Chapter 31: First Harvest

The first harvest came in late September.

We held the dinner in the flood field, at a long table built from doors and sawhorses.

Every bed had come up.

The moonflax stood knee high, grey-green and silver at the edges.

The lavender had gone purple down three whole rows.

Pia carried out the first bowl of stew with a dish towel over her shoulder and her hair tied up in a scarf.

"Nobody touch the bread," she said. "I count the loaves."

"You count everything," I said.

"I'm a healer. It's practically the job."

Torin's sister had come across the bridge with her husband and three children.

The husband was a broad, quiet man who had never spoken more than ten words to me in a row.

He sat down at my left and pushed a jar of honey toward me.

"For the cough tea," he said. "My mother used to make it. Your Pia says you can fix the recipe."

"I can try."

"I'd like that." He cleared his throat. "She's been gone six years."

I took the jar in both hands.

"I'll make it tonight," I said.

Around us, two packs ate off the same table.

A Redfern boy and a Cedar Hollow girl argued over the last potato.

Two grandmothers who had been enemies for forty years passed a salt shaker back and forth without a word.

The new Alpha sat at the far end with her limp stretched out and a plate on her knee.

She raised her cup to me, and I raised mine.

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