I have a cottage, a garden, a pink chicken named Nugget, and a strict personal policy against asking questions. That last one is why it took me years to notice that the wolves I've been stitching back together are not, technically, wolves. In my defense, nobody told me. In their defense, they were trying very hard not to. Now my cottage is rubble, my best friend has a tail, and thirty werewolves are standing in my herb beds having a collective crisis about how much I know. Their Alpha is taking it worst. One eye. All scars. No interest whatsoever in humans, in healers, or in a woman who talks this much. He also won't stop watching my hands while I work. Neither of us plans to mention it. Then someone starts turning moonbright into poison. The flower I grow. The one I've been using to keep every single one of them alive. And it turns out there's exactly one person left who knows how to turn it back. It's me. It's the one with the chicken.