injured. In Dogwood, Grandmama, a banfasa, had tended the villagers’ health, and Margery had been in the clinic every day, learning and helping out.
After taking Margery as her assistant, Phyllis taught her human medicine—and they became friends. A few years ago, Phyllis grew too outspoken, insisting the captives weren’t animals. The Director called her into his office, and she never came out.
Grief—and guilt—flattened Margery’s ears. In a way, her friendship with Phyllis had caused her death.
A twig hit Margery’s tail, making her jump.
Chittering came from up in a tree.
Yanked from the ugly memories, she looked up.
A scowling tree fairy swung on the end of a high branch. Margery huffed a wolfy laugh and got another twig thrown at her. Pixies were grumpy as bears when awakening after hibernation.
The winter had been long. Now, in April, the mountain valleys were beginning to lose their blanket of snow.
In bounding leaps that hurt her leg but still felt great, Margery caught up with the rest of the wolves. Shoulders brushing against the others, surrounded by the scent of pack and forest, she lost herself in the joy of feeling like she belonged.
Eventually, the alpha wolf led them back to Ailill Ridge. Some wolves veered off to the pack house where they’d left their clothing. More headed for their own homes. With two others, Margery trotted toward the south of town where she lived with several shifters in the territory’s communal house. Forest surrounded the back yard, and they did a quick check to ensure they were unobserved. After trawsfurring to human, Margery dried the mushy snow off her feet, dressed in the clothing she’d left in a storage case, and followed Jens through the back door.
“By the Gods, Margery, I thought you’d never get back.” Stomping into the kitchen, Portia shoved both her babies into Margery’s arms. “They’ve been bawling their heads off, and I’m ready to claw them.”
A werecat, Portia was so self-absorbed, it was surprising she’d even learned Margery’s name. However, she used it often enough when demanding help.
As Margery cuddled the cublings, her nose told her what the problem was. “They’re both wet and dirty. That’s why they’re crying.”
Coming in, Jens growled under his breath. “Even I can smell it. You’re the dam, Portia. You should change them.”
The werecat gave a dismissive sniff. “That’s why Margery gets free room and board. She’s supposed to work for it.”
A growl escaped Margery. “I get free room and board for cleaning the house as well as working as a banfasa. You get room and board for being a mother, which means you’re supposed to tend your cubs.”
Portia lifted a hand in a yah-yah-yah gesture and walked out of the room, leaving Margery with the cubs.
Lost that one, didn’t I? Margery ground her teeth together. But she was stuck. Unlike Portia, she wouldn’t leave kits in need.
A few minutes later, with one cub all washed, she wiped the second. “Honestly, this wasn’t what I thought life would be like when I left Seattle,” she whispered to him.
Two months old and adorable, he gurgled and chewed on his fingers. Freed, his little fat legs kicked up in the air. The tiny pink toes made her smile, despite her dissatisfaction. “I love being a wolf—and you will too when you’re twelve or so—but I wanted more than this.”
Housed in Ailill Ridge for a time after their release, the Dogwood villagers had come to her as usual with their health problems and injuries. The local shifters followed. She thought her childhood dreams were coming true. She would tend the sick, be part of a community, make a difference. Would be loved and needed like Grandmama in Dogwood, whose grateful patients were always bringing edible gifts—apples, tomatoes, a rabbit. Cookies were the best. The villagers had loved their wise woman.
Margery’s hope of belonging had died all too soon.
Last fall, a quorum of Cosantirs decided that keeping the Scythe’s ex-hostages in one location was dangerous. As the Cosantirs were the God-called guardians of their territories, their word was law—and the Dogwood villagers were relocated to various towns.
Pete, the Cosantir of Rainier Territory, insisted on keeping Margery in Ailill Ridge.
Trapping her here.
Was it wrong to be discontented when her life was so much better than as a captive? She had adequate food, a warm bed, a wolf pack. No one hit her. It was just… The shifters in town didn’t value her, perhaps because she wasn’t a God-called healer, but merely a banfasa. Banfasas had no magic, only skilled hands,