SOPHIA
The new moon rises invisible tonight, leaving only stars to light the kitchen where I stand elbow-deep in cornmeal batter. Nana Maggie, the pack's head cook, watches from her stool with eyes that have seen seven decades of hungry wolves. Her knuckles are swollen with arthritis, hands that once kneaded a hundred loaves now relegated to supervision.
"Not too much buttermilk," she rasps, though I've already got the consistency perfect. Sophia's hands know this recipe—not from Moonstone's kitchens but from somewhere deeper. Madame Bruno, the old omega healer who'd taken pity on a fat orphan girl, teaching her to mix medicine with food. Healing starts in the belly, she'd say in her bayou drawl, adding herbs to everything.
I fold in the fresh corn kernels, then the secret—a touch of h
