Werelord Thal: A Renaissance Werewolf Tale Read Free Page A

plans.
    Elias hustled toward the door with the limp
sparrow dangling from his fingers and flung it in the street.
    Yiri protested loudly, and Patrik and little
Erik wailed.
    “What were you thinking?” Altea asked of
Elias. At fourteen he was the oldest and presumably capable of
preventing the deposit of corpses in the kitchen.
    “There’s dead birds in the kitchen all the
time,” he said defensively.
    “Those are for cooking,” Cynthia said.
    “We were considering a cremation,” Elias shot
back.
    “Enough of this prattle,” Altea declared. The
boys hushed, except for four-year-old Erik who whined and leaned
against Yiri.
    “We have strawberries. Now isn’t that better
than a dead bird?” Altea said and everyone trooped back to the
kitchen. They indulged liberally in the fresh berries. The tart
sunshiny juice delighted everyone, and the boys forgot the
bird.
    Altea got them cleaned just as their tutor
arrived. She welcomed Master Holub and steered her brothers toward
the room where they took their lessons.
    “Why don’t you study with us?” Erik asked,
clinging to his big sister’s hand.
    Altea bent and gave him a little kiss on the
cheek. “I finished my studies before you were born. I’m grown up,”
she explained.
    He gave her a hug and ran to catch up to his
brothers. His shoes banged on the floor, and Altea recalled how
their mother would have admonished him not to stomp.
    She went to the sunny front room to work on
her embroidery. She carefully unfolded the corner of the tablecloth
and resumed stitching the design of vines and acorns that she had
developed. The work was slow but she had almost the entire edge of
this tablecloth finished. She had others in her hope chest along
with dozens of towels, head wraps, handkerchiefs, aprons,
coverlets, and shawls. The lid was getting difficult to shut. Altea
frowned as she considered that she had almost enough linen for two
wives now.
    Even so, she enjoyed the work. Her skills had
improved over the years, and she was proud of her designs. She
tried not to copy other women too much, and she had gotten many
compliments on her work.
    Her home was still filled with linens from
her mother’s lifetime of creation. All the fabric in the house had
passed through her mother’s hands. The signature of her soul was
upon everything.
    Altea set down her little hoop and shut her
eyes. Her mother’s absence was consuming her. She tossed her
embroidery aside and fled to her room. The tears came easily, but
she muffled her sobs. Her brothers did not need to hear. She knew
they cried at night too, and she wanted to be strong for them.
    The day grew hotter and the stuffiness of the
house lulled her mercifully into a nap. She awoke to Yiri shaking
her shoulder.
    “Papa’s home,” Yiri said.
    Rubbing her face, Altea sat up.
    “He says he wants you,” the boy added.
    He always wanted something. Altea got up and
unraveled her frazzled golden braids. While brushing her hair, she
relished taking so much time to respond to her stepfather’s
summons.
    Yiri sat on the edge of her bed watching her.
He was fascinated as her fingers deftly plaited her hair anew.
    “Hand me my wrap,” she said.
    Glad to be useful, Yiri bounced off the bed
and gave her the white linen headdress she had tossed aside
earlier. She wrapped it around her hair and checked her face in the
mirror. She touched her smooth cheek and was satisfied that she had
a good youthful glow. Witnessing the prolonged demise of her mother
had made her appreciate her vibrant skin.
    “You’re pretty,” Yiri commented.
    “Thank you,” she said and smiled warmly.
    As if embarrassed to have complimented his
sister, Yiri ran off to play. Altea went downstairs and sought her
stepfather in his study. He was in a chair with his feet on a
stool, unwinding from a hard day of acting important while sitting
in another chair.
    Martin Fridrich was studying a pamphlet and
frowning. Inky fingerprints smeared the side of the paper