She reached up by her shoulder, where his hand dangled oh-so-casually, and she took the Marrok’s hand in hers. It was an impulse thing; as soon as she realized what she had done she froze. But by then, he had taken her hand in a tight grip that belied his casual pose. It hurt, but she didn’t believe it was on purpose. After a moment, his grip gentled.

At the pulpit, Shawna began talking again, her bitterness apparently unchecked by her inability to stare Bran down. “My grandfather was dying of bone cancer when the Marrok talked him into the Change. Gramps never wanted to be a werewolf, but, weakened and ill, he allowed himself to be persuaded.” Her speech sounded memorized to Anna, like she’d practiced it in front of a mirror.

“He listened to his friend.” She didn’t look at Bran again, but not even Anna, who hadn’t known the dead man, was uncertain whom she meant. “So instead of dying from illness, he died from a broken neck because Bran decided he didn’t make a good enough werewolf. Maybe Gramps would have thought it a better death.” Her “I don’t” remained unsaid, but it rang through the room after she left the pulpit.

Anna was prepared to hate her, but as the girl walked past them with a defiant tilt to her chin, Anna noticed her eyes were red and puffy.

There was a moment when she thought Charles was going to explode to his feet, she could feel that boiling rage building, but it was Samuel who rose. He left the violin case behind him as he walked up to take the podium.

As if blind to the atmosphere, he launched into a story about a very young Carter Wallace who evaded the keeping of his mother to go for a walk and ended up some three miles into the woods before his father finally found him not two feet from an irritated rattlesnake. Carter’s werewolf father killed the snake-enraging his son. “I never saw Carter that mad before or since.” Samuel grinned. “He was sure that snake was his friend, and poor old Henry, Carter’s da, was too shaken to argue the point.”

Samuel’s smile died away, and he let the silence build before speaking again. “Shawna was away when the debate took place, so I’ll excuse her misinformation,” he said. “My father did not think it was a good idea that Carter face the Change. He told all of us, Doc included, that Doc was too softhearted to thrive as a wolf.”

The pulpit creaked ominously under Samuel’s hold, and he opened his hands deliberately. “To my shame, I took his son Gerry’s part, and between the two of us, his doctor and his son, we persuaded Carter to try it. My father, knowing that a man as ill as Doc was a poor risk, took the task of Changing him-and he managed it. But he was right. Carter could neither accept nor control the wolf inside. Had he been anyone else, he would have died in February with the others who failed the Change. But Gerry, whose task it most properly was, would not do it. And without his consent, my father felt he could not.”

He took a deep breath and looked at Carter’s grand-daughter. “He almost killed your mother, Shawna. I took care of her afterward, and I’ll attest that it was luck, not any impulse on Carter’s part, that spared her life-you can ask her yourself. How would a man whose life had always been devoted to the service of others have borne it if he had killed his own daughter? She asked the Marrok, in my hearing, if he would take care of the duty that her brother would not. By that time, the wolf in Carter was far enough gone he couldn’t ask for it. So no, my da did not try to persuade Carter to Change-he was just the one who stepped up to the plate to handle the resultant mess.”

When Samuel finished speaking, he let his eyes drift slowly over the room as heads bowed in submission. He nodded once, then took his seat next to Charles again.

The next few people kept their eyes off the Marrok and his sons, but Anna thought it was embarrassment rather than the sullen anger that had been so prominent a quarter of an hour ago.

At last the minister stood up. “I have here a letter that Carter gave me several weeks ago,” he said. “To be opened in the event of his death-which he felt would be soon, one way or another.” He opened the letter and put on a pair of glasses.

“ ‘My friends,’ ” he read. “ ‘Do not mourn my passing, I will not. My life this past year has shown me that interfering with God’s plans is seldom a good idea. I go to join my beloved wife with joy and relief. I do have one last request. Bran, you old bard you, sing something for me at my funeral. ’ ”

The church was very still. Charles felt a reluctant affection for the dead man. Bless Carter, who was as much a healer as Samuel. He had known what was coming, and how folks would take it, too-the Marrok included.

He stood up and held out his hand for his father’s, as Bran, uncharacteristically, seemed to be taken totally by surprise. Bran didn’t take it, but he released Anna and came to his feet. Anna pulled her hand to her lap and flexed it as if it hurt.

“Did you know that Doc was going to do that?” Charles whispered to Samuel, with a nod at the battered violin case as they followed Da to the front. If he’d known, he’d have brought something to play as well. As it was, he’d been relegated to the piano-which had three off-pitch keys to improvise around.

Samuel shook his head. “I’d planned on playing something rather than talking.” Then a little louder as he opened the case and took out his violin, “What are you singing, Da?”

Charles glanced at his father, but couldn’t read his face. Too many funerals, too many dead friends, he thought.

“ ‘Simple Gifts,’ ” Bran said after a moment.

Charles sat down at the piano while Samuel tuned the violin. When his brother nodded, Charles played the introduction to the Shaker tune. It was a good choice, he thought. Not sad, not overtly religious, and it fit Carter Wallace, who had been, mostly, a simple man-and it was a song that they all knew well.

As his father’s quiet voice finished the second verse, Charles realized that it fit his father, too. Though Bran was a subtle man, his needs and desires were very simple: to keep his people alive and safe. For those goals he was prepared to be infinitely ruthless.

He glanced over at Anna, where she sat alone on the bench. Her eyes were closed, and she mouthed the words with Bran. He wondered what she sounded like when she sang-and whether her voice would fit with his. He wasn’t sure she sang at all though she’d told him she’d been working at a music store selling guitars when she met the wolf who attacked her and Changed her against her will.

She opened her eyes and met his. The impact was so strong he was amazed that his fingers continued playing without pause.

His.

If she knew how strongly he felt, she’d have run out the door. He wasn’t used to being possessive, or to the savage joy she brought to his heart. It ate at his control, so he turned his attention back to the music. He understood music.

Anna had to make an effort not to hum along. Had the audience been purely human, she’d have done it. But there were too many people around her whose hearing was as good as her own.

One of the things that she’d hated about being a werewolf was she’d had to give up on so many of her favorite musicians. Her ears picked out the slightest waver in pitch or fuzz in the recording. But those few singers she could still listen to…