“No loneliness,” Rae said quietly.

“You should write it.” He nodded at her pot of ink. “Write your own songs, too.”

She set her reed on a blank corner of the parchment. The ink clinging to its nib left a spot, a little gleaming beetle. Her heart skipped, feeling its skittering potential. “You think I should?”

Rom nodded. “People should know them,” he said. “Read them. Dream and remember what it’s like to be all nature.”

Form, she marked carefully. Of, she traced. The words flowed from the reed; the beetle scurried away, carrying the shapes of mountains, the feeling of wild-hearted beast.

Side by side, the twins sat listening to the wind sweep across the ridge. Rae, reed in hand, tried to feel herself as wolf, as all nature hushed in riotous green, but as close as she could come to imagining it, she could not let go of words; she could not let go of Mop and Ness and now brother beside her—all these loves that made up Rae.

Beside her, Rom tilted his head. “Nessa’s calling us.”

The little figure of Ness was waving her arms at the sky and hills. Mop, trailed by the sheep, was crossing the meadow. Rae smiled. She could not hear Ness’s voice, but she knew from the way she was gesturing, she wanted them all at the table for supper: Airmongers, all of you! Time to come in!

“Come, then.” Heart full, Rae clambered up. She held out her hand to her brother. “We’re wanted at home.”

Little, Brown Books for Young Readers began publishing books in 1926.

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

While Alba is struck by the rare magic of the written word, one even rarer appears in the quiet, collaborative efforts that shepherd a book into existence: I am deeply grateful to my editor, Deirdre Jones, for her clear-eyed guidance and sharp insights and for the myriad perceptive ways she helped advise and shape this work; to Sara Crowe, agent par excellence, for her always-kind, always-sage counsel and her ever-enthusiastic support; to Jenny Kimura for her inspired, verdant book design; to Yuta Onoda for his stunning illustrations within and without; to Karina Granda for exceptional art direction; to Su Wu and Sarah Chassé for meticulous proofreading and copyediting; to Kimberly Stella and Annie McDonnell for careful oversight of all details of production; to Hallie Tibbetts and Jean Li Spencer for kind assistance in editorial matters large and small; to everyone on the school and library, sales and marketing, publicity, and subrights teams—especially Victoria Stapleton, Christie Michel, Shawn Foster, Mara Brashem, Stefanie Hoffman, Shanese Mullins, Shivani Annirood, and Janelle DeLuise—for their thoughtful attention to the text and their devoted efforts to bring it to a wider audience; to Megan Tingley, Jackie Engel, Alvina Ling, and everyone at Little, Brown Books for Young Readers for giving Wolfish such a supportive publishing home; to Holly McGhee and the entire team at Pippin Properties for so ardently championing their authors and illustrators; to these ancients—Pliny the Elder and Younger, Aretaeus the Cappadocian, and Marcus Gavius Apicius—for inspiring “Interludes” related to natural history, medicine, and cookery, and to the poet Vergil (though perhaps he’d prefer apologies?) for inspiring the figure of the poet-shepherd and for the snippets of his Eclogues I’ve played with here and remade as lullabies and meadow-songs (III.56–57; VI.5, 31–34, 40; IX.40–41, 57–58—I hope he would not be offended to see his verse recast in this way); to friends (near and distant), neighbors (current and past), and librarians and teachers (all!) for numberless acts of generosity and grace and care, and to Sally, Sean, Mary, and Gabrielle, in particular, for their buoying encouragement; to my parents, Rolande and Donald, for, again, everything—I could not have written Rae’s joyous childhood without knowing one as loving and supportive; to my sister, Sara, for lifelong friendship, for all our days exploring hills and woods and fields together, and for being—always—one of the wisest people I know; to my husband, Dean, for once upon a time working with me on the translations that bubbled into this tale and for being at all times the most willing and perceptive of readers—even through the most formless of drafts; and, finally, to Oliver—ah, there you are—who again read it first, for being forever the one to inspire the stories and for bringing so much light to my days.