Page 62 of The Moonborn's Curse

"Vargrheim is very beautiful. There is still snow in the mountains in summer. The wolves are very kind," she lied. "They treat me well."

Her mother sighed, pleased. "And Hagan? Do you get on?"

Seren swallowed, staring at the moonlit cherry blossoms outside her window. An Owl hooted outside.

"Yes, Mamma. Hagan is...very friendly. Highclaw Draken and Lunara Astrid are very nice. They bought me a nice bag for my camera yesterday."

The words felt wrong. Hagan had been nothing but distant, resentful, and cruel in small, careful ways.

But her mother didn't need to know that.

"Your father asks about you," she continued, a rare softness in her voice when speaking of him. "Aaren too. They miss you."

Seren closed her eyes, her throat tightening.

"And Talis? Niva?"

"Talis is so clever. He has got some kind of scholarship with the coven in the West for computers. He will leave in a few years. Niva has been sad without you, I think. They ask about you every day."

"The Crone?"

"She says you will be strong enough to withstand anything."

Seren's silent tears slipped down her face, hot against her skin.

Her mother didn't notice. She kept talking, her voice filled with pride. "Everyone is so grateful for what you have done, my heart. The money from your bride price has rebuilt the school. We are setting aside money for the children to attend university with the humans. Do you understand how much this means?"

Seren stared blankly at the wall; her breath caught somewhere in her chest.

She understood.

She couldn't go back.

She had already been paid for.

So, she smiled through the lie, whispering, "I'm so glad, Mamma. I am so very happy here."

Things did not improve as the months passed. If anything, things got worse. Hagan kept his distance. The tribe followed his example.

He had made his choice.

He spent his days with his clique—Lia, Dain, and Veyr, their laughter and whispered conversations a wall she could not pass through.

The students had given her a name.

"Witch."

Someone had said it once, and it had stuck.

The comments, the murmurs, the sideways glances—they were all variations of the same thing now.

"Cursed girl."

"Witch."

"Little Hag"

"Voodoo princess"

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