Free Blood Moon by Jackie French

Neil with his first apple tree that Elaine kept on her desk.
    But this room had a fireplace too, the Truewood charred and smoky around it. Even on this warm morning the hot coals snickered and flared and, as Emerald limped out to fetch the milk, I caught a glimpse of the long room beyond which evidently served as both commercial cool room and kitchen larder.
    Long headless bodies of what I assumed—hoped—were deer hung from metal hooks in the ceiling, then thankfully the door shut itself again as Aunt Emerald limped back in to the room, carrying the milk in a tall jug and a tray of chops.
    The cubs sat on cushions and wriggled their noses into their milk; apart from Dusty, we adults sat on stoollike low chairs.
    ‘How many chops?’ Aunt Emerald smiled above me, the bloody tray in her hands.
    ‘Er…just one. Thank you.’
    ‘Are you sure? You’re going to have a busy day…Bonnie, Johnnie you stop that at once!’
    The cubs ignored her.
    ‘No really. Just the one.’ I was tempted to say, the cereal is plenty, but was afraid it would seem wimpish in this house of meat.
    ‘Six for me,’ growled Uncle Dusty beside me. He moved even more stiffly today after his moonlight singsong. He saw me looking—or perhaps he smelled my emotions—because he smiled endearingly and said, ‘Arthritis! Ten years ago I’d have been prowling through the valley in the moonlight. Now a howl in the night is about all that I can manage.’
    Aunt Emerald sniffed. ‘You know Eleanor has forbidden any prowling in the moonlight till the murderer is caught. You’ll get yourself shot. And you’ll have three chops as you always do. Six! My word, the way some people fancy themselves.’
    Dusty glanced at me. He lifted his chin. His ears pricked up. ‘If I say six, woman, then I mean…’
    ‘Good morning everyone!’ Eleanor strode into the room. Again I was struck by her elegance, her confidence, even with the bulge of pregnancy. I wondered suddenly how many cubs she carried. Three again? Wolves had multiple nipples to feed their young…
    I gazed at her breasts automatically. Two breasts, not six to feed a litter of three. I blushed, and looked up to see Dusty watching me with genuine anger, Eleanor with amusement, and Emerald with something too hard to define.
    Then the tableau was broken. Eleanor bent down to kiss the cubs, who straightened their backs andtheir bowls. She kissed Dusty’s cheek, and his confrontational chin dropped and his ears seemed to droop as well.
    ‘Bonnie, darling, porridge first then chops. No, don’t argue. No chops till you’ve had your porridge, no play till you’ve had your chops. Johnnie, we eat our meat cooked, don’t we? Emerald, sweet, where is the orange juice?’
    ‘I’m just about to put it out.’ Emerald placed the jug on the table (it was genuine stuff, I noticed, not drypak; Rusty must trade for oranges when he did the venison run) then limped over to the fire and picked up a plate of chops. She began to thread several onto a long metal pole across the fireplace. It was already laden, the fresh fat spluttered on the coals below and a faint haze of smoke filled the kitchen.
    I stood up. ‘Can I give you a hand?’
    ‘Sit down!’ Eleanor slid into the seat beside me. She was wearing something long, velvety and dark green this morning. The colour suited her. ‘Emerald is quite capable. Aren’t you, darling?’
    Emerald’s smile, showed her long teeth. ‘Very capable,’ she said, but she said it to Eleanor, not me.
    Eleanor held her gaze for perhaps a moment too long. Emerald’s eyes dropped back to the chops. Eleanor turned to me.
    ‘Did you sleep well?’ she enquired.
    ‘Perfectly,’ I lied.
    Eleanor’s eyes ran over my face—undoubtedly slightly hollow-eyed. But she said nothing. ‘Pass me the porridge, darling,’ she said to Dusty. Then to me. ‘Did his song wake you last night? I suppose it’s not what you’re used to.’
    ‘Not exactly,’ I admitted.
    Dusty looked