Sold to the Alpha novel · Chapter 3 of 24

Chapter 3: The Loaf

Scrubbing bread paddles, Thyra finds a note baked into a returned loaf and carries it to the Alpha against his rule; at dawn the tally clerk is dragged into the yard.

The loaf came back to the scullery on my fourth morning, and it was heavier than it should have been.

Every day the Hold baked forty loaves for the south road wagon.

Every evening the wagon returned, and the uneaten ones came down to me to be scraped out of their tins.

Most were hard as bricks.

This one had a split in the bottom crust, no wider than my thumb.

I pulled the crust open to dig out the crumb for the pigs.

Something small and pale lay in the middle of the loaf, wrapped in waxed paper.

I looked over my shoulder.

The head scullion was at the far trough with her hands wrapped in rags, glaring at me, and nobody else was near.

I unfolded the paper under the lip of the sink.

It was a slip the size of my palm, written in a small, neat, steady hand.

It said: East road, third bell, four riders only. North gate, ninth bell, wagon of grain, two guards.

Under that was a drawing of a little crescent moon.

My mouth went dry.

I knew what a patrol list looked like, because the Gilded Ladle had a guard captain who drank there and talked.

This was not a recipe.

This was a map for someone who meant to hit a wagon.

I wrapped the paper again and pushed it into my smock.

I went and found Hetta, who was pounding dough on the long table with both fists.

"Hetta."

"I'm busy."

"There was a message baked in a loaf."

Her fists stopped.

She did not look at me.

She looked at the doors, one after another, and then she wiped her hands very slowly on her apron.

"Show me."

I showed her.

She read it and went the color of lard.

"Third bell on the east road," she murmured. "That's the grain train from the river farms."

"Who baked this loaf?"

"Any of six of us. Any of sixty could have slipped it in the sack." She shook her head.

"Girl, take that to him."

"The Alpha?"

"He told me he'd hurt anyone who brought him this and hear anyone who brought him proof."

Her voice was low and rough.

"I don't know which he'll do to you.

"But the south road has lost three wagons in two months, and every time the whole Hold says it's bad luck."

"He told me I couldn't ask him for help."

"This isn't help," said Hetta.

"This is a gift."

I went.

The war room was up two flights of stone stairs, behind a door with a wolf's head carved in it.

The guard on the door put a hand out, and I put the waxed paper in it.

"Tell him it came out of a loaf," I said.

He looked at the paper, then at me, then went in without a word.

I waited in the cold corridor for as long as it takes to count a hundred.

My pulse jumped as if someone had shouted my name.

The door opened.

The Alpha stood there with the paper in his hand, and for one moment nothing moved in his face.

His amber eyes went over my torn sleeves and my split knuckles.

"You found this?"

"In the bottom of a returned loaf."

"Whom did you tell?"

"The head cook. No one else."

"You told Hetta Dunn."

"She told me to bring it."

He folded the paper, very small, and put it in his coat.

Then he said nothing at all for a long minute.

"I told you," he said, "you don't ask for help."

"I'm not asking. I'm handing you something."

Something dark flickered behind his eyes, and for a moment I thought he might smile.

He did not.

"Back to your pots," he said.

That was all.

I went back down the stairs with my chest full of hammers.

I was sure I had made a fool of myself and sure I had done the right thing, and it was impossible to feel both at once.

That night I lay behind the copper on a sack of straw, and listened to the Hold settle.

Somewhere above me his heartbeat steadied against mine, slow and heavy.

Then, long after midnight, it quickened.

It ran hard and urgent.

I did not sleep.

Before the first bell the kitchen yard filled with torchlight and boots.

I climbed the scullery steps and stood in the cold with my hands wrapped in my apron.

Four guards were dragging a thin, gray-faced man across the cobbles.

He wore the brown coat of the tally clerks, and one of his shoes had come off.

On the steps above, with the dawn behind him, stood Ivar Haugland.

He did not look surprised.

"Bring him up," said the steward gently.

"Let the whole Hold see what a thief looks like."

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