“Mama, she helped me—” Mary tries to protest, but her mother cuts her off.
“Shut up, Mary! I’ve told you not to go near her!” The woman’s voice drops to a venomous whisper. “If I see you near my daughter again, I’ll report you to Alpha Gareth.”
They hurry away, Mary casting confused glances back at me over her shoulder. I stand there holding the small flower, my hands trembling with a mixture of humiliation and rage.
Report me? For what? For cleaning a scraped knee and fixing a doll?
I tuck the flower carefully into my shirt pocket and continue toward the bakery, my earlier warmth replaced by familiar numbness.
The bakery windows display an abundance of fresh goods—golden loaves of bread still steaming from the ovens, delicate pastries dusted with sugar, and a beautiful chocolate cake
