9. Anouk
NINE
ANOUK
Elder Cordelia Ashworth arrives at my apothecary three hours after the attack.
I hear her before I see her—the particular cadence of her heels against cobblestone, the rustle of conservative skirts, the soft murmur of her voice as she greets my apprentice in the front room.
She sounds concerned. Motherly. The perfect picture of a senior council member checking on a colleague after a traumatic experience.
I don’t believe a single syllable.
Elder Cordelia arrived full of comfort pastries from Moonpetal Bakery and careful warnings about “misplaced trust” and the wisdom of stepping back from matters that had become “too personal.” She left the muffins behind.
I counted seven ways her visit was an assessment of what I knew rather than any offer of comfort.
When her footsteps faded from the ward-bells, I was already certain—
“She’s the traitor.”
Caius steps out of my compounding room, where he has very deliberately been standing behind the door I very deliberately left partially open. His expression is carefully blank, but I see the fury simmering beneath it.
“Probably.”
“We can’t prove it.”
“Not yet. But she’s getting desperate. That speech about delegation—she’s never suggested I step back from anything in her entire career. She wants me away from this investigation.”
“Because you’re getting close.”
“Because we’re getting close.” I look up at him, standing in my doorway like he belongs there. Like he’s always belonged there, and I’ve just been too stubborn to notice. “She specifically mentioned my cooperation with the Protection Network. My time in wolf territory.”
“She’s trying to separate us.”
“She’s trying to separate me from everyone who might help expose her.” I abandon the pretense of organizing and lean against my workbench. “First Mathilda. Now anyone who gets too involved in the investigation.”
“Then we don’t separate.” He crosses the room in three strides. “We push harder. We find the proof she’s so desperate to keep hidden.”
“Agreed.” My voice comes out steadier than I feel. His proximity is doing interesting things to my concentration—interesting and distracting and not entirely unwelcome. “But we need more information. The journals from Mathilda’s cottage were incomplete. There has to be more.”
The bell above my door chimes again.
We both turn—too quickly, too obviously.
“I have information. About Mathilda’s remaining records.” Grandmother Peach walks toward me.
“Remaining records?”
“You didn’t think those burned journals were everything, did you?” Her smile sharpens. “Mathilda was thorough. She wouldn’t have trusted her life’s work to a single location. She left copies. Backups. Insurance against the destruction the Preservers attempted.”
I exchange a glance with Caius. His expression mirrors my own cautious hope.
“Where?”
“She trusted someone else. Someone who’s been keeping secrets even longer than I have.” Grandmother Peach’s voice takes on an unusual quality—almost respectful. “The wolves’ oldest elder. Mathilda visited her three days before she died.”
“Grandmother Sylvana Sternwolf.”
The name lands in the silence like a stone dropped in still water. Caius has gone very still beside me, his expression carefully blank in a way that suggests significant emotion underneath.
“Your grandmother.” I turn to face him fully. “Mathilda visited your grandmother.”
“Apparently.” His voice gives nothing away.
“You didn’t mention that.”
“I didn’t know.” A muscle ticks in his jaw. “Grandmother Sylvana doesn’t share her visitors with me. She’s been alive longer than our pack has existed. She keeps her own counsel.”
“She kept Mathilda’s counsel too.” Grandmother Peach begins cutting pie—produced, as always, from nowhere discernible. “The complete journal. Everything Mathilda remembered. Everything she discovered about the Severing and how to undo it.”
“Can we access it?” I direct the question to Caius. “Will she speak with us?”
He’s quiet for a long moment. I watch him process, watch the careful consideration that makes him such an effective alpha. He’s calculating approaches, probably wondering how his grandmother will react to him bringing a witch into her home.
“She doesn’t see visitors.” His words are measured. “She’s very old. Very traditional. The last outsider she allowed in her cabin was Mathilda, and that was a testament to their friendship of many years.”
“But?”
“But she might see you.” He meets my gaze, and I catch a flicker of vulnerability beneath the alpha’s exterior. “If I ask. If I explain why it matters.”
“Would she refuse you?”
“She’s my grandmother. She loves me.” Something softens in his face. “She also hasn’t let me win an argument since I was twelve. Her agreement isn’t guaranteed.”
“Then we ask.” I straighten, decision made. “We go to her. We explain. And we hope that Mathilda’s trust in her extends to the people trying to finish her work.”
Grandmother Peach nods approvingly. “The old wolf respects honesty. Don’t try to charm her—she’ll see through it instantly. Don’t try to demand—she’ll refuse on principle. Just tell her the truth about what you’re facing and let her decide.”
“You know her?”
“We’ve crossed paths. Over the centuries.” Peach’s expression suggests those crossings were memorable. “Sylvana Sternwolf has forgotten more secrets than most beings have ever learned. If she’s chosen to share them with you, it’s because she believes you’re ready to hear them.”
She presses pie into my hands—warm, fragrant, impossible to refuse—and heads for the door.
“One more thing.” She pauses, looking back with an expression I can’t quite read.
“Sylvana has been watching her grandson for a very long time. She knows how he feels about you. She’s probably known longer than either of you have admitted it to yourselves.
” A sharp smile. “Don’t be surprised if she has opinions about that too. ”
She reaches for the door handle and then stops once more, just for a moment. “The old magic knows what it needs,” she says quietly, not quite to us. “I was wrong to think it could be contained—by fear, or by force. Anyone who believes otherwise will learn what I did.”
The door swings shut. By the time the bell stops chiming, there’s no sign she was ever here—just an empty pie plate and a silence that feels like a dare.
Caius clears his throat.
“She’s not wrong.” His voice is rough. “About my grandmother having opinions. She’s been… invested in my personal life for longer than I’d prefer.”
“Invested how?”
“She asks about you. Every visit. Has been asking since the first council meeting you attended.” He runs a hand through his hair, the gesture almost boyish. “She says wolves recognize their mates early. She says I’ve been recognizing you for too long and refusing to acknowledge it.”
The word ‘mate’ lands between us like a live wire.
“And what do you say?”
“I say my grandmother enjoys embarrassing me.” But his gaze holds mine, warm and intent. “I also say she’s rarely wrong about these things.”
I should deflect. Should redirect to the investigation, the journals, the practical matters requiring attention. Should maintain the professional distance that’s kept us both safe for so long.
Instead, I take a bite of Grandmother Peach’s pie and say, “Then I suppose we shouldn’t keep her waiting.”
Wolf territory feels different from what I expected.
The forest closes around us as Caius leads me deeper into pack land, the well-worn paths of The Hollow giving way to towering pines and filtered sunlight. The air smells different here—earth and evergreen and a particular musk that I’m learning to associate with shifters. With him.
“You’re quiet.” Caius glances back at me, adjusting his pace to match mine.
“I’m processing.” My heels are entirely wrong for forest terrain—I should have changed before we left—but I refuse to show weakness by stumbling. “I’ve never been to wolf territory before. I expected more… howling.”
His laugh is sudden, surprised. “We save that for special occasions. Full moons. Pack celebrations. Really good steaks.”
He steers me toward a quieter section of the territory, where the trees grow older and the paths seem weighted with memory.
“Here.”
The Pack Center spreads before us—a cluster of homes arranged around a massive fire pit, connected by worn paths and scattered with evidence of community life.
Children race between trees in forms that shift between human and wolf without conscious thought.
Adults pause mid-conversation to watch our approach, their expressions curious but not hostile.
And everywhere—everywhere—I feel the weight of attention.
“They’re staring.”
“You’re new. You’re interesting. You’re with their alpha.” His hand finds the small of my back, guiding me forward.
The cabin is small and old and somehow exactly what I expected. Climbing vines cover half the exterior. Smoke rises from a chimney that looks original to the structure. The door is painted a deep red that’s faded with age but still visible.
And standing in that doorway, watching our approach with eyes that have seen more than I can imagine, is Grandmother Sylvana Sternwolf.
She’s beyond age. There’s no other word for it—beyond age in a way that transcends physical appearance, as if she carries the weight of centuries in her small frame. Her hair is white as snow, her face a map of wrinkles and experience. But her eyes are keen.
Those eyes pin me in place like a butterfly under glass.
“The coven leader.” Her voice is stronger than I expected—commanding, with a hint of dry humor underneath. “My grandson has been mooning over you for far too long. I was beginning to wonder if either of you had the sense the gods gave a confused puppy.”
“Grandmother—” Caius starts.
“Hush.” She waves a dismissive hand without looking at him. “I’ve been tolerant about your brooding for years. Now that you’ve finally made progress, let me have my moment of victory.”
Heat crawls up my cheeks. I meet her gaze directly.
“We’re here about Mathilda Thornwood.”