"And the wolves I fed. The actual wolves—the ones in wolf shape, who came to the edge of the clearing and waited. I'd leave out scraps and they'd eat and go. Every few days. For years." I press the cloth harder against her forehead. "Those were people too. People I was feeding table scraps."
"I hope the stew was better than the scraps. For your sake."
Wring the cloth. Check the wound. Same—gray holding, not spreading, not retreating.
"Also—" I shift against the wall, trying to find a position that doesn't make my spine hate me. "—who decided I was the one to come to? Was there a meeting? 'Attention, everyone, there's a short human with a squeaky voice who lives in the clearing, and she'll patch you up if you sit still and look pathetic.' Did someone give that speech? Because someone must have given that speech."
I'm gesturing at an unconscious woman. This is what my life has become.
"You know what the worst part is? It worked. I fell for it every single time. A wolf would show up looking pitiful and I'd drop everything. 'Oh no, you poor thing, let me help.' Every time, Kestria. I am a very easy mark."
The gray has stopped spreading. The paste is holding it. Not healing it yet, just holding.
"Come on," I mutter. "Work. You always work."
The light through the window shifts. Past midday. Maybe later. I should eat. I'm not going to eat. The perimeter needs checking—Theron said he'd come back, and he didn't seem like the bluffing type.
Blood still on my hands.
Deer carcass attracting everything bigger than flies. And the paste stores—how many jars left? Do I have enough petals to make more?
I don't move.
"The thing is," I tell her, "I'm not even angry about the werewolf part. Not really. The werewolf part is—it's a lot, obviously, it's a whole situation, but people don't get to choose what they are. You didn't choose to be a wolf any more than I chose to be five foot nothing with a voice that makes dogs tilt their heads."
I wring out the cloth. Dip it. Wring it again.
"I'm angry about the lying. Years, Kestria. Years of you watching me treat your people—treat you—and never saying a word. You watched me talk to wolves about their day. You watched me scold them for chewing their bandages. You sat right there while I told a wolf he needed to stop getting into fights, and the whole time you knew."
My throat is tight. The words come out thin.
"Was it funny? Did you go home and tell everyone about the little human who thinks she's a wolf doctor? Because I would have laughed too, honestly. It's objectively hilarious. I just would have liked to be in on the joke."
I stop. Breathe. Press the cloth to her forehead.
"Okay. I'm a little angry about the werewolf part too."
The afternoon crawls. I check her wound every time I refresh the cloth—every twenty minutes, maybe thirty. The gray edges are paler now, retreating slowly. Healthy pink underneath. My paste is working. It's just working slow.
Slower than usual? Or the same? I've never timed it. Never had to sit with a patient this long. The wolves—the people—always came to me, got treated, and left. I neverwatched the full process. Never sat through the hours while moonbright fought poison inside someone's body.
"You could heal faster," I tell her. "As a personal favor to me."
Her breathing stutters.
I freeze. Hand on her forehead, other hand crushing the cloth, pulse hammering in my throat.
The stutter stretches. One beat. Two.
Then steadies.
"Don't." I barely get the word out. "Don't do that."
I press my hand flat against her chest. Her heartbeat thumps against my palm—fast, uneven, but there.
"You're fine. That was nothing. You're fine."
My hands are shaking.
