Far away, in a valley where a rogue has convinced herself that giving up the traveling life might not be so bad — and letting herself grow soft and complacent might not be so bad — and allowing herself to fall ill with fever might not be so bad — Lotte stumbles blindly with her broad skull thrust skyward, ever skyward. She howls until her voice breaks, singing the tule kotiin cry again and again for a lost little boy who is too far to hear her. “@Roarke!” she screams, over and over, an apology behind the words. She is sorry she let him get lost, sorry she didn’t spend more time telling him stories, sorry that she hasn’t found his song yet.
Lotte is inconsolable, uncontrollable. Any attempts by Arturo and Hemlock to bring her home are met with an impenetrable layer of stubbornness. She wanders as far as she dares from the territory where her other three children wait, unaware that she and Olive share a bitterly ironic predicament: the Blackfeather wolves have two lost sons now — sons who might have grown up together as pack brothers if things had just gone a little bit differently.
“ROARKE!”
She will never forget him — will never stop calling for him or searching for him. In her sleep, she will cry as he has cried: “Baby, my baby,” and pray for their reunion.
Lotte is inconsolable, uncontrollable. Any attempts by Arturo and Hemlock to bring her home are met with an impenetrable layer of stubbornness. She wanders as far as she dares from the territory where her other three children wait, unaware that she and Olive share a bitterly ironic predicament: the Blackfeather wolves have two lost sons now — sons who might have grown up together as pack brothers if things had just gone a little bit differently.
“ROARKE!”
She will never forget him — will never stop calling for him or searching for him. In her sleep, she will cry as he has cried: “Baby, my baby,” and pray for their reunion.
« Next Oldest | Next Newest »