fall, she would have to be a little experienced in knowing how to talk with them.
Freya takes care of her nails now, Frank said.
Freya held up her hands, smiling through the fingers. They were both such impishly charming children. Jenny smiled back through her own fingers, then saw that what Frank said was true. Each of Freya's small nails was free of excess cuticle and shaped, though they were rounded rather than elongated in the fashion of a grown woman's nails.
She keeps them nice, Frank said, because she's a werewolf. He watched Jenny solemnly, waiting.
She was not sure whether he was serious or whether she was being played with.
She decided to accept it as a joke, and she laughed. Somehow, the rumors had filtered down to the children themselves. She couldn't imagine who would have been so careless as to let such ugly ideas fall on such young ears, but she decided that joking about it was the best thing to do. Freya isn't a werewolf, she said. She's just a very pretty little girl with a brother who likes to scare people.
No, Freya said, speaking again, her soft voice barely audible. He's right. I am a werewolf.
Neither of the children were smiling.
They looked at her, waiting.
Jenny would have liked to catch hold of the inconsiderate adult who had passed these rumors on to the children. Surely Richard wouldn't have, especially since he believed werewolves were only superstitious folderol. Aunt Cora seemed to think there might be a grain of truth somewhere in the rumors, but even Cora would know that no good could come from feeding such frightening fantasies to children. That left Harold and Anna. She didn't know them well, but she doubted that either was that irresponsible.
How do you know you're a werewolf? Jenny asked. Perhaps she could make the suggestion seem as foolish as it really was.
I go to sleep for long naps, and the wolves howl and kill things every time.
But if you're asleep, you're not the wolf, Jenny pointed out.
Freya shook her head soberly. Her yellow curls bounced. Yes I am. The ghost in me leaves when I sleep and takes the body of a wolf. Then it hunts.
Frank put his arm around Freya in a brotherly display of camaraderie. She won't hurt you, Jenny. Will you Freya?
Standing there, the sun gleaming off their hair, their jeans muddy at the knees, their faces freckled, they looked like nothing so much as two typical American children from some Norman Rockwell painting, healthy and alive and as cute as buttons.
No, Freya agreed. I won't hurt you. Just rabbits.
Unaccountably, Jenny felt cold here on the sunbaked rock. Did she really believe this nonsense about curses and wolves? Could she, even for a moment, believe that part of this darling little girl went out at night and tore the throats out of rabbits? It was laughable, wasn't it?
Yet, she remembered the warnings in those dreams: Beware the unknown. Expect the unexpected.. .
Who told you all of this? Jenny asked.
No one told us, Freya said. We just know.
Jenny wasn't to be sidetracked so easily. Someone must have given you the idea, she persisted.
No.
You must have overheard Cora or Richard-
With that impulsive energy and short attention span that only young children have, Frank grew bored with the matter at hand, took his sister's arm and tugged at it. Let's race to the stables! Maybe the pony wants to go out! He pulled Freya away from Jenny. Together, they ran around the rim of the pond, startling the ducks who made squawking protest. They grew smaller and smaller as they ran until, at last, the shadows around the stables swallowed them.
Her perfect mood had been destroyed. What was wrong with the child? What would a psychiatrist say il he were able