Chapter 23: The Empty Chair

I woke in my old room with my shoulder stitched and the sun in my eyes.

There was a knock, and my father came in carrying a tray.

It had tea on it, and toast, and a boiled egg in a cup.

He set it on the blanket with great care and stood back, holding his hands together.

"I made the egg myself," he said. "It may be hard."

I looked at the tray.

For eighteen years I had been the one who carried them.

"Dad, you don't need to."

"I do," he said. "Eat it. Please."

I cracked the egg.

It was hard.

I ate all of it, and he watched me do it, and the corner of his mouth shook.

"I've moved out of the Alpha's rooms," he said. "Into the east wing. The rooms are yours."

"Dad..."

"The keys are on the tray under the napkin. I also put every account book in the study. I won't touch a thing without you saying so."

"You're still the one who knows how to run this place."

"Then I'll teach you," he said. "If you let me. And I'll take your orders when I'm done."

"You can teach me," I said. "I'll tell you when I need orders."

His face crumpled, quickly, and he turned to the window.

I let him have a minute.

At dinner that night, the long dining room had five of us in it and a fire.

Corwin sat on my left, and Odette across from him with her hair piled up.

Garrick sat at the far end, his nose red from the cold, a fresh scab on his chin.

"Four nights on the north fence," he said, and held up two frostbitten fingers. "Do you know what lives up there?"

"Wolves nobody watches," I said.

"Moose, Katja. Angry ones. One of them chased me up a pine."

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