Winter is coming…
Autumn has truly settled in.
The wind coils around the trees, sending dead leaves spinning through the air. I pull my long wool cardigan up to my ears. The air is cool and damp. Thin trails of smoke rise from the chimneys. Rocked by the melodic song of a few finches, I weave along the dirt path, trying to stay as much as possible within the weak rays of sunlight.
My body is not ready for winter yet.
Some mothers smile at me as they kiss their children goodbye before sending them off to school. I nod back politely in greeting. Others watch me in silence, probably trying to figure out what is wrong with me. Their eyes linger; their smug smiles burn against my skin.
I choose to ignore them, lowering my head as I pass by, pretending not to hear their unpleasant remarks.
Because even though everyone knows everyone here, I live on the outskirts of the community. It is not easy to belong to a clan when you are a woman of a certain age, alone and without parents.
At best, the women pity me—telling themselves that, compared to me, they are lucky. At worst, they whisper that I must be cursed, that the Goddess never granted me a companion.
A companion… I stopped believing in that a long time ago. At least since I passed my thirties.
Most girls find theirs before they turn twenty-five. Otherwise, something must be wrong with them. Something seriously wrong.
Still, everyone must have a role within the pack. So I was entrusted with teaching the children. Because of my recognized abilities, of course—but also because of my great availability, since I will never have children of my own.
At first, the decision felt cruel. What could be harder than caring for other people’s children while knowing I would never have the chance to carry even one myself? But little by little, it began to feel wiser. Almost saving.
At the heart of the community’s main concern—the development of its children—I remain fully integrated, easing the natural sense of exclusion that clings to me.
Because let’s be honest: even if I pretend none of this matters, it does. Very much.
It takes me less than ten minutes to reach the school from my cabin.
Almus, seven years old, is waiting for me on the doorstep, a mischievous little smile playing on his lips.
“Good morning, Mistress Esmerid. Mama gave this to me for you.”
He hands me a small paper bag, still warm. I open it carefully. A delicious scent of cinnamon brioche escapes.
“Mmm, thank you, Almus. That’s very kind. Please thank your mother for me. I love her little brioches so much.”
Yes, the few mothers who feel sorry for me are truly, truly kind. Sometimes… perhaps a little too kind.
I open the classroom door. Some of the students are already seated, chatting softly. They all jump to their feet as soon as they hear me enter and turn toward me in unison.
“Good morning, Mistress.”
“Good morning, children. You may sit down.”
My eyes sweep over our small classroom: large wooden desks paired with benches worn smooth by time, a modest bookshelf holding the few books we own, a large beige wool rug, and a wide blackboard covering the entire back wall. In the left corner, a small cast-iron stove keeps us warm during the harsh winter months.
The place is rather spartan, but at least it is a real room made of wood and clay. We do not study in a tent like some nomadic packs that wander in search of unclaimed land.
I carefully place my satchel on the desk and take out my glass bottle filled with hot water and thyme, along with my small iridescent leather pouch. I retrieve my lesson manuscript from the only drawer, then take a few seconds to make sure everything is in order: coats hanging properly, books neatly arranged, benches aligned…
I clap my hands. It is time to begin.
“Alford, could you please go ring the bell? To warn the last latecomers.”
The ten-year-old boy nods and hurries off. A lively melody rings out, making my heart beat as if it were the first time. Yet I have held this role for many years now—six days a week, from sunrise until the midday break, except during harvest months, when the children help in the fields.
Unlike other packs ruled by fear, we live in harmony, united around the important events and daily tasks, with a single goal: to ensure everyone’s survival, no matter the circumstances.
Decisions are often made collectively, guided by our alpha, who remains very close to the pack.
The last students arrive out of breath, heads lowered, ashamed of being late.
“Good morning, Mistress. Sorry we’re late,” they murmur, before sitting down quietly.
I take a deep breath.
“Good morning, everyone. I hope you are all doing well…”
🙏