I sat in the kitchen long after the others had gone to bed.
The fire in the hearth had burned down to coals, and the room smelled of leftover stew and woodsmoke. I didn't want to go back to the attic. The quiet up there was too full of thoughts I couldn't silence. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Camille's hands folding that letter, saw the wax seal pressed into place, saw the boy disappear through the wall.
The message was gone. We couldn't take it back. All we could do was wait and prepare, and waiting had never been something I was good at.
I pulled my knees to my chest and stared at the dying embers. Somewhere outside, the wind moved through the pines. The pack house was breathing slow and steady around me, everyone sleeping while I sat with a cold stone in my chest.
The kitchen
