Emelda
Snowy darkness stretches ahead of me. Whatever light from the moon is blocked by thick clouds that spread snow across the hills leading from the castle to Ravenfell. I pull my cloak tight to fight the bitter chill in the air and breathe in the fresh, crisp night. It smells clean. I love that smell. I love when it snows. I always have.
But tonight, I’m not tucked in bed with the fire roaring while I read a book. I’m not in my kitchen mixing herbs or baking for Michael’s insatiable shifter appetite. I’m not settled near the window mending a seam in his favorite jacket while watching the snow fall in dizzy circles.
Now, I’m walking to what remains of my old life.
I stop at the edge of the manor’s property line. A few outbuildings remain, but that’s it. What was once a great hous
