Chapter 7: Soup

Vera came at noon the next day, on foot, carrying a covered dish.

She stopped at the gate and did not touch it.

"I'm not here for the pack," she called. "I'm here as a woman. Please."

Roz was on the porch with her arms folded.

"She's got a casserole," she muttered.

"I can see that."

"It's a trap."

"It's a casserole, Roz. Let her in."

"Why?"

"Because I want to look at her while she talks."

Roz considered that, then lifted the bar herself.

Vera came up the path with her hand on her belly and her breath short, and she was crying before she reached the steps.

"I'm so sorry," she said. "I'm so, so sorry. I never meant for you to be alone."

She set the dish on the table and turned to Roz and took both her hands.

"I know you hate me. I would too. If it had been me on that road, I'd have wanted to claw my husband's face."

"I'm thinking about it," said Roz.

"I understand."

"I'm thinking about it right now."

Vera laughed, a small wet sound, and wiped her eyes.

"You're so strong," she said. "Both of you. I wish I could have been that strong when I lost my mate."

It was the same soft voice that had handed me the soup.

I watched her sit down in the chair by the stove and ease her weight onto the seat with a sigh.

"When are you due?" I asked.

"Any week now. Conall says the baby is a little small."

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