Gahhhhh.
Chapter 19
Keer Jr. starts screaming at dawn.
"Good morning to you too."
More screaming. The—I am awake and therefore everyone must suffer—kind.
I shove my blanket off and sit up. Kestria's gone—must've left before sunrise, the spot where she slept still dented in the furs. My hands are purple to the knuckles and my arms are hollowed out from last night's crushing and the paste is on the shelf, four new jars sealed with wax next to the one I had before, five total, which is better but not enough and I need to count the remaining petals because some of them might still be viable if I—
Posts. The coop. Posts need to be at least two feet deep for fox protection—wait. Do foxes even come around here? With the pack? Probably not. Probably zero foxes within five miles of this place. Foxes are smart. Foxes aren't suicidal.Still.
Meh, two feet deep. Just in case.
Outside, the temporary holding area is chaos.
Surprise, surprise.
Keer Jr. pacing the fence line, feathers puffed, screaming at the sky. Nugget ignoring him completely, still pink. Thegoats huddled in one corner, watching the rooster with wariness of animals who've learned small angry things are dangerous.
Smart goats.
"You're going to lose your voice."
He screams louder.
"Your funeral."
I gather the posts someone cut yesterday—not enough, need more by midday—and start dragging them toward the eastern ridge. The spot Keer picked. Good drainage, morning sun exposure, far enough that the screaming won't wake everyone but close enough I can reach the healing area fast if someone needs to bleed on me again.
He was right about the location.
I hate that he was right.
Also I hate that when he showed me the spot yesterday, his shirt pulled across his shoulders and—post spacing. Post spacing. Two feet apart for the main frame, eighteen inches for the chicken wire section, My shoulders already ache from last night's paste work and my knees are going to stage a revolt by noon but the animals can't stay in temporary holding forever and also I have a splinter in my thumb from that rough post, should deal with it, keep forgetting.
Someone's coming up the ridge.
Rhen. And two others—Halek, a broad-shouldered wolf who didn't talk much, and a younger one with red-brown hair who helped move feed bags yesterday.
Fenwick, I think someone called him.
"Thought you might need hands." Rhen's already halfway to the post pile.
"Ohhh, yay. I do. Grab a post."
No argument. They just start working. Rhen takes the heaviest posts without being asked, Halek starts measuring spacing with his boot, and the younger one—
"Do you know how to dig a post hole?"
"How hard can it be?"
"HA! Famous last words. Here." I hand him the shovel. "Two feet deep. If you hit rock, tell me and we'll adjust."
"I'm Fenwick, by the way."
"Melori. Dig."
