Children of the Wolves by Jessica Starre Page B

conversation with Michael.
    â€œI’ll take a look in the morning,” Michael said.
    Rufus grunted. “Nothing urgent. The fence doesn’t keep the wolves out even when it is in full repair.”
    Jelena stared down at the bread on her plate. She knew Michael wouldn’t say anything, yet she couldn’t help being disappointed when he didn’t.
    â€œI wish there were some way to discourage them without traps,” Rufus grumbled, spooning soup into his bearded mouth.
    â€œNo traps,” Jelena said, the bile rising in her throat at the thought. Michael put a hand on her shoulder and she swallowed her further protests. The way she always did.
    â€œPerhaps we can ask the rememberer if he knows anything,” Michael said.
    Rufus blew out a breath and applied himself to his meal. No one wanted to talk with the rememberer unless he must.
    Jelena glanced at Michael. The rememberer. She could consult the rememberer, ask him what to do. She shivered at the thought of approaching him; the people held him in respect but also awe. Yet he would have wise counsel for her, she was sure of it. How much he had seen, and had known. How much he remembered.
    Jelena said nothing to Michael of the story Teresa had told her, but during the meal she glanced occasionally at Danielle and noticed that Danielle kept eyeing Michael speculatively. The sight made Jelena’s stomach clench and spoiled her appetite. She pushed the uneaten bread away.
    But then, Jelena argued with herself, she had seen other women look at Michael like that. He was an attractive man, and a kind one, and he held a position of prestige in the community. At the moment he was unavailable, but that was not a permanent condition for him. So it was natural for unpartnered women (and even some of the partnered ones) to give him speculative glances. That didn’t mean Michael had responded to a speculative glance.
    Jelena drained the mug of well water at her place and got to her feet. She pressed her hand against Michael’s shoulder as he began to rise. “Finish,” she said. “No harm will come to me. I’m just going to relax a moment in the sunshine.”
    It was the first time she had ever lied to him.
    She smiled her goodbyes to the friends at the table and left the dining hall, not wanting to poison the atmosphere with her negativity and doubts, her tensions and suspicions.
    Damn Teresa. As if Jelena didn’t have enough on her mind already; she didn’t need to have this unhappy doubt added to her burdens. She crossed the sunlit courtyard, lifted a hand in greeting to the sentries, and headed toward the shade of one of the big oaks near the fence.
    The rememberer lived alone in quarters far from the meeting hall, near the southwest corner of the main enclosure. His cabin snuggled close to the fence, far from the life of the people though still inside the borders of their village.
    Jelena raised her hand to knock on the door to his cabin, then hesitated. She had nothing to give. One did not come to the rememberer empty-handed. She squared her shoulders. That was just an excuse, her mind trying to find a way out of this. She rapped on the door, waited a moment. No light emanated from the cabin, no sound. But that didn’t mean the rememberer was absent.
    She took another breath and knocked again.
    â€œEnter,” a hoarse voice called from within.
    Jelena squelched the impulse to run away. She pushed open the cracked wooden door, peering into the darkness beyond. She stepped into the cabin, leaving the door ajar. Blankets covered the windows, casting the living area into gloom. A single candle burned on a table in the center of the room. The rememberer sat huddled in a chair next to the table, his back to her.
    She opened her mouth to say something, then sneezed. The overripe musty scent told her the last time the place had been cleaned was the last time she’d been here — and that was quite a while