Deep, deep in the stones, a terrible pounding. A terrible wailing. Youcannotyoucannotleavehertobetornapart! Over and over the senseless pounding and wailing. He made his ears large; he flattened them against his skull. He whined. He whimpered. He clawed at the dirt. He clawed at the stones. Out! He must have out!

Where was air? Wind? Sun? Where were moss, trees, streams?

And the delicate animal who carried the warmth of the den—this animal, too, must have out! And when it was taken, when it disappeared from his sight—what terror! What terror! Where did it go? His nose could not smell enough through the dirt; his ears could not hear enough through the stone. And then when it returned, it returned with rich scents all over its body. Smelling, smelling, he could not tell where the delicate creature had gone, but the thick scents squirmed through his belly. They made the shape of his belly.

His rumbling belly. His empty belly.

Empty. Empty. Empty.

He filled it with drinking. He filled it more with drinking. He was all sloshing. A belly of water.

All water. All hunger. All belly empty and full.

He whined and he whined.

XLIX

A PLATTER OF MEAT

Rae stretched on her toes, trying to reach the little square in the door. “Will the king come to see me today?” she asked through the gap.

Perched this way, she could just see the dreary-eyed guard posted outside. At her question, his half-moons grew a little greener. He hemmed and shuffled his feet and glanced up the hall. Finally, he leaned close to the wood. “I’m sorry. I don’t know.”

“It’s been days. Days and days. Wouldn’t he be relieved to see I hold nothing against him?”

A long silence followed. “I don’t know.”

Rae gazed through the window. The guard was now leaning against the far wall, his eyes fixed on the floor. “Why are you kinder than the other guards?” she said.

At this, he started, and the sadness that pooled beneath his eyes flashed over his whole face. His lip trembled as though he were about to speak, but instead, he shook his head and strode away.

Rae, sighing, sat back on the floor and watched the wolf watching her. He was lying on his side in the far corner, chest rising and falling agitatedly. “Wolf,” she called, patting the straw beside her.

He gave her an empty glance, his eyes flat and dull. He did not raise his head.

He’d grown quieter in the last few days—no longer pacing or scratching or whining in the same frantic way—and Rae worried: His calm did not seem right.

Frowning, she crossed to him and ran her hand over his side. His ribs were hard beneath the plushness of his fur. On his back, too—she ran her fingers from skull to tail—the little ridges of his spine bumped against her fingers.

Sitting down, patting the pale stalks, she tried to imitate one of his softer sounds. “Romm.” His ears twitched. “Romm,” she murmured again. This time, he padded to her. Circling, he curled into himself and lay down, head on her lap.