"Look, I know you might not be the biggest fan of pack stuff, but I really think you should come over to London," Susan said, adjusting the phone so I could see her better.
She was in the kitchen making lunch, one arm throwing sausages into a frying pan while the other held the phone at an angle that gave me a crooked view of her chin and ceiling. Her blonde hair was oiled and pinned into a messy knot on her head, and yet somehow, she still looked adorable.
"We have a pack shaman here," she added. "She's… well, ancient and good. Very good. If anyone can figure out what's going on with you, it's her."
I rolled onto my back, lifting the phone above my face. "I don't know, Susan."
"It's a good idea," she pressed, the sound of oil crackling faint in the background. "New country, new weathe
