By the fourth month of her treatment abroad, Ivy's transformation was nothing short of miraculous. The frail, trembling woman who had left the territory in a wheelchair had made a great recovery. Her stride was once again steady, her posture was back to being commanding, and her skin held a healthy, sun-kissed warmth.
Her left hand was still scarred by thin, silvery microsurgery lines, but it had regained its motor function.
Through grueling months of psychological therapy, Ivy had gradually arrived at a quiet acceptance. She accepted that her inner wolf was gone, that a part of her soul was permanently severed. She had also accepted that she would never play the piano with the effortless brilliance of her youth.
But instead of letting these losses anchor her in despair, Ivy use
