Wren
The Snow Moon Festival lasts three nights. Berta told me the last night is the one that matters.
The first night is for the pack, she said. The second night is for the ancestors. But the third night, the night the moon comes up full over the pines, that night is for the heart. On the third night, you dance with the people who matter to you, and the old wolves say the Goddess watches who you choose.
I should have paid more attention to that last part.
The third night came colder and clearer than the first. The fires burned taller. The music was older, slower, songs with roots in them. I wore the red dress again, because Berta caught me reaching for the gray one and gave me a look that could strip paint.
Caius found me first.
Of course he did. The fiddles kicked up into something
