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It was frosty up on the rooftop for an early autumn morning, the shrouded sky still dark. But as Beatrice stared out over the moors, a sliver of hot pink bled up across the horizon. The light pooled beneath swathes of darkened cloud, its color washing up over the world’s edge to paint the heather in shades of dusky violet.

Turning from the rising of the sun, her eyes traveled the view until they caught their true quarry—a far-away stone gate just visible beyond the trailing northern branch of Shadesthaw Forest. And then, like clockwork, there they were. Five dark four-legged figures and a single silvery one, emerging from the misted trees. So fluid and swift they may as well have been flying. A quintet of lovely specters.

The Blackstone pack.

Her gaze chained to their fleeting forms, Beatrice watched until they disappeared from sight, hidden from view. Had the wind blown their scent this way? She breathed deep. No. But that was alright. The air was rich with the clean, sharp edge of sky and wind-blown thistle. She prayed this wouldn’t be the last day she breathed its fragrance, filled her lungs with its chill sweetness.

Droplets of rain pattered across her bared skin, softly at first, then with vigor. Turning her face to the heavens, she allowed its waters to drench her skin. Let her shawl fall back from around her shoulders and closed her eyes. Inhaling deeply, she imagined the winds cleansing her of her human prison. Imagined herself running at the Blackstone’s side, in their midst. As fleet and free and powerful as they. A smile plucked at her lips, already flush from biting.

Wash it all away. Please. Please, Seven Spirits, let me transform.

But as quickly as it arrived, the rain was gone.

Beatrice’s eyes snapped open to stare up at the dome of wind forming overhead.

“I was enjoying that,” she pouted, spinning around to face the intruder.

“Apologies, dearest. Were you trying to get sick?” her bond-father quipped, lip twisting up in his signature good-natured smirk. His silver-and-hazelnut hair, usually immaculate, was mussed today, the artful cut of his short beard overgrown.

“But you don’t understand.” All of a sudden, Beatrice was fighting back tears. “This might be my last day here, and then…” she hiccuped, struggling to speak. “I might have to live somewhere sunny and bright and horri—”

“Oh darling. Dearest girl.” Her favorite bond-father strode up to wrap her in his arms, relaxing his tensed muscles. Beatrice hugged him tighter as the shield of winds dispersed to free the rains.

After a few moments the elder stepped back, eyes glinting.

“Is that enough, or would you like more? hm? What’ll it be, daughter? Some thunder?”

Thunder growled across the sky.

“Lightning?”

A great cascade of it bolted down from a mountain of cloud, branching outward rather than downward, its luminous tendrils dancing above the treetops.

“Papa Fitz, stop it, enough.” Beatrice snorted, but she was grinning too.

“Come, daughter. It’s best you get downstairs soon, lest your sisters march up to drag you down themselves, then you’ll all catch cold.”

His arm about her shoulders, her bond-father guided her back into the warmth of the house. The aroma of home was another she’d miss after today. The scents of baking bread, dried lavender and hearthfire all intermingled with those of her family…each one unique, each coming together to form a perfect whole. Her pack.

For now.

Teardrops teased again at the corners of her eyes as three of her sisters flooded into the hall to gather her up. There were others, of course. Elizabet, now a Tiger shifter and a mage, had already married respectably. But Fiana, a Wolf, was still in finishing school. No one for six generations in Beatrice’s bloodline had failed to shift on their debut day, but the fear of it haunted her nonetheless.

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

“Ugh, you’re soaked,” groaned Aribella, a year younger than Beatrice at nineteen, tugging her into their shared bedroom. The other girls bustled after them, shutting the door in their bond-father’s face.

“I’ve got the ribbon,” said Charlotte, the littlest, who’d saved, payed for, and picked it out herself. She’d meant it to be a secret, but she was horrible at keeping them. “I’ll get the dress,” said Helena, the second-youngest in body, if not in mind. “I can’t believe I finished it in time.”

As her sisters worked, Beatrice sank into the moment. Imagined she could condense it down to its sensory essence and bottle it, to hold onto and revisit wherever fate took her.

When they were done, her sisters caught her up, guiding her to the bedroom’s full-length mirror to appreciate their artistry.

She blinked. Stared. Blinked again. Don’t cry. Just smile.

“Oh, Helena. It’s…it’s absolutely lovely,” she breathed when her words found her again at last, twirling in front of the mirror and twisting her head to catch the full effect. The dress twinkled where the blush rays of the morning sun caught the beads worked into the embroidery. Amethyst and blue lace agate for the thistles, and moonstone for the mists coiling through them. The fabric itself was a pale, dusky shade of periwinkle, the bodice daringly shoulder-bearing, skirt voluminous and trailing.

“And the hair is perfect, Aribella,” Bea added when finally she tore her gaze from her sister’s masterwork, hands flying up to flutter around her tresses. She’d never been much fond of the color of her hair. It was a sort of silvery, sandy hue that was far too nondescript for her liking. But not now. Now it was bound up in a loose but artful pile of cascading braids and curls, intertwined with ribbon and strings of freshwater pearls. It looked like fairy’s treasure. Not spun gold, but something much rarer.

Whirling on the spot and reveling in the sensation of the silky skirts flowing about her legs, Beatrice swept them both into a hug.

“Thank you so much.”

“What about my ribbons?” piped up Charlotte, cheeks going red as she tugged at Bea’s skirts.

“Charlotte, they’re the best part of all.” Throwing a wink to the elder sisters and turning to the littlest, Beatrice bent to meet the girl at eye-level, bumping her forehead up to hers. “Thank you. Very much.”

“Promise you’ll write me when you’re at school? And after you find a pack or pride, and get married? And even after you start having ba—”

“Yes, of course, of course,” Beatrice laughed, putting up her hands to forestall her. “I’ll write you every week. Always. I promise.”

“Pinky pro—”

There was the briefest knock at the door before it burst open and their mother Mrs. Baraclough leant in, her tower of brassy curls wobbling precariously.

“Thirty minutes, my dearest swee—oh, Beatrice,” her usual trill became an exclamation as she threw herself into the room, taking her daughter’s face in her hands and pressing a kiss to her forehead. “You’re so beautiful. Oh, my nerves—I knew I would cry…”

And she did, copiously and without shame as she praised her girls and lamented the speed of time’s passage. Then like a whirlwind of pastel silks she turned and wept her way back through the door and down the hall.

Sixty-five minutes later, the girls were ready.

“Oh we’re late. We’re late we’re late we’re late,” fussed Mrs. Baraclough, cheeks flushed and curls bouncing as she and her five husbands led the way from their modest manor to the landinghouse. Though the early morning showers had grown to a full downpour, not a drop touched the family, their finery defended by the streaming shield of air flowing over their heads.

“You were supposed to be keeping track of the hour, Fitzwilliam,” chastised Mother Baraclough as they crammed themselves all together into the landinghouse lift.

The coyote mage put on a great show of affront. “And miss the chance to see you as flush and fussed as you were the day we wed? My dear, I could never.”

“Oh, you scoundrel!” She batted at him with her lacy folding fan, a constant companion no matter the season. “You just dozed off, and you know it.”

Fitz feigned offense and the other fathers laughed. Pain tugged a chord in Beatrice’s heart as she wondered how rare moments like this might soon become. When they reached the top of the little tower, her blood-father—the family’s Silver—held the wrought-iron lift door as the rest of the pack streamed past him. But when she made to follow after them, he caught her up in a big, swinging hug, green eyes flashing in the morning light.

“Ah, my girl,” he said. “We’re not ready to let you go just yet. So see to it your stone goes gray, will you?” There was a wet gleam to his gaze as he set her down. His smile, half-hidden by his beard and mustachios, was tinged with sadness.

Beatrice laughed, a shaky, choked sort of sound. “Oh, certainly,” she said. “I’ll just do that, shall I?”

“There’s a good lass.”

“Arthur, Bea sweetest, come, now!” Mrs. Baraclough called back to them, nearly vibrating off her feet with agitation. “We’re already ever so late!”

“Yes, yes, Mama. Coming.”

The family piled into the carriage, a fine but old one of oiled stormwood and stained-glass windows. Taking their places to the front and rear and of the cabin, fathers James and Fiztwillian tensed, their fingers twisting in a staccato dance through the air as together they summoned and gathered the winds. A steady gust welled beneath the carriage, caught in its winglike sails. The sky lifted them up, and they were off.