Chapter 12: The Run

He walked away before I could answer.

His footsteps went down the cloister, unhurried, and a door closed.

I stood in the moonlight and found I couldn't breathe properly.

"You're shaking," said Alaric.

He was at the far end of the cloister, a long dark shape against the pillars.

I didn't know how long he'd been there.

"How much did you hear?"

"All of it. I have very good ears." He came closer. "He means it. He'll try."

"He said you'll hang."

"He's said that before. I'm still not hanged." He stopped in front of me and looked down at my face. "When did you last run?"

"What?"

"Run. As a wolf. Not in a park on a licence. Properly."

I thought about it.

Kingsmere wolves ran in the royal park on the full moon, in the fenced part, in permitted hours.

My mother called it unladylike after the age of fourteen.

"Eight years," I said.

Alaric's eyes went silver all the way across.

"Come on," he said.

We went out through the postern.

The guard opened it for him without a word and looked carefully at the sky.

The moor ran away from the walls in long white waves under the moon.

The cold was clean and sharp, with nothing in it but snow and heather and stone.

"Shepherd's hut below the pass," Alaric said. "There's a stove and spare clothes. I'll turn my back."

"You'd better."

He did.

I left my dress and cloak folded on the gate step and let her out.

It hurt, a long stretch and pull through every bone.

Then it didn't hurt at all.

I was on four feet in the snow, and the whole night poured into my nose at once.

Hare. Fox. Frozen water. The pine smoke in his coat on the step.

Him.

The black wolf stood beside me, enormous, his breath steaming.

The white streak ran down his face where the scar was.

He looked at me, a pale gray wolf with a gold ruff, half his size.

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