He fed, the first month," she said flatly. "I won't lie to you about that."

"The beta caught him at it and told him what it was."

"Then he stopped."

"He stopped taking. He kept coming." She tapped the wood.

"Why would a man wear the paint off a door if he'd stopped getting anything for it?"

I put my palm over the print.

It was too big for me by a finger's width. The wood was cold.

"What did he say to the door?"

"Nothing, that first year. After that, one thing." The cook's mouth twisted.

"I was bringing the bread up at five. I heard him."

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