"Better than guessing."
His eye—
My hand reaches for a bandage from the shelf. Between us now—cotton and air and the fact that his breathing changed just now, I heard it, I definitely heard it, and I need to think about something else immediately.
Comfrey storage.
Did I leave the bundle loose enough for air circulation? If I tied it too tight the center will mold and I'll lose the whole batch and—
I roll the bandage tight. "Thank you. For the rules."
"You're thanking me for telling you what you can't do."
"I'm thanking you for telling me what I can do. The can't part I figured out." My fingers are steady. I'm very proud of them. "Just elevate the grain. It's the stone floor—moisture's getting through. That's the whole problem."
"I know."
"Thenfixit."
His eye drops to my hands. To my mouth. Then he's looking at the doorway and my face is on fire and I'm rolling the bandage with enough force to wring water from it.
I salute. "Yes, sir."
His eye closes, fingers press against his temple. Then he's gone.
I sit on the pallet.
Nugget clucks.
"That was a negotiation," I tell her. "I negotiated with the Alpha."
She pecks at a crack in the floor.
"He gave me the cooking area. The ridge path." I'm counting on my fingers. "I gave him the cache. The eastern border. The forge. And asking permission for the rest."
Nugget finds something in the crack and eats it.
"That's a good deal. That's a fair deal. He gets authority over the things that matter to him and I get—" I wave my hand at the dwelling. "Everything I actually need."
She blinks at me.
"Stop looking at me like that."
She keeps looking.
"I'm talking about the deal, Nugget. The deal was good. The deal is what matters. Not the—not the other—the deal."
I cook through the afternoon.
Bigger pots this time—the hunt from yesterday left two good-sized rabbits and a haunch of something larger, venison maybe. I've got dried sage in my bag and wild garlic from the ridge path. The stew takes time, which is fine, because time is what I have while the clearing fills up with voices and the smell of cooking pulls people closer.
More than breakfast. Word spread, or stomachs did. Fourteen bowls. Fifteen. Rhen is back on his stump. Dara takes hers without comment. Kestria eats sitting cross-legged near the fire, color better than this morning—whatever the tonic's doing, it's doing it fast. She's talking to a woman I don't know yet. Two young wolves hover at the edge of the group—not eating, not leaving. Watching.
"There's enough," I tell them.
They look at each other. One steps forward. The otherfollows.
Seventeen.
