Scratching.
I know that sound.
"Hold on," I tell Kestria, and cross to the door.
The wolf on my doorstep is gray, medium-sized, with a torn-up front leg that it's holding carefully off the ground. Not fresh—the blood's dried, crusted around the wound—but not old either. A day, maybe two.
I step back from the doorway. "Come in, then."
The wolf limps inside without hesitation—and behind me, Kestria makes a sound.
Low. From her chest. Not a word, not a cough.
A growl.
I turn around. She's on her feet, one hand gripping the back of the chair, her whole body rigid. Eyes locked on the wolf.
"Did you just growl?"
"Uh—I cleared my throat."
"That was not a throat-clearing noise."
"I have a cold."
"You don't have a cold. You growled. At a wolf. In my cottage." I look at her. "Are you all right?"
"Fine." She doesn't look fine. She looks like she wants to put herself between me and the wolf. "It doesn't—it smells wrong."
"It smells wrong."
"Different. Not like the ones that usually come here." Her jaw's tight. "I don't like it."
"You can smell individual wolves?"
"I have a good nose."
"You have a suspicious nose." I turn back to the wolf, which has made its way to the cleared space by the hearth where I do treatments. "Right there. Good. Sit."
It sits. I gather my supplies—clean water, clean cloth, the moonbright paste, bandages. Running low on the paste after this, which means I'll need to make more tomorrow.
"Can you hand me that bowl?"
She brings it over but doesn't crouch down. Drops it beside me and steps back, putting the table between herself and the wolf. Her arms are crossed. Her shoulders are up near her ears.
"You can relax. It's just a wolf."
"I am relaxed."
"You look like you're about to fight it."
"I'm being cautious."
"Okay," I tell the wolf, "let's see what happened to you. Ignore the suspicious woman by the table. She growls at guests, apparently."
"I didn't growl."
"You absolutely growled."
