Though Rae went to bed, her sleep was fitful, full of the sound of battering rain, full of the words choices and meant to and truths. Full of an aching wrist and hand. She lay in the dark turning these words over and over, holding her wrist, thinking of the wolf left in the meadow and the song that had brought him to her as the storms passed and raged and passed again. She felt herself full of the same windswept energy; her heart pitched and reeled with its motion.

She did not wait for dawn to arrive. Before Mop and Ness began stirring, Rae rose. Tiptoeing around the sleeping forms, she pocketed a heel of bread and a half round of cheese, then set off into the fields, climbing into the soaking grass and tempestuous light.

When she reached the spot where she’d last seen the wolf, she found only Ness’s bowl and a crescent of flattened grass, the impression of where the wolf had lain. But she could see, too, where the wolf had gone—a matted line where he’d dragged himself away. Tentatively, Rae followed, peering into the trees. Though she couldn’t see him, she could see where he’d likely hidden himself—not far into forest, a profusion of vines clambered over an overturned tree, a cave of reedy branches and leaves.

Wolf in the den. Dark of the earth.

Whether he’d taken himself off to heal—or to die, Rae, heart racing, forced herself to admit—he was probably here.

Rae fetched water and returned to the mouth of the vine-cave. Kneeling, she pushed the bowl deep as her arms would allow. She unpocketed the cheese and bread and pushed them alongside the bowl.

She backed away. “Wolf,” she whispered.

A wave of thunder rolled over the hills. The trees swayed overhead. Rae, glancing at the tossing canopy, turned and ran for home.

Meant to, she thought. The wet grass whipped at her calves. Meant to. Surely a shepherd could not be meant to care for a wolf. But meant to—no words had ever seemed more true. Somehow, she was meant to care for this wolf.

Even if she was not, she was choosing to do so. She wouldn’t, couldn’t leave him.

XXIII

THE FLOWERS THAT BLOOM IN THE THICK MUCK OF PIGS

Alba lay in bed watching the light turn from blue to gray, waiting to hear the priest leave the morning tray outside their door. Had she slept at all? She supposed she hadn’t.

How good Maurus was. He hadn’t abandoned her, even after he’d begun his new duty, the one he’d wanted for so long. Cook in the kitchens. He still came with parchments and ink, still brought news of the day and let her practice writing… even though now they both had to hide from the priest guarding the chamber and make sure the rays from their lamp did not travel too far.

But last night… Alba glanced at the sleeping form that was all bundled shadows… last night Maurus’s parchments had brought her news of the oracle. The priests had been discussing her. Was it time to send her to the wilderness? This was the question they had set for themselves.