Chapter 5: The Well

The well stood in the middle of the yard, ringed with a low wall of grey stone.

We waited in the dark archway of the stable, thirty yards from it, where the torch did not reach.

Rorik had unlocked the chain from my wrists himself.

He had not said a word about it, and I had not asked.

Now he stood beside me with his shoulder a hand's width from mine, and neither of us spoke for a long time.

The rain had stopped near midnight.

The stones of the yard shone wet, and somewhere a gutter ran.

I was cold and I tried not to show it.

Rorik took off his cloak and held it out without looking at me.

"I don't need it."

"Your teeth are chattering."

"They are not."

"Luna," he said, "put it on, or I'll put it on you."

I took the cloak.

It was heavy and it smelled of pine smoke and of him, and it was still warm from his body.

I pulled it around my shoulders and hated how good it felt.

He glanced at me once.

Then he looked back at the well.

"You stand well," he said. "Like a soldier."

"I've had practice."

"You've been a Luna for two years."

"I've been dead nine times," I said. "I've had a lot of practice."

He made a small sound that might have been a laugh.

It was the first time I had heard it, and it was low and rough.

I looked up at him.

He was looking at my mouth.

My pulse tripped, and the dark seemed to draw closer around us.

I had nine lives of him as an enemy.

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