Gerald had not gone home.
He was at Clearwater, nominally, but quiet was not the word for what he was doing there. He was building something. The specific kind of building that resentful people did when they had been publicly diminished and could not accept the diminishment as final.
I did not know this through conventional intelligence. Rowan's channels would catch up to it eventually, but I felt it first, the way I felt most things now, through the ambient sensing that had become as natural to me as breathing and considerably less controllable.
I was in the archive when it hit me.
Not words. Not specific information. The emotional texture of something happening at a distance, the particular quality of wolves being pulled in two directions at once, their bond states wavering between c
