Chapter 5: A Door That Locks

For a moment, I thought I had misunderstood her.

“A suppressant?”

Nessa kept the bottle on the table between us.

“Yes.”

“But I don’t have a wolf.”

The words came automatically. I had explained it to curious servants, visiting relatives, physicians who wanted to examine the Alpha’s unfortunate daughter.

Nessa pulled her stool closer.

“Has anyone ever tested you for one?”

“Our physician said—”

“I’m asking what he did.”

I looked at the bottle.

At fifteen, I had burned with fever for four days. I remembered wet sheets, Mother arguing outside my room, a sharp pain beneath my ribs.

When I recovered, the physician brought the tonic.

He said the fever had weakened me.

Every year afterward, when my wolf failed to appear, he said some things could not be helped.

“He checked my pulse,” I said. “Asked whether I was sleeping. Sometimes he listened to my heart.”

“Any blood tests?”

“Not that I remember.”

Nessa was quiet.

I wished she would look less careful.

“Perhaps there’s another reason to prescribe it.”

“There are reasons to use suppressants,” she said. “A dangerous shift. Certain injuries. Severe reactions to a bond. But they require supervision, and the patient should know what they’re taking.”

I rubbed my thumb against the edge of the examination bench.

“He told me it would strengthen me.”

“Whatever else is in this mixture, it contains a suppressant. I recognize the scent.”

“You’re certain?”

“Certain enough that I want you to stop taking it while I arrange a proper analysis.”

While.

Analysis.

Words that left room for an explanation.

I held on to them.

Then I remembered the shelter.

The voice.

“There was something last night.”

Nessa waited.

“I heard someone. Inside my head.”

Her gaze sharpened.

“What did they say?”

I swallowed.

“Not to drink it.”

---

She asked before touching me.

The question unsettled me more than the examination.

“May I check beneath your ribs?”

I nodded, then lay back when she asked.

Her hands were warm through my shirt. She pressed gently along my side, listening as I described the heat, the tingling, the smells that had become too strong.

“When did those start?”

“After I missed the medicine.”

“Have you felt them before?”

I searched my memory.

Sometimes, working alone after midnight, I had felt a restless warmth beneath my breastbone. Once, during a storm, I had known a branch was falling before I heard it break.

The physician had increased my dose after that.

I told her.

Nessa’s hand stopped.

Then she resumed the examination.

“I can’t tell you today how much of this is recovery, or what your wolf’s condition might be,” she said. “You’ve gone without regular food and sleep. We need to address those things too.”

“So you believe me?”

She looked down at me.

“About the voice?”

I nodded.

“Yes.”

I turned my face toward the wall.

The tears arrived so quickly that I had no time to hide them.

Nessa moved her stool back.

“I’ll get you some water.”

She gave me the few moments it took to stop shaking.

When she returned, she put the cup within reach.

“Would you like someone to sit with you?”

“No.”

“All right.”

She accepted that too.

---

Rowan was waiting in the corridor when we came out.

He rose from a bench, a folded sheet of paper in one hand.

“How’s the foot?”

“Bandaged.”

“That sounds promising.”

I tried to smile.

His attention moved to Nessa.

“Any restrictions?”

“Food, rest, and no fieldwork today.”

“I can walk,” I said.

“You’ve demonstrated that thoroughly,” Nessa replied.

Rowan glanced at the paper.

“I was hoping you could look at a boundary map.”

“That,” she said, “can be done sitting down.”

She left to fetch something from the dispensary.

For a moment, Rowan and I stood alone.

I could feel the bottle inside my coat again. Nessa had returned it after taking a small sample, telling me not to throw away the remaining contents.

Evidence.

She had not used the word, but I understood.

Rowan unfolded the paper.

“This is the marker you repaired.”

The drawing was rough but readable. Three stones along the road, the ditch beside them, a slope marked with short lines.

I leaned closer.

“The bank falls toward the marker here?”

“Yes.”

“Then it needs a second drain above the footing. Otherwise you’ll replace the ring and have the same problem next spring.”

He held out the paper.

“Would you mark it?”

I looked toward the nearest table.

“Do you have a pencil?”

He produced one from his coat.

I sat.

The familiar work steadied my hands.

By the time Nessa returned, I had drawn a shallow diversion channel and marked where the support stones should sit.

Rowan studied the changes.

“I’ll have the crew prepare it.”

“Who will oversee the binding?”

“Our wardkeeper, Master Dain. He’s working on the western line today. You can meet him tomorrow, if you’re well enough.”

I set down the pencil.

“Does he know about me?”

“Yes.”

“What did you tell him?”

“That you stopped a marker from draining its neighbors with a knife and a piece of thread.”

“And my father’s declaration?”

“He heard it before I did.”

My stomach tightened.

Rowan folded the map.

“He asked to see your repair.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s where he wants to start.”

I looked at the marks I had left on the table: a little clay from my sleeve, a damp ring beneath the water cup.

“I don’t want you to regret letting me stay.”

“Then tell us when you don’t know something.”

I raised my head.

He was entirely serious.

“That will help more than promising never to make a mistake.”

---

A woman named Hettie brought me upstairs.

She carried a folded towel, a clean nightdress, and a little basket of washing things.

“The room’s small,” she said. “But the chimney draws properly, and it catches the afternoon light.”

Small would be fine.

A room of any size would be fine.

She opened the door.

There was a bed beneath the sloping ceiling, a washstand, a wardrobe, and a narrow desk beside the window. Someone had placed fresh water in the pitcher.

A dark blue blanket lay folded at the foot of the bed.

I stood on the threshold.

Hettie went inside and set down the basket.

“I can find you something to wear while your clothes are washed.”

“I can wash them.”

“Then I’ll show you where tomorrow. Today, I’m already doing a load.”

She crossed to the little hearth.

“Meals are downstairs. If you feel poorly, ask someone to bring a tray.”

“What time should I be up?”

“For breakfast?”

“For work.”

“That’s between you and Master Dain.”

I touched the back of the desk chair.

“Is there anything I should do this evening?”

Hettie straightened.

“Eat something.”

“I mean for the room.”

She looked around as though checking whether she had missed a broken latch.

“What about it?”

“The cost.”

“Alpha said tonight was arranged.”

My throat tightened.

Arranged could mean many things.

Hettie must have seen something in my face because her voice softened.

“No one will come asking you to scrub floors at midnight, love.”

I nodded quickly.

Too quickly.

She placed a key on the desk.

“This is yours while you’re here.”

I stared at it.

“The outer doors are watched after dark,” she continued. “If you go out, tell the night guard so they don’t worry.”

She moved toward the doorway, then paused.

“Would you like help with that cloak fastening? I’ve a spare button.”

I looked down at the edges I had been holding together all day.

“Yes,” I whispered.

---

Later, a kitchen boy brought soup.

Beneath the bowl sat a folded cloth containing bread and a small pear.

I thanked him twice.

After he left, I ate at the desk, slowly this time.

The soup was thick with barley. Steam warmed my face. I kept expecting someone to knock and explain that the tray belonged elsewhere.

Nobody did.

When I finished, I wrapped the bread again.

Then I looked at it.

There would be breakfast.

Hettie had said so.

I left it on the desk anyway.

A knock came just before dusk.

I stood so abruptly that pain shot through my heel.

“Elara?” Rowan’s voice.

I opened the door.

He remained in the corridor.

“Payment for this morning.”

He held out a small pouch.

I did not take it.

“We haven’t agreed on a rate.”

“Master Dain confirmed the standard call-out f*e. It includes making a dangerous fault safe until a full repair can be done.”

“I used your clay.”

A brief silence.

Then his mouth curved.

“I’ll bear that expense.”

I took the pouch.

Coins settled against my palm.

More than I had ever been given for work.

“I haven’t inspected the repair with him yet.”

“If he identifies a problem, we’ll discuss it tomorrow.”

I closed my fingers around the leather.

“Thank you.”

“You earned it.”

After he left, I poured the coins onto the desk and counted them.

Then counted them again.

Food.

Boot repairs.

A replacement chalk stub.

If Blackthorn decided against employing me, I could reach Bellwether without begging for bread.

I sat down.

The room blurred.

---

I locked the door before changing.

The key turned smoothly.

I tested the handle once, then stood with my forehead against the wood.

No one on the other side could enter without knocking.

For tonight, that was true.

I washed, put on the borrowed nightdress, and returned to the desk.

The medicine bottle stood beside my wages.

I could not bear to put them in the same drawer.

Holding it beneath the lamplight, I noticed how the paper label had lifted near the seam. Damp from the roadside shelter had loosened the paste.

Underneath was another piece of paper.

I eased back the edge.

The hidden label was older, its ink faded where the glass curved.

A dispensing date.

A dosage.

Then a line written in the physician’s hand.

Continued administration authorized by—

I stopped breathing.

Beneath the words was a signature I had seen on estate orders, festival invitations, and the judgment that sent me away.

Garrick Vale.

My father.