“The old man keeps his mind on his business and a strict rein on his grandson. Those are people with much to lose, for, as we well know, it is hard work not just in making a fortune, but also in the keeping of it.”

“It’s our poor luck to live next to such a pair of hermits,” said Amy with a frown.

“I have often felt an aloof neighbor is preferable to a nosy one,” Marmee said, laughing.

The little parade reached their destination, and their hearts ached when they saw the bare, miserable room and the pale, wide-eyed children dressed in dingy, torn clothes.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Hannah, who had carried wood, made a fire and stopped up the broken windowpanes with some of her old clothing that she had brought. The girls spread the table while Mrs. March fed the sickly mother tea and gruel. The children called the March family angels as they ate, stuffing food into their chattering blue lips with cold, chapped, purple hands.

The March women walked back home, feeling content and merry for giving away their breakfasts to neighbors in want.

“That woman,” said Jo, “should make a Christmas gift of a few of her children to the werewolves. The youngest, as the older ones may be able to work and help around the house.”

“That’s a terrible thing to say, Jo, even for you!” Amy exclaimed.

“But it would leave more for the rest of them,” Jo argued.

“Enough, Jo. I worry much about the Brigade’s growing strength. Werewolves should not be a topic of frivolous conversation. And you know well that a mother could never do such a thing as feed her child to wolves,” Mrs. March stated, shaking her head.

“Marmee, are you saying you would not sacrifice Amy in order to feed more to me?” Jo teased, looking out of the corner of her eye to watch Amy’s reaction.

Realizing her sister’s game, Amy grinned, grabbed up some snow, and threw it at Jo.

After giving Marmee her presents, the girls dedicated the rest of the day to getting ready for the evening’s festivities, as nobody could leave the house that night once the moon appeared, full and round in the sky. Every blanket and quilt the family owned had been gathered from drawers and trunks. Some would be used for the stage; others would serve to warm guests through the night once the production had ended.

There was no money to spend on props and décor for the stage, but the resourceful March sisters found scraps and bits throughout the town. They searched trash piles constantly, often venturing as far as the pickle factory, where they knew bits of spangling tin could be scavenged. No gentlemen were admitted to their shows, so Jo played the male parts, and more than one of their guests in the audience that Christmas night sighed heavily at the sight of Jo, dressed as a handsome villain with clanking sword, slouched hat, black beard, mysterious cloak, and her favorite russet-colored boots.

The introduction was a tremendous success, and the dozen girls in the audience hooted, clapped, and stomped in anticipation of a thrilling production. Jo, behind the scenes, pulled on her fearsome wolf mask, made from scraps of sheep hide rubbed to gray with hearth ashes. The lights were turned down to begin the second production, The Werewolf’s Curse. As a light came on to illuminate Jo, wearing her horrible mask, she raised her head to howl, but from outside came the cry of a real werewolf, long and sorrowful, and bloodcurdling enough to inject terror into the very marrow of the girls’ delicate bones. Trembling, the girls huddled together. Jo could not have asked for a more fitting start to her play, and the result was that her audience was captive and awed throughout the entire production. At the end, they cheered even louder than they had after the first play.

“Do you think there are girl werewolves as well as boys?” one girl asked.

“There must be,” another responded. “There have certainly been women, as well as men, who have been bitten by them and thus cursed to become one.”

“But people here are not bitten by werewolves, they are devoured by them!”

“Yes, they are torn to pieces and eaten, with only a skull, and perhaps a foot or an elbow, left of them to bury and mourn.”

“Once the heart or brain is destroyed, the werewolf dies, so anyone eaten thus would not survive,” Jo informed them all.

“Still, some must be merely bitten or scratched, and survive to become werewolves themselves each full moon.”

“There can’t be any that are girls,” Jo cried, and then in a complaining voice added, “There are no girls allowed outside when the moon is full, so none can be bitten and turned into werewolves.”

“We are only kept in for our protection,” Beth said with a smile.

“Well, I can protect myself,” Jo said, rising up and taking her foil in hand. “And I can protect all of you as well. Back, werewolf, back!” she cried merrily, dancing about and thrusting her sword through the air.

“The Brigade is gaining strength and numbers, I hear,” said one dark-haired girl.

“I find the Brigade every bit as frightening as the werewolves,” another confessed.

“As they intend,” Jo said with a snort. “For they have no other reason to wear those terrifying breastplates and helmets now than to scare the citizens. Long ago, when the Brigade once hunted werewolves under the full moon, they were justified in wearing thick leather and chain mail as protection against the bites and scratches. Back then, there was no error in who was hunted, for the werewolf wore its pelt as proof of who it was; today, they extract whomever they choose, in the safety of daylight and multiple witnesses, and seem to only condemn the poorest among us.”

“But the group has been around as long as the werewolves themselves—as far back as any living person can recall, and beyond. Does that not mean they serve a purpose?”

“Not as they once did, I tell you!” Jo insisted. “Although, sadly, most people think them essential. The Brigade was originally founded out of what had been viewed as necessity, when people lived in frightfully frail shelters, but now we have sturdy homes in which we can wait for the moon’s cycle to pass.”

“Then you don’t believe the Brigade keeps us safe from werewolves, Jo?”

“Once, but no longer. I would join the Brigade immediately if they yet hunted under the fullness of the moon and wore that thick studded leather and chain mail.”

“I doubt there are women in the Brigade.”

“But there are, I assure you.