Sequoia Coast beginning;

i'm sorry i'm sorry i'm sorry i'm —
breaths drawn in werewolf cries beneath a round autumn moon, loud enough to wake the dead lying on an island that had been meant as a sanctuary.
once, god had given she and bartholomew a vision. when heda's mentor had departed, she had kept their faith and flame alive, centering it in the holiest of matrimony with caracal.
their children had been created in love and in devotion.
and then god had taken them away, one by one.
he had taken her husband.
he had left them scattered and rootless, heda too weak to rebuild sweetharbor a third time, too weak to breathe, to function, to think, to exist.
her weeping, breaking back into silence, paw stuffed to mouth.
heda was delirious with pain. she should have stayed on the island/with towhee/with mireille/with judah, oh, judah, oh baby, oh, i left you.
her judgement of caracal for ava amara, turned upon her head for her baby boy.
solomon's curse; oh! i want to go where god is not
away from the sea. away from the salt. so far from the island that it would begin to fade from the memory of her little ones.
this thought alone eased her, eased her spirit enough for a breath and a silencing and another resignment to another endless night. sleep came at last, fitful, but it arrived.