Chapter 9: The Warden

"Not here," Gwendolen Haskett said.

Her voice was dry as a seed pod, and it carried to the back of the hall.

She did not stand.

"A page like that is read at the Gathering council, before the Alphas of the circle, or it is not read at all."

"The council sits at noon tomorrow. That is the custom, and it is my vow."

She tapped the cane once on the boards.

"Sit down, the lot of you. The girl has had enough of this room for one day."

Dacia laughed in the doorway, and then she was gone.

I stood among three hundred silent wolves with my heart going like a hammer.

"I won't stay where pages are kept from me," I said to the Elder.

"No," Gwendolen said. "I don't imagine you will."

I walked out.

Nobody stopped me, and this time I was not the only one who wanted to say something.

Eamon followed me as far as the iron arch and no farther.

He stood under it with his hand on the old stone.

He let me go through the gate that had gone slack under my boots.

"The chair stays empty," he said to my back. "I'm moving into the barracks tonight. The east room is yours to burn, if you want."

I didn't turn around.

I did keep my head up.

In the morning, Fergus Ashworth put a contract on the table in front of me.

A mug of coffee and a plate of eggs came with it.

The Ashcrest kitchen was warm and loud.

Wolves came in and out in stocking feet, arguing about hockey and about whose turn it was for the dishes.

An old man with a bad hip sat by the stove humming to himself.

I realized with delight that he was the one who held up their wards.

"Thirty days," I said, flipping the first page. "Not a year."

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