"I didn't say anything."
"You're about to."
"You just thanked him in a voice only dogs can hear."
"I have a naturally high voice. It's a medical condition."
"It's not a medical condition."
"It could be. You don't know. You're not a healer."
"He can hear your heartbeat, you know."
I almost trip. "What?"
"Wolf senses. Even in human form. Hearing, smell. He can probably hear both our heartbeats from where he's walking."
My face goes hot. My pulse jumps into my throat.
"That's—" Paste ratios. Dilution formula. One part paste to three parts—no, four parts for a thinner application. Potency loss at four parts is roughly—"That's very inconvenient information, Kestria. Thank you."
"You're welcome."
"I hate you."
"Your heartbeat says otherwise."
"My heartbeat is a liar and it doesn't speak for me."
Ahead of us, Keer's ear—the torn one, healed badly, catching what little light filters through—is angled back. Toward us.
Toward me.
I stare at the ferns. Count my steps. Think about comfrey storage and whether I tied the bundles too tight and if the centers will mold.
The trees get older the deeper we go, taller, the underbrush thickening until we're single file through ferns that reach my waist. Darker here. The canopy's so thick overhead the moonlight barely gets through. Things moving in the undergrowth. Small things, probably.
Hopefully.
"How are the people? At the den. Are they—healthy? Injured? Is anyone poisoned right now?"
"I don't know. I've been gone."
"Right. Sorry." I nudge Nugget's wing back into the basket before it catches on a branch. "Keer. Are any of your people injured right now?"
Nothing.
"Poisoned?"
"Mildly inconvenienced?"
His shoulders tighten. He adjusts his path around a boulder and his hand finds the rock and pushes off, and the muscles across his back shift under the tunic and the seam protests.
"The seam." I point at his left arm. "I'm serious. One more branch and you're going to lose a sleeve."
"He doesn't care about the seam," Kestria says.
"Well, I care about the seam. I sewed that tunic. Those are my stitches. Watching them die is personal."
