"White. White. See the difference? Hold them next to each other."
She does. Her face changes—not much, but enough. She sees it. "The color's completely different when they're side by side."
"Your eye adjusts fast once you know what to—"
Cedar. Faint. Carried on nothing, and my hands stop for half a second before I catch myself.
"—look for. By the time you've sorted a hundred, you won't need to compare."
A crash from across the clearing. Bleating. Someone swearing.
I don't look up. "The male goat is headbutting something."
"How do you know it's the male?" Dara asks.
"The females don't cause problems. The male causes all the problems. That's goats." I pick up the pestle. "Watch. This is the part that matters."
I press the pestle into the petals. Slow. Grinding in a circular motion, steady pressure, not too hard—too hard bursts the cell walls too fast and you get a watery mess instead of paste.
"The pressure's important. You're persuading, not forcing. The color should bleed out gradually. See?"
Purple spreading through the mortar. The smell rising—copper and petrichor, the smell that means safety, that means I have medicine, that means the next person who comes to me broken won't die on my floor.
"Here." I hold out the pestle. "Try."
Dara takes it. Her grip is different from mine—harder, more decisive. Healer's hands, used to applying pressure to wounds.
"Lighter."
She eases up. Grinds. The petals resist for a second, then give.
"Good. Keep that pressure. Consistent. If you push harder, the—"
Screaming.
Not animal screaming. Human screaming. And then very much animal screaming—Keer Jr.'s unmistakable shriek cutting through everything, followed by a crash and a yell and the specific sound of a large man hitting the ground.
I'm on my feet.
Across the clearing, Tovar is on his back. Keer Jr. is on Tovar's chest. Wings spread, beak stabbing, spurs raking, every feather on his body puffed to twice its normal size. Tovar's arms are up, shielding his face, and the sounds coming out of his mouth are not dignified.
Oh no.
"He's fine!" I'm already running. "He's just establishing dominance. Very normal rooster behavior."
"GET IT OFF ME—"
"Stop flailing, you're encouraging him—"
A younger wolf lunges for the rooster and Keer Jr. redirects—launches off Tovar's chest and goes for the new target. The kid stumbles backward, trips over a log, and goes down. Keer Jr. lands on his shoulder and starts pecking his ear.
"Don't grab him from behind, he'll—"
Too late. The kid grabs. Keer Jr. twists, gets a spur into the kid's forearm, and launches himself toward the cooking area where three women scatter in different directions.
I catch him on the third try. One arm around his body, pin the wings, tuck him against my ribs. He screams directly into my ear at a pitch that even impresses me.
"You're done. You're done. Everyone's alive."
