He heard her voice clear and commanding, crying out their names--Tyr, Captain, Bruno, Thor, Wamba--until their number seemed without end; he heard the metallic snap of fangs, quick, panting breaths, the shuffling of padded feet; and then the girl's voice grew more clear, and the sounds less, until he heard nothing but the bated breath of the pack and a low, smothered whine.
In that moment the wind-blown clouds above them broke in a narrow rift across the skies, and for an instant the moon shone through.

What he saw then drew Philip's breath from him in a wondering gasp.
On the white bar stood Josephine.

The wind on the lake had torn the strands of her long braid loose and her hair swept in a damp and clinging mass to her hips.

She was looking toward him, as if about to speak.

But it was the pack that made him stare.