Chapter 1 #3
"I know. I'm sure it wasn't your fault." I work carefully around the torn edges as warm water runs pink down my wrists. "Hold still—this part's not fun. Almost done, then we get to the paste, which you're going to hate. Fair warning."
I glance back at Kestria. Still by the table. Still rigid. Her eyes haven't left the wolf once.
"You talk to them the whole time?" she asks. Flat. Watching.
"Helps me focus. And they get the tone, even if they don't get the words." I rinse the cloth—water's already going pink, need to change it soon. "Calm voice means calm treatment. They relax."
"This one doesn't look relaxed."
Hm. Actually—she's right. The wolf's holding still for me, but its ears keep flicking toward Kestria. Muscles tense under my hands.
"You're making it nervous."
"Good."
"Kestria."
"What? I'm just standing here."
"You're standing there aggressively." I turn back to the wolf. "You're doing great, wolf. Best patient I've had all week. Ignore her."
"You said you had three this week."
"And this one's not bleeding on my floor, so it wins."
The wound's clear now—ugly but not deep, no bone showing, no sign of the gray infection that means real trouble.
I reach for the moonbright paste. "Here comes the part you hate. Hold still."
"Shh—there we go." I apply the paste and the wolf twitches, muscles bunching under my hands, but it doesn't pull away. Warm fur and the sharp-sweet smell of moonbright fill my nose.
"I know. It stings. You're fine." I work quickly, spreading the paste into the wound, and my fingers are going to be purple again. Just got them clean. "Almost done. Ten more seconds. Five more. There."
The wolf exhales, but it doesn't settle. Not with Kestria still standing there, rigid and watchful.
"Now I'm going to wrap this, and you're going to leave it alone. No chewing. No licking. If you mess with it, you're just going to make it worse."
I wrap the leg—snug but not tight—and tie it off. My knees are stiff now, aching from the hard floor. Ow. Okay. I should put padding down here for next time. Add that to the list.
"Done."
The wolf looks at its leg, then at me. Those pale green eyes—light and sharp, unsettling in a wolf face.
"Don't give me that look. It's going to heal fine." I stand, brushing off my knees. "Now go. And stay out of fights."
It stands, tests its weight on the injured leg, and limps toward the door. I open it and the wolf pauses on the threshold, glances back once—not at me this time, at Kestria—and disappears into the trees.
I close the door.
Kestria lets out a long breath, her shoulders dropping.
"What was that about?"
"Nothing."
"You growled—"
"I didn't growl."
"—you said it smelled wrong, and you stood there looking ready to kill it for the entire treatment. That's not nothing."
"I just don't trust strange wolves." She drops into the chair. "Neither should you, by the way. You let anything walk through that door."
"Injured anything. There's a difference."
"Is there?"
"Wolves get hurt. I can help. Why wouldn't I?"
"Because you don't know where they come from. You don't know what they've done. You don't know—" She stops. "Forget it."
"You can't say all that and then say forget it."
"Watch me." She rubs her face with both hands. "I'm tired. I'm being weird. Can we talk about the boots again?"
I watch her. Hands steady. But something's still there—around her eyes, in her mouth, somewhere.
"Fine," I tell her. "But for the record, you growled."
"I will throw your stew pot at your head."
"It's full."
"I don't care."
We finish up together, and by the time we're done, the stew is ready.
We eat outside on the bench I built last spring, the evening cool but not cold, the sky going orange and pink through the trees.
The chickens have put themselves to bed in the coop—I can see Nugget through the slats, still aggressively pink, settled on the highest roost. Naturally.
"This is good," Kestria tells me around a mouthful of rabbit.
"You brought the rabbit."
"And you made it edible. I'd have just burned it over a fire."
"You—no. No! That's a tragedy. That's an insult to the rabbit."
"That's also edible."
"Barely."
She scrapes the bottom of her bowl. "Seriously. I'm a terrible cook. Everything comes out either raw or charcoal."
"There's a middle ground."
"Not for me there isn't."
I laugh, and Kestria grins at me. I bump my shoulder against hers.
We sit there as the stars come out, not talking, just eating and watching the sky darken. Kestria tells me more about Sarveil—a street musician she liked, a blacksmith who made her a new knife—and I tell her about the wolves from earlier in the week. Normal conversation. Normal evening.
I set my empty bowl aside. "Where are you headed next?"
"South again, probably. Heading home for a bit, actually."
"Home?"
"Mm. Been away too long. If I don't show up soon my brother's going to send out scouts."
"Dramatic."
"You don't know him."
"How long will you be gone?"
"Few days. Maybe a week." She glances at me. "I'll come back."
"I know."
"You could come with me sometime. See something other than trees."
"I like trees."
"Mel."
"What?" I look at her. "I'm not interested in traveling. Everything I need is here."
"Everything?"
"Everything that matters." I gesture at the cottage, the coop, the clearing. "This works. I built it, I maintain it, and it works. Why would I want more than that?"
Kestria's quiet, then nods. "You're right. I just—I'm glad you have this. That's all."
"So am I."
I should make extra paste tomorrow.
"Try not to adopt any more wolves while I'm gone."
"I don't adopt them. They just show up."
"Same thing." She pulls me into a quick hug—she's taller than me, and she smells like woodsmoke and pine—and then lets go. "Take care of yourself, Mel."
"Always do." I wink at her. "Tell your brother I said hi."
Kestria stops. "What?"
"You talk about him enough. I want to see if he's as dramatic as you make him sound."
"I'll... pass that along."
"Good. And tell him if he ever wants to send scouts after me, I wouldn't hate it." I grin. "Imagine. Big burly man crashing through the trees because he cares too much. I'd die."
Kestria's face scrunches. "Mel."
"What? A girl can dream."
"Go to bed."
"I'm just saying. If your brother has friends—"
"Goodnight, Mel."
She turns and heads down the path before I can finish.
I stand there for a minute, listening to her footsteps fade. The forest is quiet around me—no wolves howling tonight, no rustling in the underbrush. Just trees settling and distant night birds calling to each other in the dark.
Back at the cottage, I check the chickens one more time. Count heads, make sure Nugget hasn't escaped, scatter some extra grain for the morning. The door's latched. The fire's banked. The bloodied cloths hung to dry, the stew pot scraped clean.
I climb the ladder to my loft and lie down on my sleeping pallet. The ceiling's low, close enough to touch, the wood still rough in places where I never bothered to smooth it.
Through the gap in the shutters, I can see the stars. Same stars I've been watching for ten years out here. Same trees, same cottage, same routine.
Tomorrow I'll gather more comfrey. Remake the dye. Make more paste. Maybe start rendering fat for more salve—or put that off another day.
We'll see.