My name is Riona, and at dawn I'm the only one awake in the Wickford pack archive.
The oldest law book in the pack is open on my table, and I'm sewing its spine back together one page at a time.
It's cold in here and my fingers are stiff, but I don't stop.
This book is older than the Alpha House, and nobody else is allowed to touch it.
Nobody says out loud that they trust me with it, but Luna Thera asked for me by name last week.
I hold on to things like that. I'm the only one in my house who knows how to be quiet and hit back.
My sleeve covers a bruise from training. Gilda hits hard, and I like it, because a bruise is proof I'm getting stronger.
Then a fist hits the archive door, and the sound goes through me like a dropped plate.
Marda: Riona! Open this door, you useless bitch.
I don't move. I learned a long time ago that the first shout is just her warming up.
Marda: I know you're in there with your dead books. Selba needs her dress fixed and her bath run, so get your ass out here.
I put my needle down and open the door, because the lock on this archive is older than my mother's patience.
Marda: Look at you. Sewing trash at sunrise like it's real work.
Marda: You think that book makes you somebody?
She grabs my wrist and pulls me into the corridor, and her grip is tight enough that I feel the bones shift under it.
It'll leave marks. It always does.
Marda: Your sister has people coming at midday, and you'll be there serving them. On your knees if she says so.
I keep my voice flat, because flat is the only armor I get.
Riona: I have three pages left. Luna Thera wants it mended before the council meets.
Marda: I don't give a shit what that woman wants.
The slap comes fast and turns my head, and my cheek hits the corner of the shelf.
Something splits. I taste blood, hot and thin, running down to my chin.
Two archive runners come up the stairs with carts of files and stop dead.
They see her hand on me and the blood on my face, and they look at the floor.
Marda: You're not pack business, you're mine. Say one more word and I'll hand you to the first man who'll take a wolfless wife, and none of them will pay much.
I believe her. That's the worst part. I've believed her since I was small.
The thing in my chest, the part I never let out, curls up small and stays quiet.
She lets go and steps back, and her mouth twists the way it does when she's pleased with herself.
Marda: Midday. Wash your face first, you look like a beggar.
She walks off down the corridor, and I stand there spitting blood into my palm.
Then I go back inside and sit down. I pick up my needle with shaking hands and finish the page anyway.
This book will still be here long after she's gone. So will I.
I'll be home by midday, kneeling and quiet. But I'll be back at dawn, and one day I won't have to leave at all.