Page 6

“They’re tired of being told what to do.” I lower Colm onto the bench between my knees. “I sympathize.”

Keer settles Eskan beside him, keeping hold of the back of his little tunic. “She taught them to jump on her.”

“They worked that out themselves. I’m very easy to admire.”

Mel sets the cake down, tucking white hair behind her ear. I scoop up the fallen cup with the empty plates at my feet.

Her faded pink dress pulls round the bump as she leans over Colm, who offers her a damp piece of something I sincerely hope came from the table.

“Keep it, sweetheart. I’ve already eaten.” She guides his hand back toward his mouth and reaches for the knife.

“You ate for two.” I nod at the bump. “I watched you do it.”

“Two’s nothing. After triplets, one feels like cheating. I had a litter last time.”

“You had triplets.”

“That’s what a litter is. Three wolves.” She pats the bump. “I’m one of you in spirit.”

“You’re a chipmunk in spirit.”

The knife stops halfway to the cake. “A chipmunk.”

“You hoard dried plants, live in a small wooden structure, and make distressed noises whenever anyone touches your supplies.”

She points the knife at me. “Wolves have supplies.”

I tip my head at the basket by her feet. “Wolves don’t label a dozen jars of the same root.”

She hooks the basket behind her ankle, out of my reach. “They’re different preparations.”

“The chipmunk rests its case.”

She leans past Colm, belly and all, and sets the knife against the edge of the cake.

“That’s the edge.” I catch her wrist. “The birthday children get the middle.”

“I’m cutting it for the children.”

“You’ve been looking at that piece since breakfast.”

She gives me the knife and takes the edge piece.

I shift her closed jar of moonbright paste off the serving board, clearing room for the plates. Purple stains cling around her fingernails when she accepts the first one. She’s been making more between baking and keeping her children out of the cooking fire.

The jar smells faintly bitter even through the lid. Mel taught me to recognize the flower. The Forest Wardens make poison from it, and her paste gets poisoned wolves healing again.

I put it beside her basket and wipe my fingers on a cloth. Here, it belongs with clean bandages. Out on that trail—

Colm plants his whole hand in his cake, then looks at me in alarm.

“Yes, that’s yours. You can ruin it.”

He does, with both hands this time.

Axan lowers himself onto the bench at my side and inspects my shoulder. “You’ve got cake in your hair.”

“You’re looking very closely. Are you hoping I’ll share?”