Chapter 23: The Stones in Daylight

The last stone stood at the creek line, gray and waist-high, with a ring of moss around its foot.

My pendant lay on top of it, exactly where I had left it in the winter.

Rain had dulled the silver chain, and a spider had spun across the moonstone.

It was a clear morning at the end of May, and the first sun came through the pines in long bars.

I wore my mother's boots and a sling across my chest.

My daughter slept in it, a warm weight against my heart, with her fist curled under her chin.

Orson had walked me to the stone and stopped at the line.

"Last chance to be sensible," he said.

"I'm out of those."

"I know. I brought you this anyway." He handed me a bottle of water with a note taped to it that said "Not poisoned, signed, the landlord."

I laughed, and the baby stirred.

Then I picked up the pendant.

It was cold and wet, and heavier than I remembered.

I wiped the web off the stone with my thumb and fastened the chain behind my neck myself.

Nobody helped, and nobody was meant to.

"Nineteen miles," I said.

"You'll do it in seven hours."

"Six."

"Five," said Orson. "I've bet on you."

I turned my back on the creek and walked.

The first mile was only pines and my own breathing.

At the second mile, a woman stood in the road.

It was the beta's wife, in a heavy coat, with her hands clasped.

She didn't say anything.

She dipped her head to me, once.

I nodded back.

At the third mile there were two patrol wolves in their human skin, and a child on someone's shoulders.

By the fifth mile, the line had grown.

They stood along the track on both sides, in twos and threes and families, in the cold sun.

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