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I stop until she settles. Her lips part against my wrist, but her breathing stays slow. If she were awake, she’d bite it. When I can move again, I tuck a fold of the fur under her cheek.

She’s still asleep, and her hands are open on the fur.

I sit at the edge of the pallet. There’s morning light at the outer passage, and the fire’s burned down to a few red coals. My bite’s dried dark on her good shoulder, and I draw the fur up to just below it so nothing rubs the holes. The whole pallet smells of what we did, her slick, my spill and both our blood.

Good.

She’s alive. I know it with my back to her, reaching for my trousers. I knew it each time I woke in the night.

I turn to look anyway.

Her brow’s smooth, with a strand of hair stuck across it. My scent’s there with hers. I want to put my face against it again, but she’d wake, and she needs the sleep.

The trousers on the floor are stiff with blood. I leave them and take a clean pair from the clothes by the wall, easing the left leg over the binding. That cloth’s dried hard and needs changing. I tie the waist with my blunt fingertips, then wait for the ache to ease enough to stand.

My own legs, and I’m waiting on them.

She’ll want to leave soon. Her brother expects her tomorrow, and she needs more rest on the way than she’ll admit.

I put a piece of wood on the coals and spread her damp foot wraps near the warmth.

The fish are still on the preparation stone where she showed them to me yesterday, all four, down to the little one she nearly left in the river. I touch the big one’s silver side, and it’s cold from the stone. She’ll want them admired again before she cooks them.

At the hearth, I stop with my hand against the place I usually sit.

I’ve worn the edge smooth. I know where the heat reaches first, and which part stays warm after the fire’s out.

I won’t be sitting here again.

Well. No sense standing here either.

Kestria moves beneath the fur, drawing a knee up, and both my ears swing toward her. I wait until her breathing slows again, then go into the inner passage.

Water drips into the pool. I follow its edge with one hand on the wall, lifting my claws over a rough place. I’ve meant to smooth that for years. I leave my hand against it, then go on around the bend.

My father’s shirt is on the first shelf beyond the bend.

I slide both hands beneath it and lift it off the hide, holding the long claws clear of the cloth. He was broad through the shoulders, and the collar’s worn thin where it folds.

His elbow patch ends up under my palm. I can feel his big stitches, pulled too tight at one corner, and my own small seam running straight beside them.

I carry the shirt past Jouni’s fox and duck through the low opening at the back.

There’s enough light from the shaft to see the lamp on the floor. The cup’s still beside it. I lower myself against the wall, keeping my left leg out, and lay the shirt across my lap.

The patch has folded under. I turn it out again.

“I’ve taken a mate, Father.”

I rub my thumb along the sleeve while I look toward the opening. He’d want the name first.

“Kestria. She’s asleep out there.”

I can still feel where she is, somewhere beyond the pool. I hold his shirt and don’t say anything for a while.

“You’d have liked her. She’d have argued with you.”

I breathe out through my nose, and it’s nearly a laugh.