Chapter 9: The Lodge

My father lay in the big bed at the Merrow lodge with his mouth slightly open.

His skin was the color of candle wax.

The pack doctor stood over him, wringing his hands.

"His heart," the doctor said. "His heart has been tired for a while."

I stood at the foot of the bed with Ronan behind me and could not breathe.

The room was full. Elders, cousins, the cook crying into an apron.

Their thoughts were a roar, and I pushed through them.

Poor man. Poor man. Who'll lead now.

Then, near the window, one thought came through clearly.

The third dose was too much. Too fast. Don't let the doctor look at his blood.

Dorian stood by the window in his dark suit, one hand on Lyra's shoulder.

His face was grave and gentle.

He looked like the most grieved man in the world.

Lyra sat on the edge of the bed holding Father's hand.

Her cheeks were wet and her eyes were red, and she did not look at me.

I made myself walk around the bed.

"Doctor," I said. "Test his blood. For wolfsbane."

The room went silent.

The doctor blinked at me. "Miss Merrow, that's..."

"Please."

"Calla," Dorian said softly. "Sweetheart. Now isn't the time."

"It's exactly the time."

"You're upset."

"I believe," I said, and turned to face the whole room, "that someone in this house has been giving my father wolfsbane."

The silence cracked.

Voices rose all at once. Shocked, offended, afraid.

One of the elders said, "That is a terrible thing to say."

Dorian stepped forward and took my hands before I could stop him.

His palms were dry and warm.

"Calla, you're grieving," he said, with his eyes full of tears. "We all are. But you can't accuse this family."

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