11. Elowen
ELOWEN
The next morning, the letter arrives folded once, then again. Mira's handwriting is careful but unhurried, the ink slightly darker where the pen paused, thinking before continuing. I recognize that rhythm as easily as I recognize the scent of juniper in her blends.
I don't open it right away.
Instead, I set it beside my kettle and finish preparing the herbs I collected yesterday. The mugwort and yarrow hang drying near the window now, tied with twine, their scent faint but grounding. I label each bundle before turning to the letter.
Only when everything is in its place do I sit.
The paper is warm from the sun.
Elowen,
I just want you to know I see the shape of your days changing lately, now that you’ve discovered the greenhouse. That kind of shift doesn't happen by accident, little one. It’s a well-trodden path.
I've been thinking about Asha lately.
The name settles inside me like a stone dropped into water.
My great-great-grandmother. The one whose stories were never passed down through quiet evenings and careful voices.
She was never meant to stay where she was placed. Everyone expected her to choose safety. Structure. A single path.
She didn't.
She chose attention instead.
I close my eyes.
Asha left her pack, not out of rebellion, but because the shape of what she needed didn't exist yet. So she built it herself. Slowly. With care. With people who understood restraint as respect, not denial.
Mira never told the story like a warning.
She told it like permission.
If your body begins to speak more loudly in the coming days remember this: biology is information, not instruction. You don't owe meaning to anyone before you decide what it is.
I'm enclosing a blend you already know. You'll recognize the ratios. Drink it when you need steadiness, not silence.
I unfold the final page.
And Elowen—
You do not have to choose the expected path just because it is well-lit. Our lineage never did.
All my love,
Grandma
I sit with the letter pressed flat against my thigh, the weight of it grounding rather than heavy.
Outside, footsteps, voices, a bell marking the hour.
Inside, something settles, and I reach for the small pouch Mira included with the letter.
Inside are seeds wrapped in wax paper and labeled in her precise script.
Tulsi. Holy basil.
I hold the packet for a long moment.
Tulsi wasn't common here in the UK. It required warmth. Protection from frost.
It also had history, used by Asha, by Mira, by women who understood that healing wasn't just about bodies. It was about balance.
I tuck the seeds carefully into my bag.
Later.
I wake to certainty.
The warmth I've been noticing for days has deepened overnight. It pools low in my abdomen, constant and undeniable. My skin feels more present, aware of the sheets against my legs, the weight of my braid across my shoulder.
I lie still for a moment, listening to my body.
This is happening.
I sit up slowly, braid slipping forward as I press my feet to the cool floor. The contrast grounds me, heat inside, coolness without. I breathe deeply, counting the inhales.
One. Two. Three.
I think of Mira's letter, the words she wrote in careful script: Biology is information, not instruction. You don't owe meaning to anyone before you decide what it is.
I stand and move to the window, looking out at the campus just beginning to wake. Early morning light filters through the trees, soft and patient. Somewhere, students are sleeping. Somewhere, the greenhouse waits, glass panes catching the first hints of dawn.
I press my palm to my sternum, feeling the warmth there.
This is my body doing what it's designed to do.
But I'm still here. I'm still me.
And I get to decide what this means.
Ms. Hartley's office is quiet when I arrive an hour later, the halls still mostly empty.
She looks up from her desk, takes one look at me, and her expression shifts to something professional but kind. "Elowen, come in. Close the door if you'd like."
I do.
She waits, hands folded on her desk, giving me room to speak first.
"I need the heat suite," I say quietly. "If it's available."
"It is." She pulls a folder from her drawer, slides a form across the desk. "You have options. I'll walk you through them, and you can take as long as you need to decide."
I nod.
"The suite is private," she continues, calm and matter-of-fact. "Temperature controlled, comfortable. The door locks from the inside; you control access entirely. It's stocked with water, bland food, clean linens. You can bring personal items if you'd like."
"Okay." They’ve thought of everything.
"You can go through this alone," she says. "Many omegas do. The suite is designed to be safe, private, everything you need."
I wait.
"Or, you can request alpha support," she continues. "If you choose that route, you specify who, when, and for how long. At any point, you can revoke access. The door is always yours."
My pulse ticks faster. Alpha support. It has been there in the back of my mind, and now it’s time to make it reality.
But then I hear Gideon’s voice in my head.
All post-heat. All newly bonded packs. Olivia got lucky.
I know omegas everywhere are bonding with new packs, but this is too close to home to ignore.
"You can also request omega companions,” Ms. Hartley is still talking. “Someone to check on you, bring supplies, sit with you if you want company. Again, entirely your choice."
I think of Lila's offer. Omega to omega. No judgment. No agenda.
"Three alphas have already asked to coordinate," Ms. Hartley says, her expression neutral. "They're aware that your choice is final and will be respected."
Three.
Of course.
"What did they say?" I ask, my pulse ticking a little bit faster.
"They are available if you want them. Outside the suite. Nearby." Her gaze is steady. "They didn't request entry. Simply... presence."
Something warm unfolds in my chest. I knew, but I guess I didn’t want to take it for granted. They’ll be there for me without taking that final step. They know I’m scared. They’re giving me the option to use them without fear, and my chest swells with something I’ve not acknowledged. Yet.
"I want to experience it," I say, testing the words that I chose days ago. "I’ve prepared chamomile and fennel for the cramps, but I want to remain aware. I don’t wish to be medicated.”
She nods. "That's brave. And absolutely your choice."
"I'd like them nearby," I continue. "Outside. Not in the room, but... close. And I'd like Lila Chen to check on me. I don’t want to encroach on her time, but I want…" I struggle for words. "Someone who's not them."
"I'll arrange it." She slides a key across the desk. "Suite 3, medical wing. Whenever you're ready. There's no timer on this, you go when your body tells you to go."
I take the key, the metal warm in my palm.
"Elowen," she says gently. "You can change your mind about any of this. At any point. The door is yours. Always."
"Thank you."
I stand, and she stands with me.
"One more thing," she adds. "When this is over, when you're ready, Resident Services has post-heat support. Quiet space, warm food, someone to talk to if you want."
I nod, throat tight.
She sees me to the door. "Be safe. Be kind to yourself. And remember, you're doing this your way. That matters."