Page 27 of Moonless

I wait for the next breath, then carry the bowl deeper.

The bolt goes back on the shelf where I’ve kept it. I fold the cloth over it again, covering the exposed point. My claw catches in the weave, and I ease it free.

Your people let mine die. Two hundred years, and that never came out of my mouth. Not to hunters, not to the men who wandered in too far. I’ve said the names every month and never said that.

Today I said it to a wolf in my shirt.

I press my palms against the edge of the shelf. I lean on it with my head down. My teeth are still together. I part them until I can take a full breath.

I lift the lamp and leave the chamber.

On the way back, I dip one hand into the pool. The water runs between my fingers while I work the snagged thread off a claw.

Gulon.

Men don’t say it at all. They say the Glutton, and they say it to frighten children. I’ve lain outside their camps and listened to the story told wrong.

She said it back to me half-dead, and again today to spit at me.

I turn toward the bend and listen to her move.

She’s the first since my people died to say it right.

I stay by the pool until the water has drained from my hand. Then I take the lamp back to the hearth.

She looks at my empty hands as I come in. I sit on the low stone and eat beside the fire. After a while, she picks up her own bowl.

The patch of daylight travels down the wall through the afternoon. She watches me whenever I cross toward the passages. Once she gets up and walks to the edge of the hearth, resting there with her good hand against the stone. She won’t get far on those legs yet. I move the water jug before her foot finds it.

She goes back to the pallet when she’s ready.

By the time the light fades, the old pad has dried against her wound. I warm water at the hearth and kneel on her left. She’s loosened the belt and pulled her good arm free of the shirt. I help her get the rest off. She’s full-breasted, paler there than her arms, and I look until she shifts her weight. Then I undo the knot behind her shoulder with my eyes on the linen. Mostly.

The wound is clean, with the edges still open. She watches the fire while I secure a fresh pad, her elbow resting against the fur on my forearm. I leave room for my little finger beneath the wrapping, then slide it out sideways to keep the claw clear.

Once she’s dressed again, I ladle her supper from the pot and put it within reach of her. The meat’s soft enough to break against the rim. I leave the spoon with it and gather the used linen.

“I’ve decided something.”

I keep folding the wet cloth into the bowl.

“Since you won’t explain anything, including what to call you, I’ll choose a name myself.”

I look at her. She’s holding the spoon above her supper.

“You won’t like it.”

I go back to the cloth. “Then choose another.”

“That would defeat the purpose.”

I get up with the linen, and one ear turns back when she clears her throat.

“Buttercup.”

My ear flattens.

She pauses with the spoon against her lower lip.