Chapter 9: Corbin at the Gate

On Thursday morning a guard came to the greenhouse and said there was a man at the gate.

I was up to my elbows in dead soil, planting thyme.

"Which man?" I said.

"He says his name is Corbin Tate, miss. He's been standing there since dawn."

I sat back on my heels.

I could have sent the guard away. I could have told him to put Corbin on the road.

But I had watched Corbin kneel on the stones, and I wanted to see what was left of him.

"Tell the King I'm going down," I said.

Alaric was waiting at the end of the drive when I got there.

He leaned on the stone gatepost with his arms folded.

Nobody had sent for him.

"I'll stay in earshot," he said. "You say the word, and he leaves."

"I know."

Corbin stood outside the iron gate with his hands at his sides.

He looked ten years older than he had a week ago.

His clothes hung on him.

His skin was grey, and there were dark smudges under both eyes.

He was holding a small glass bottle wrapped in a dish towel.

"Wynne," he said.

"You have five minutes."

"My wolf won't talk to me," he said. "He hasn't said a word since Friday. My father says it's what I get."

"Your father's right."

"I know."

He swallowed.

"I didn't come to ask you for anything. I came to give you this."

He unwrapped the bottle and held it through the bars.

It was a clear glass flask with a cork stopper. About a finger of dark red liquid lay at the bottom.

"The Blood Moon festival," he said. "The wine was in a decanter at the head table. Delphine poured mine herself."

I took the flask.

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