She makes a grumbling sound that's probably agreement.
Her feet are pink, her chest is pink, and there's a stripe across her beak that makes her look diseased. She's going to be a pink chicken for weeks.
I set her down near the coop, where the others are scratching at the dirt. They take one look at her and scatter.
"Yeah, I don't blame you guys."
The pink dye pot is a loss—I'll have to make more—and my spare shirt's still gray and faded, which means I'm wearing this one until I can gather enough petals to start over.
Oh—maybe I will try yellow dye for now.
Wait, then it would just look like I let something pee all over my clothes. Which—no judgement. Actually—yeah, a little judgement.
Maybe I can try those really bright blue petal flowers near—
Nugget struts past me, completely unbothered, and pecks at the spilled dye.
"That's not food."
She ignores me.
Fine. She'll figure it out.
Back inside, I wash my hands and check the damage. Pink splotches on my sleeves, pink streak across my collarbone. I pull my braid over my shoulder—yep, pink in the white strands too—and sigh.
Could be worse.
Could be yellow.
I pull open the storage chest and take inventory.
Dried yarrow, good.
Comfrey root—running low.
I should gather more before the ground freezes, but when did I last check the patch by the stream?
A week ago?
Longer?
Focus.
Clean bandages, plenty of those. The clay pots of drawing salve are down to three. I need to render more fat.
Ugh, I hate rendering fat.
It takes forever and the smell gets into everything.
But I'm going through salve faster than usual, which means the wolves have been busy this season.
New moon's only a few days off, and they always get worse around then—more fights, more bites, more of them showing up at my door with torn-up legs and guilty expressions.
They show up injured, I fix them, they leave. Simple arrangement.
Although—they could be a little less bitey about it. I've had five wolves growl at me mid-stitch this week alone. One tried to snap at my hand while I was pulling thorns out of his paw. You're welcome, by the way.
And some of them hate each other. I don't know what the beef is, but two of them got into it right outside my door last week and I had to go out there with a broom. Knocked it against the doorframe twice and they both sat down. Just—sat. Like I'd caught them stealing bread.
