I fingered tiny rubies on the hem. She’d worn the gown when the world was new, full of hope and faith. They’d dribbled water on her downy hair, and she’d cried just enough to solicit reassurance.
I’d wanted to pass on the christening outfit, to hold her baby and tell her he was beautiful when no baby really is. I’d wanted her to leave the beast who replaced her joy with fear.
I placed the gown across her stomach – distended, still – and turned away.
Ritual blood graced the edge of my knife as I set out to kill the wolf.