Chapter 118

Rhys pulled the roan up in the road in front of me, and looked at me, and for a long moment did not say anything at all.

The silver wolf’s head sat on his collar a little crooked, as if the pin had been bent once and nobody had troubled to straighten it. He got down, and stood at Mist’s shoulder the way he had stood at the foot of my hospital bed to give a report, and opened his mouth.

Mist put her ears flat and bit him on the shoulder.

Not hard. Hard enough. Rhys yelped like a pup and began to laugh, and somewhere in the laughing it turned into something else, and he put his forehead against Mist’s neck for a moment, and she let him.

“Four years,” he said into her mane. “And she remembers.”

“She remembers everything,” I said. “So do I.”

He lifted his head. He had not heard my voice since the ford. He did not look away from it. That was new.

“Lady,” he said. Not Luna. Somebody had told him, or he had worked it out.

“Rhys.”