The Blessed Woman Learns to Work

After that day, I moved my frame, thread, and needles into the east room and locked the door.

For the first time in my life, I did not cook breakfast.

I did not wash diapers.

I did not chase half-shifted wolf pups through the yard.

I stitched.

Silver thread through black velvet.

Blood silk around the rose.

Moon-white knots along the wolf’s jaw.

Every stitch pulled me one step closer to freedom.

Every cry outside the door reminded me why I could not stop.

By the third day, my mother looked like a ghost.

Selene had always been beautiful.

Even after seven births, she had remained soft and pale, with glossy hair and delicate hands. People said motherhood made her glow.

Of course she glowed.

I had carried all the darkness for her.

Now, without me, the glow was fading.

Her hair was loose. Her dress was stained with milk and ash. The youngest pup screamed against her hip while two others fought under the table. A pot boiled over on the stove.

When my father came home that night, he found only thin porridge and salted meat.

His face turned black.

“This is dinner?”

My mother flinched.

“I was busy with the children all day.”

“You sit at home while I work the forge, and this is what you give me?”

Her eyes filled with tears.

Before, tears had always saved her.

This time, they did not.

She pointed toward my locked door.

“Aveline hides in there all day. How am I supposed to do everything alone?”

My father slammed his bowl onto the table.

“She is earning money.”

My needle paused.

Outside, my mother whispered, “You are taking her side?”

“She is useful,” he said coldly. “Try being the same.”

The silence after that was almost beautiful.

I looked down at the blood rose blooming beneath my hands.

For years, my mother had believed she was loved because she was precious.

Now she was beginning to learn the truth.

In this house, love was only another word for use.

And her usefulness was running out.