Page 140 of Moonless

“She argues with me about everything. How I cook. What I carry. Whether I can stand up. She made me sit down yesterday and went fishing without me. She caught four, and I had to admire every one of them.”

Both my ears have come forward.

“The first fish she caught with my old bow hit me in the face. She still says it was my fault.”

It was not. I laugh quietly, rubbing the side of my nose against my wrist. My thumb catches under one of his stitches, and I press the thread flat.

“She sat with me here the other night. All the way through. I told her to listen, and she did.”

I look at the place by the opening where she sat. She’d stayed close enough to give me the water without making me turn.

“Afterward, she asked, and I told her. Why I leave my name out.”

My throat’s gone rough, and I swallow before trying again.

“I wish you could’ve met her.”

I sit a while longer with the shirt spread over my knees. The little puckered corner won’t lie flat under my palm. I’ve tried to smooth it often enough.

“She needs to go home. Her brother’s waiting for her. His mate and their children, too. She hasn’t seen the little ones since she came here.”

I lift my hand off the patch.

“I’m going with her. We’re leaving this morning.”

The lamp’s within reach of my foot, still full. I’ve kept it filled for every vigil and left it cold.

“I won’t be coming back.”

My ears have gone flat, and I have to stop there and breathe. I look down at the sleeve until I can speak again.

“She wants to sit with them and tell them herself. I want her to have that. Her brother can hold her, and she can argue with him until he’s had enough. He’ll still be there the next morning.”

I fold the collar closed.

“You’d tell me to go with her. I know you would.”

He took me with him when he went to ask for shelter. Even at that door, he kept his hand on my back.

“I’ll look after her, Father.”

I sit until my breathing’s easy, then gather the shirt against me and get up. My thigh pulls when I straighten. I keep a hand on the wall going back through the low opening.

At his shelf, I spread the shirt between my hands.

The square of hide is bare. I lower the collar toward it and stop.

I want it with me.

I draw the shirt back, fold the sleeves across it, and bring the bottom up. His patch goes on the inside, where nothing in the sack can rub it. I smooth the fold with the heel of my hand and take it out of the cache. I don’t look at the shelf again.

Kestria’s still asleep when I reach the hearth. She’s turned her face toward the warmth, and the fur has slipped off her feet.

I cover them, then sit beside the clothes with a sack between my knees. They’ll be out again before I’m done.

My father’s shirt goes in first, wrapped in a piece of clean hide.

There’ll be a new moon at her brother’s too.