Page 75 of Veradel
“Let’s see if you’ve learned anything from her, too, or if I can still beat your ass like usual.”
As Vivian rolls her eyes, the three of us begin to laugh and slam into each other. Even Milo joins in, proud of himself, and the other children shriek with giggles as they root for different werewolves.
Taking in the sight before me with a pinch in my chest, a single thought glows within me despite the chilly air settling overthe town.
After centuries of howling and prowling around the Wall, I feel more connected to my pack than ever before.
As if Saskia has already healed a gaping wound I never even realized these last remnants of Veradel had.
The wind rattles around us, causing the shutters along the side of Lucan’s mother’s house to slap against the brick, as she leads me around to the backyard.
Stretching out in neat rows before us, leaves in all shades of green and purple burst from wooden-looking boxes. Toward the back, there’s a mini house painted red and white with a ramp leading up to a square opening and walls of wire. Chickens in a variety of speckled colors peck at the ground, soft clucks echoing into the woods beyond.
Sothat’swhat they sound like.
“I spend most of my time here,” she comments with a wave of her hand, “among my plants and animals.”
“It’s beautiful,” I say. Even in the chilly temperature, her plants are thriving.
Lucan’s mother steps around one of the boxes teeming with what I assume is cabbage and makes her way to what looks like a bucket tied to a string that’s hanging over a circular stone wall.
She turns a crank, and the bucket drops into a hole before she heaves it back up by the rope. The bucket, now filled with water, sloshes as she heaves it over the edge.
“I can help you,” I tell her, rushing forward, my feet grinding into the gravel pathway.
She waves me off and laughs. “I didn’t bring you here to put you to work. Besides—” She winks. “—I may be old, but I’m stronger than you.”
So with a blush, I watch her, wondering why shedidbring me here, as she waters her garden.
“These are all my winter veggies,” she explains as the water soaks into the dark soil. “Carrots, cabbage, kale, fava beans. I’ve got to keep the goats away from them.” She laughs. “They’re our only source of milk, but they’ll demolish my garden, so I keep them in a pen behind the chicken coop.”
“It’s beautiful—all the colors,” I say.
Pride lights up her eyes as she steps up to another wide box teeming with yellow flowers. “This here is yellow jasmine, and I’m hoping my camellias bloom soon. They come in as beautiful shades of red and pink and white.”
When the water bucket is empty, she places it down on the gravel path, wipes her hands on her flowing skirt, and asks, “Now, would you like some tea?” then winces. “I guess you don’t drink tea anymore.”
Heat creeps up my neck.Nope, just your son’s blood.
“Anyway,” she rushes on lightheartedly, “come in. I want to show you something.”
Curiosity blooms as I follow her up the porch steps, her long waves of white hair cascading down her back, and into her sitting room.
One wall is covered by shelves with books—so many that I think she may have collected them all from every abandoned house remaining in Veradel. Dried flowers, I assume from her garden, are pressed into frames and hung up around the room. And there’s so many blankets and pillows on every seat, that I imagine she reads a book every night, cozy in the firelight from her hearth.
I settle wordlessly next to her on the small floral-patterned sofa. A small, round box sits on the table in front of us. As she stares at it, her eyes well with tears before she quickly blinks them back.
“This is one of the only things I have left from Veradel,” she says softly.
“I’m so sorry,” I say.For what the Guardians did, who they are, what they destroyed,I don’t say.
Five centuries of hatred brewing. Five centuries of staring at that Wall from the outside, just as I’ve been staring at it from the inside. Five centuries of pain that could be avenged in a matter of hours.
I don’t know what else to say, what else to do, except let my actions speak for themselves.
“It isn’t your fault,” Lucan’s mom says simply, patting my leg. Her long, slender fingers curl back into her lap. “Besides, how can I think ill of you when it was your ancestor who saved my life?”
I blink at her. “What?”
