Melori's head tilts. "We?"
"You know what she is." I nod toward Kestria. "You know what I am. You've seen wolves shift. That can't be undone."
"So I'm—what? A prisoner?"
"You're a liability. Out here, alone, with what you know." I hold her gaze. "In my territory, you're protected."
"Protected." She turns the word over. "Huh. That's a big word. Fancy. Is that Alpha for 'tough shit, you're coming with me'?"
Knew it. Kestria told her.
My jaw tightens. "Kestria talks too much."
"Kestria talks the right amount." Melori's chin lifts. "She told me what you are. What you do. And I'd rather know who's giving orders before I follow them anywhere."
"I'mnotgiving orders."
"You just said we need to move. That sounded like an order."
"It's a fact. This place isn't safe."
"See, when you say it that way, it's much better." She stands, brushing off her skirt. "Fine. I'll come. But I have conditions."
"Conditions? You don't get conditions."
"I have conditions," she repeats, already moving to the shelves. "One bag. Give me a few minutes."
She's fast. No hesitation. She pulls jars off the shelf, holds each one to the light, keeps or leaves. Two piles—take and abandon.
The moonbright paste. The concentrated tonic. Dried comfrey, rosemary, thyme. Bandages. A mortar she wraps in cloth and wedges into the bottom of the bag.
"The blue jar or the brown jar," she mutters, holding both. "Blue's concentrated. Brown's the diluted tonic. I need both. Obviously I need both. But the brown jar leaks and if it gets on the other supplies everything's going to smell like a swamp died—"
She wraps the brown jar in cloth. Multiple layers. Tight. Shoves both into the bag.
"Does your territory have buildings? Tents? Am I sleeping on the ground?"
"There are structures."
"Structures… Great information, thank you."
"You'll see when we get there."
"Ohgood. Mystery shelter. My favorite kind." She wraps a bundle of dried herbs and stuffs it into the bag. "What about food? Do you hunt, forage, trade? Do you cook, or does everyone just gnaw on raw meat while standing around looking intimidating?"
"We cook."
"Well, that's something." She holds up a small clay pot, considers it, puts it back. "How far is it?"
"Half a day. Walking."
"Kestria can't walk half a day. Not with that wound."
"I know."
"So we'll go slower." The bag is nearly full now. She cinches it tight, tests the weight on her shoulder, adjusts. "No healer in your pack?"
"No."
