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He grinned crookedly. “I’d say you and Nettle both carry a fair share of that.” When I did not answer his smile, he asked in a gentler voice, “How are you doing, Tom?”

I shrugged and shook my head. “As you see. I’m getting by. Adjusting.”

He nodded and was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “Nettle is worried for her sister. I’ve told her that you are far more capable than she might imagine, but she has still moved forward with preparing a chamber and a caretaker for little Bee.”

“Bee and I have actually been doing very well together. I think we are well suited to each other.” It was difficult to be courteous. I liked Riddle but really, Bee was not his concern. She was mine and I was feeling more and more anxious, more and more certain that I needed to get home. I was suddenly weary of all of them, longing only to leave.

His mouth tightened, and then I saw him decide to speak. “Except that you’ve left her alone tonight to come here. No nurse, no governess, no tutor? Tom, even an ordinary child takes constant watching. And Bee is not—”

“For you to worry about,” I cut in. I was stung by his words, though I was trying not to show it. Damn. Would he go straight back to Nettle as soon as he could and report to her that I was neglecting her little sister? I stared at him. Riddle met my gaze squarely. We had known each other for years, and endured several very bad things together. Once, I had left him for dead, or worse than dead. He’d never rebuked me for that. I owed him the courtesy of hearing him out. I tucked my chin and waited for him to speak.

“We worry,” he said quietly, “about all sorts of things that don’t necessarily belong to us. Seeing you tonight was a shock. You’re not thin, you’re gaunt. You drink without tasting what you put in your mouth, and you eat without looking at your food. I know you’re still mourning, and that’s only right. But grief can make a man overlook the obvious. Such as his child’s needs.”

He meant well but I was in no mood to hear it. “I don’t overlook her needs. It’s exactly why I’m leaving now. Give me three days to ready things before you bring Shun to my door.” He was nodding and looking at me so sincerely that my anger faded. “You’ll see Bee then, and talk to her. I promise you she’s not neglected, Riddle. She’s an unusual child. Buckkeep Castle would not be a good place for her.”

He looked skeptical but had the grace to keep his doubts to himself. “I’ll see you then,” he replied.

I felt his gaze follow me as I walked down the hall. I descended the stairs wearily and full of regrets. I admitted my disappointment. There had been in my heart the germ of a hope that Chade had arranged this meeting because he wished to see me, to offer me some sort of comfort or sympathy at my loss. It had been years since he had been my mentor or my protector, yet my heart had still yearned to once more feel the shelter of his wisdom. When we are children, we believe that our elders know all and that even when we cannot understand the world, they can make sense of it. Even after we are grown, in moments of fear or sorrow, we still turn instinctively to the older generation, hoping to finally learn some great hidden lesson about death and pain. Only to learn instead that the only lesson is that life goes on. I had known that Chade did not deal well with death. I should not have expected it of him.

I turned my collar up, pulled my damp cloak tighter around me, and went back out into the storm. 

Chapter Fourteen
Dreams

...

This is the dream from the end of my time. I have dreamed it six different ways, but I will only write what always stays the same. There is a wolf as big as a horse. He is black and stands still as stone and stares. My father is as gray as dust, and old, so old. “I’m just so tired,” he says in two of the dreams. In three he says, “I’m sorry, Bee.” In one of the dreams, he says nothing at all, but his silence means everything. I would like to stop having this dream. It feels so strong, as if it must happen, no matter the path I choose. Every time I wake from it, it feels as if I have taken a step closer to a cold and dangerous place.

I refuse to believe I slept. How could such abject terror lend itself to falling asleep? Instead I huddled there, behind my closed eyelids, trembling with terror.

And Wolf-Father came. That was the first time.

I’d had dreams before, dreams that I knew were portentous, dreams that I committed to memory upon waking. I had begun writing my dreams down, the ones that I knew meant something. So I knew what dreams were.

That was not a dream.

The smells of dust and mice droppings blew away before the brisk scents of new snow and spruce needles. Then came a warm, clean smell of healthy animal. He was close. I curled my hands into the fur of his ruff and held tight, feeling my fingers warm there. His muzzle was by my ear, his breath warm there. Stop your whining. If you are frightened, be silent. Whining is for prey. It attracts predators. And you are not prey.

I caught my breath. My throat was sore and my mouth dry. I had been keening, without realizing it. I stopped, shamed by his disapproval.

That’s better. Now, what is your problem?

“It’s dark. The doors won’t open and I’m trapped here. I want to get home, back to my bed.”

Didn’t your father tell you to stay safe in the den? Why did you leave it?

“I was curious.”

And curious cubs have been getting into trouble since the world began. No, don’t start whining again. Tell me. What are you afraid of?

“I want to be back in my bed.”

That is what you want. And you are wise to return to the den where your father left you, and remember not to leave it again without his permission. So why don’t you do that? What makes you afraid to do that?

“I’m afraid of the rats. And I can’t find my way back. I’m trapped here.” I tried to draw a breath. “I can’t get out.”

And why is that?

“It’s dark. And I’m lost. I can’t find my way back.” I was beginning to be angry with the calm, implacable voice even as I cherished the warmth and feeling of safety he gave me. Perhaps even then I realized that I only felt irritation with him because I now felt safe. Slowly it came to me that I was no longer afraid, just perplexed.

Why can’t you find your way back?

Now he was just being stupid. Or mean. “It’s dark. I can’t see. And even if I could see, I can’t remember which way to go.”

The voice never lost its patience. You can’t see, perhaps. Perhaps you can’t remember because you are so frightened. But you can smell. Get up.

Uncurling myself was hard. I was cold all over now, shaking with the chill. I stood up.

Lead the way. Follow your nose. Follow the scent of your mother’s candle.

“I can’t smell anything.”

Blow out through your nose. Then breathe in slowly.

“All I smell is dust.”

Try again. Inexorable.

I growled low.

So. You are finding your courage. Now find your wits. Sniff your way home, cub.

I wanted him to be wrong. I wanted to be justified in my fear and hopelessness. I took a breath to tell him how stupid he was and tasted my mother’s scent. Loneliness welled in me and hunger for she who had loved me so. My heart drew me toward the smell, and my feet followed.

It was so faint. Twice I paused, thinking I had lost it. I must have walked in blackness but I recall that I moved slowly through the summer garden toward the honeysuckle that tangled and sprawled along a stone wall in the herb garden.

I came to a place where a draft of air touched my face. The moving air confused the scent and suddenly I was in darkness again. My heart jammed against my throat and I reached out blindly, touching nothing. A sob of terror fought with my hammering heart to see which could leap first from my mouth.

Steady. Use your nose. Fear is useless now.

I sniffled, thinking him heartless. And caught the scent again. I turned toward it, only to have it get fainter. Turned my head back the other way, more slowly. I walked toward the smell that now felt like my mother’s hands on my cheeks. I leaned my face forward, breathing my mother’s love. There was a slight bend in the corner and then a gradual ascent. The scent grew stronger. And then I bumped the little shelf. That jolted my eyes open; I wasn’t aware I had closed them.

And there, leaking in around the peephole’s cover, was a tiny gleam of flickering light, illuminating the stub of my mother’s candle. The light caressed it, yellow and warm and welcoming. I knelt and took the candle and held it to my breast, breathing the fragrance that had led me to safety. I pushed the peephole cover aside and peered into the dimly lit study. “It’s going to be all right,” I said to Wolf-Father. I turned to look back at him, but he was gone, leaving only a cooler place in the air behind me.

“Father?” I said, but there was no reply. My heart sank and then I heard the rapping.

“Bee. Unlatch the door. Right now.” His voice was low and I could not tell if he was afraid or angry.

The rapping came again, louder, and I saw the doors shake. Then they leapt at a blow.

It took me a moment to get my bearings. I seized my courage tight and left the peephole’s comforting light. Dragging my fingertips on the wall as I went down the narrow corridor, around a corner, and then another sharp corner and out of the panel. The rapping and shaking were louder now. “I’m coming!” I called back as I pushed the panel closed. I had to work the catches on it, and then I went to unbolt the study door. My father pushed it open so suddenly that he knocked me off my feet.

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