"Okay." I'm already moving. Shelf. Jars. I grab one—second from the left now, the ones I used earlier are empty on the worktable. Crack the wax seal. Sharp green smell floods the room, strong enough to make my eyes water.
"See. This is fine. Totally fine. Maybe she's sensitive to it. Can werewolves be sensitive to moonbright? Why wouldn't they be. People are sensitive to stuff all the time. Pollen. Shellfish." I scoop paste onto my fingers. "Maybe she needs more. Maybe she needs less. I don't know. I'm going to go with more. More paste, same process. More paste, can't go wrong with more paste.”
I spread it thick across the gray edges, pressing it into the veins, covering everything. Same motion I've done a hundred times on wolves who were—
People.
Wolf-people?
People-wolf?
I wonder which came first—
My fingers keep working. Scoop. Spread. Press. The paste is cool and gritty against the heat of her skin. The gray retreats where I touch it, pulling back from the moonbright.
"Good. That's good. Keep doing that."
"Did you understand me? All those times I was talking to wolves in my kitchen—did you understand every word?" I'm wrapping fresh bandages as I talk, pulling them snug around her ribs. "Because if so, I want to apologize for about a hundred things I've said. Or not apologize. You all should've warned me."
Fold, wrap, tuck, tie.
"You probably thought that was hilarious."
No response.
I pull the blanket back up and check her pulse. Racing. Fever's still climbing.
"Cool cloth." I grab the rag I used earlier, dip it in the basin—wring it out, press it to her forehead. "I don't know if this helps for—for whatever you are. For werewolves. But it helps for humans and you're at least half that, so we're going with it."
She doesn't react.
"You could wake up and tell me if this is useful. I'm working with very limited information here because someone didn't mention she was a wolf for the entire duration of our friendship."
Nothing.
I settle beside her, back against the wall, cloth in one hand, the other resting on my knee. The floor is hard and cold through my skirt and I should've grabbed a cushion but I'm not moving now. Not until her fever breaks.
The cottage is quiet except for her breathing and Nugget screaming outside. That chicken is never going to forgive me for today.
My hands have nothing to do.
Werewolves are real. That's—established. Kestria shifted in my front yard. I watched bones crack and fur grow and my friend disappear into an animal that fought five armed men. It happened. It's a fact now. Right next to "water is wet" and "Nugget hates mornings." Werewolves are real.
Fine.
"The strangers." I'm talking to her again because the silence is worse. "The ones who showed up two years ago. Three? Four of them. They dragged logs and cleared brush and helped me build the back wall of this cottage. I left out food and they ate it and I thought they were just—travelers. Passing through."
I refresh the cloth. Her forehead is burning through it.
"Those were your people, weren't they. You sent them."
She doesn't confirm or deny. She's very committed to being unconscious. Most annoying thing she's ever done, and the competition is steep.
"I made them stew. Rabbit stew. They ate three bowls each and I thought, well, they worked hard, big men, big appetites, perfectly normal. They were wolves. Werewolves. And I was standing there in my apron feeding them rabbit stew and chatting about the weather..."
My stomach growls. Loud. Loud enough that Kestria would laugh if she were awake.
I ignore it. She needs me here more than I need bread.
